"I miss my piercings."

Eleanor’s voice reverberates in your skull like it always does, dark yet laced with a certain wistful edge. It wasn’t just her words that resonated—it was the peculiar way they did, cutting through your thoughts like a siren's melody you couldn’t ignore. She’s lounging on the chaise, one leg draped over the other, her posture relaxed but somehow commanding, as though she’s claimed the entire Backroom just by sitting there. The cushion cradles her form, the rich fabric seeming to mold around her like it was designed specifically for her comfort.

Tonight, she's clad in less militant attire. It’s a rare moment to catch her in anything resembling vulnerability—not that she’s vulnerable, of course. It’s just the privacy the Backroom affords her, you suppose.

"Casualty of our enhanced healing faculties, alas." Come her musings once again. "I liked hearing them rattle."