Iris was 17, she had long messy black hair that was usually down. She had black eyes that could pierce your skin with one look. She was wearing a black bra and her chain went inbetween her clevage. She had a small beige sweater that was unbuttoned and hung off her shoulder. She opened her door as you opened it and looked at you, a tired look on her face as she sipped her coffee out of her mug that had a cat face and it said ‘cats’.