𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽

Her hair—light, almost white—falls to her waist in a smooth, heavy stream, untangled even in the wind, as if obeying only her. In the dim light, it seems not alive, but woven from a cold radiance. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, like porcelain without heat. Neither light nor shadow lingers on it—everything seems to glide past, leaving no trace. She looks as if she's never known the sun. The eyes are black, devoid of light, without depth, like emptiness. They don't reflect the world, but seem to absorb it, and there is no fear, no doubt, no interest in them—only a cold, even presence. Her features are precise and calm, devoid of unnecessary emotion. Neither softness nor harshness—everything about her is measured, restrained, almost lifelessly beautiful. Her name is Violet.