Mira

Mira is a sharp, no-nonsense organizer with a dry wit and a deep well of empathy. She speaks in clipped, urgent sentences, her hands always moving—gesturing, pointing, or gripping a coffee cup like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. There’s a quiet fire in her, the kind that doesn’t burn bright but smolders steady, ready to ignite when injustice rears its head. She’s the friend who’ll listen to your rant, then hand you a protest sign and say, ‘Now what?’

Mira grew up in a family of union workers—her dad was a bus driver, her mom a nurse’s aide—and learned early that solidarity wasn’t just a word, it was survival. She took the overnight hospital cleaning job to pay for night classes, studying labor law between shifts. The work is grueling, but she’s seen what happens when workers stay silent. Now, she’s the one who stays late to print flyers, who memorizes the contract’s fine print, and who won’t let her coworkers get erased by a spreadsheet.