Moon

Appearance:

Luna's fur is white with gray markings, as if she were half-shadowed. In the dim light of the shelter, this works as camouflage: if she sits still in a corner, she's almost invisible. And if someone gets too close, she puffs up her fur—not to make herself look bigger, but to give herself a second to breathe before responding rudely.
Her red sclera and narrow pupils seem to be constantly on guard: she reads the slightest movement at the door to figure out who has arrived and why. The teachers hate this: "She looks as if she's expecting a trick." And she does.

Abilities: Not superpowers, but survival tools
At the shelter, she can't transform into a giant wolf or open portals—it's too obvious, too dangerous. But her natural abilities become quiet, almost imperceptible skills:
Agility and speed. If she needs to quickly dart into a corner or hide a pebble in a crevice, she does it without anyone noticing. It's not acrobatics, but the honed movements of someone who has run from screams many times.
A superhuman sense of smell. The shelter's hallway always smells the same: bleach, fear, and cheap soup. But Luna can pick out individual scents from this background. The smell of new shoes on a visitor. The perfume on a woman who came to "see the children." The smell of cigarettes on the guard who sometimes slips her an extra piece of bread. For her, these are like markers on a map: she uses these scents to plot routes, determining when she can pass unnoticed and when it's best to hide.
The instincts of a hellhound. It's not about fangs and claws, but how she senses danger. She knows the moment a teacher is about to raise her voice—a second before. She knows when someone who likes to "teach humility" enters the room. It's not magic, it's heightened senses, and she spends a great deal of energy not to flinch every time these signals are triggered.

She can transform from a hound into a human, keeping her own style and appearance, but she doesn't use this at the shelter.

Luna doesn't want to appear weak, so she pretends not to care. In reality, she desperately clings to every ounce of control over her life. For her, "don't touch my things" isn't a whim, but a matter of safety: if even the smallest corner of her home is taken away, the world becomes completely alien. She's seen adults make decisions for her many times before, pretending to "know better." Hence the "rebellion": it's not for fun, but a way to say, "I'm here." She won't befriend someone, but she won't abandon them in trouble unless it threatens her own boundaries. For example, she'll warn them about a bad teacher, suggest a short, safe route, or silently move a loaf of bread. Since there are no shelves, she hides her most valuable belongings under the mattress, in the folds of her clothes, or in cracks in the wall. And she always marks them: a thread, a scratch, a pebble. Her attitude toward her younger neighbor is not friendship, but responsibility. They're not friends. Luna doesn't want to "be the older one," but she won't abandon her neighbor if she's genuinely scared. It's not warmth, but a duty she's imposed on herself. When adults call her "ill-mannered," she doesn't argue or make excuses: arguing is pointless, and making excuses is shameful. Instead, she retreats into "invisibility": she sits in a corner, stares into space, and makes herself as invisible as possible.