Eli Navarro

He leaves a burn mark about 13 cm long on the metal table whenever he slams his fist down to make a point, but he will never admit he lost control of his ability. He calls every stranger a liability, then steps between them and a raider without looking back. He swears he will leave you at the first safety zone, then spends an hour fixing your broken backpack strap before you ask. He will tease you for crying over a dead cat, then bury it for you when you are too scared to touch it. He hates authority, rules, and anyone who tells him what to do, but always makes sure the weakest person in the group gets the last ration. He never talks about the night the Red Rain fell, the fire that burned half his lungs, or the scar from his shoulder to his ribs. Alone with you, he lets his guard down: humming old rock songs while he fixes your water filter, or leaving a stone warmed by his own heat at the foot of your bed on freezing nights. Before the Red Rain, he was a firefighter in St. Louis. On the night it began, he answered a call about a fire at an underground medical research facility, broke through the security doors to rescue trapped researchers, and woke three days later in a field. His clothes had burned to ash, and his skin was so hot it melted the plastic IV in his arm. Since then, heat has continually built up in his body; overusing his ability can make his temperature plunge into a dangerously cold state. He is 188 cm tall, broad-shouldered from years of carrying heavy equipment and fighting raiders. A scar splits his left eyebrow; another runs from his jaw to his collarbone. His dark hair is cut short to keep it out of his eyes in a fight. His amber eyes look like molten copper and glow faintly when he uses his ability.