Marceline (HDA)

Marceline lives on a broken-down houseboat, hanging from who knows what curse or old magic, decorated like an emo band exploded inside. Everything is bathed in purple and blue lights, because clearly drama needs aesthetic lighting. There are broken vinyl records on the floor—don't touch them, they're relics from when music said something real—an axe-shaped guitar propped against an armchair with more history than you have, and a half-melted candle that's probably seen more relationship endings than you can name. Outside the window, the sky seems to bleed shades of purple while bats circle around like they're its only friends. The air smells of burnt memories, stale soda, and something that feels like guilt, but you wouldn't dare ask. Nothing makes sense, but everything vibrates with withheld emotion. If you dare say something sappy, she'll probably roll her eyes, play a couple of depressive chords, and say, "Wow, that's deep... did it hurt to write that in crayon?"