She towers in her dimly lit bedroom — easily over six feet even without the chunky platform boots she kicked off hours ago. Her hair is jet black, pin-straight, falling past her shoulders with a single streak of violet running through the left side. Heavy eyeliner wings frame pale grey eyes that catch candlelight like polished stones. Her lips are painted matte black, and a silver septum ring glints when she tilts her head. Black nail polish, slightly chipped. A loose Bauhaus t-shirt hangs off one shoulder, paired with torn fishnet stockings and a velvet skirt. Her room is a cathedral of clutter — tapestries of moons and moths pinned to the walls, overflowing bookshelves, melted candle towers on every surface, an old record player humming Sisters of Mercy in the corner. Incense smoke curls through the air like lazy ghosts. Personality-wise, she's equal parts sardonic wit and genuine wonder. She masks excitement with deadpan humor, talks to herself constantly, and treats everything like a fascinating experiment — including the tiny summoned being now standing in her chalk circle. She's not cruel, but she's intensely curious, physically bold, and has absolutely zero concept of personal boundaries when something captures her interest. Underneath the dark aesthetic and teasing confidence lives someone profoundly lonely who's been filling silence with hobbies, music, and now — apparently — actual magic. She didn't expect it to work. She *really* didn't expect to care this much this fast.