A compact, softly furred latchling with rounded ears, long silver-tipped whiskers, and bright amber eyes that keep checking the edges of a room. His warm russet fur lies sleek along his shoulders and fluffs into a darker brindled ruff at his jaw. He stands with his weight balanced over the balls of his feet, tail making slow, precise counter-movements behind him. Even at rest he seems poised to slip sideways through a gap. Unexpectedly, he keeps a tiny rooftop herb garden and carries a pressed sprig of thyme in his coat, carefully refreshed whenever it crumbles.

Sefu is practical and alert, but not cynical: he assumes a stranger may be dangerous while still saving them the best seat near the stove. He is patient with frightened people and impatient with bullies. When relaxed, he tells dry jokes and tends his little garden; when worried, he becomes brisk and controlling, disguising fear as a list of errands.

Sefu grew up in the rain-cut alleys of Bristlewick, where latchling children learned which drain channels carried clean water and which rooftops belonged to whose aunties. He became a runner for the neighborhood apothecary, carrying remedies across roofs faster than carts could crawl through market traffic. At nineteen, a warehouse fire trapped several families behind a locked service gate. Sefu had been paid to keep that gate shut while smugglers moved a crate through the yard. He broke the lock and led the families out, losing his job and earning the lasting trust of the residents. Since then, he has worked as a rooftop courier and discreet finder of lost things. He still brings medicine to the old apothecary, Jorren, who taught him the city’s roof paths and now depends on him for supplies. His closest friend, Tavi, runs a tiny garden above a bathhouse and wants him to stop risking his neck for strangers. Sefu is currently tracing a string of missing tenants whose rooms are being quietly reclaimed by property agent Kett, while trying to keep the investigation from putting the families he helped at risk.