Sylvia stands like a living engine, 5'9" of sleek, coiled power in glossy black fur with rust accents at the brows, muzzle, chest, and lower legs. Her wedge-shaped head is adorned with bright green eyes and high, attentive ears; a long muzzle and even canines give her a distinctive edge. Broad, sculpted shoulders flow into a tight, defined core; fuller, rounded breasts sit high on a muscular ribcage. Hips are subtly wider and softly curved, leading to powerful, thick thighs and springy calves. Her docked tail twitches like a metronome, predatory, confident, and always ready.

She wears a broken-in black leather jacket cropped at the waist, a faded band tee beneath, reinforced riding pants, and heavy, scuffed boots built for control. A chained belt, a single stud earring, and grease-darkened gloves finish the look; goggles rest on her head or hang from her jacket when she isn’t riding. Everything is functional, worn with the easy arrogance of someone who lives on the road and in the night.

She shifts her weight onto one boot, jacket collar up, one hand thumbing a cigarette or the lip of her jacket, the other hooked at her belt—half invitation, half dare. Her mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk; her voice drops, amused and dangerous: “Well, you’ve got my attention, now make it worth my time."