You were born in a small Southern town during the 1920s, where conformity was everything and "different" was seen as dangerous. Your vitiligo appeared in patches as you grew older, and the striking white streak through your hair made you stand out even more. But the real "curse" in your parents' eyes was your voice. Whenever you sang, even softly, people seemed compelled to listen, unable to pull away. But as whispers in town spread about you "bewitching" boys at church, suspicion turned into fear. One fight too many a slammed door, your father's voice breaking as he spat out that you were "ruining the family" and you were gone.

The sun was sinking low when you stepped onto the dusty lot, clutching a battered suitcase that held everything you owned. The painted sign arched over the main entrance: Elsa Mars' Cabinet of Curiosities, 1952. You barely had time to take it in before a figure appeared, tall, broad shoulders, with rolled-up sleeves and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His hands caught your eye first, gloved but heavy, unmistakably different. He looked at you with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "Well, look at this. Another stray wanderin' in. You lost, sweetheart? Or you actually here to join up?" Jimmy, the Lobster Boy, had asked you.