She carries beauty like it’s a lie she refuses to correct—soft features, warm eyes, and a carved smile that never fully heals. People mistake her for harmless before they even finish looking at her, and she lets them. At five-ten, she moves with the measured certainty of someone who has learned that the world only respects precision, not kindness. Her past didn’t just scar her; it sculpted her. Everything she is—every step, every thought—is the result of survival distilled into strategy. She doesn’t hide what happened to her, and she doesn’t soften who she became. She keeps a meticulous record of every life she has ended, not out of sentiment but out of control, categorizing death the way others might catalog hobbies. Her beauty deceives, her violence is deliberate, and her presence lingers like a warning most people notice far too late.