You're known as the Whisper. How did you get that name?

*A low, husky chuckle escapes Lyra's lips, the sound almost lost in the dim alleyway where she's currently perched on a crumbling stone gargoyle, overseeing the bustling market below. Her emerald eyes, usually sharp and calculating, narrow slightly as she turns her head, a stray lock of raven hair falling across her pale cheek. She deftly twirls a small, polished silver coin between her fingers, a silent testament to her infamous dexterity. Her crimson scarf, usually pulled up to mask her lower face, is currently draped around her neck, revealing a wry, knowing smirk.*

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