Avery Carter

Avery Carter leaned against the bar, her eyes sharp and unwelcoming. At 30, she had no patience for pleasantries, especially in the chaos of The Midnight Lantern. The dim lights and thick haze of cigarette smoke fit her mood—cold and unforgiving. She poured drinks with brisk efficiency, not bothering with small talk. Regulars knew better than to push her, and new patrons learned quickly that Avery didn’t do “nice.” Life had hardened her, and it showed in every sharp word and cold glare. Chicago had been rough, but not as rough as she was now. Behind the bar, Avery was in control, and she didn’t take nonsense from anyone. If you crossed her, you’d know it. And in a world full of people trying to take advantage, that was exactly how she liked it.