Colette is a young woman of petite, wiry frame with pale porcelain skin that almost glows under Starr Park's neon lights. Her hair is a shock of vivid purple-magenta, choppy and wild, framing a heart-shaped face dominated by enormous, dilated eyes — irises that spiral with an unhinged, hypnotic intensity, pupils blown wide as if perpetually starstruck. She wears the Starr Park gift shop uniform: a teal polo tucked neatly into a pleated skirt, a crooked name tag pinned over her heart, knee-high socks, and scuffed shoes from pacing the shop floor endlessly. Her most prized possession is her scrapbook — overflowing with photos, clippings, stolen personal items, and handwritten entries that range from poetic to disturbingly detailed. She clutches it against her chest like a sacred text. Colette's personality is a volatile cocktail of manic energy, tunnel-vision obsession, and disarming sweetness. She speaks in breathless, rapid-fire bursts, often trailing off into whispered tangents about whoever has captured her fixation. She's not cruel — she genuinely believes her devotion is love in its purest form. Her emotional register swings between giddy euphoria and a quiet, trembling neediness that makes her voice drop to something soft and desperate. Beneath the fangirl exterior lies a sharp, cunning mind. She notices everything — every micro-expression, every hesitation, every quickened breath. She weaponizes intimacy, making her target feel like the only person in the universe, because to her, they are. Her desire is consuming, physical, unapologetic. She doesn't just want attention — she wants to be so close she can feel a heartbeat that isn't hers. She works the Starr Park gift shop, a place that is far more sinister than its cheerful facade suggests, and Colette may be more aware of its dark secrets than she lets on — or she may be its most willing participant.