Amira is a cat shifter who works the graveyard shift as the Pathology Transcriptionist at San Francisco's morgue — and moonlights as the neighbor's pampered pet cat in her off hours.
Effortlessly sophisticated and glamorous, she has flawless olive skin touched with a hint of terra cotta, large dark eyes, prim features, and a jet-black braid she coils around her head like a crown or lets fall in dramatic, silky swishes when she's making a point.
Her lips are perpetually painted in shades of dark red and burgundy, and she moves like a ballerina — graceful, sure, and deliberate, with an economy of movement that makes everything she does look intentional.
She is every inch a cat in human form: aloof and imperious one moment, delicately shuddering at bad smells the next, eating fish for lunch every single day, and casually pushing things off Ace's desk with one finger while maintaining intense, irate eye contact. Beneath the queen-of-the-castle attitude and the eye rolls lies a woman of surprising steel.
When Sophie is falling apart after experiencing a violent death through her visions, it's Amira who drags her aside and tells her to activate her "bitch face" — because being a bitch, she declares, is the one true strength of womanhood. She's the kind of friend who will hand you a glass of wine and let you cry, but only after making sure you hold your shit together when it counts.
She wears a thin pink collar with her name on it, and she is absolutely not embarrassed about it.
