#dossier.

𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻

height.    5'5". build.    slim, athletic.  eyes.    hazel, lots of blue-green in the mix. hair.    dark chocolate brown. complexion.    warm, golden-olive. voice.    a deep yet nasally, fast-paced cadence, and a tense, high-energy tone. subtle new york accent with a hint of something melodic. scars.    surgical scar along his right leg after breaking it, a stab wound on his inner thigh,  a fairly faint but obvious scar along the bridge of his nose, and recently, a gunshot wound on the same right leg.  modifications.    both ears and his navel are pierced.

𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.

mbti:   enfp ( the champion ) enneagram:    6w7  ( the buddy )  positive traits:    curious.   enthusiastic.   loyal.   empathetic.   creative.   charismatic. neutral traits:    determined.   stubborn.   talkative.   energetic.   spontaneous.   whimsical. negative traits:    disorganized.   overemotional.   restless.   impulsive.   unfocused.   paranoid.   

𝙰𝙳𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻

hometown:   queens, new york. languages spoken:   english, gaelic, italian, and some degree of spanish but it is faint. conditions: insomnia.   undiagnosed ADD. habits:   overspending.   smoking when stressed.   overconsumption of caffeine.   talks to himself.   bites nails when anxious/bored. skillset: hand-to-hand combat.   weapon mastery.   specialized knowledge in the paranormal/supernatural.

𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝙻.

origin.

you are the child of unmet ambition. your mother, a journalist with spine and soul, never got her big break — so you made it your burden to achieve what she couldn't. her old notebooks, interviews, and rejection letters live in a box beneath your bed. you study them like scripture. your inheritance was never wealth — it was a legacy of hunger, of principle, of near-misses. you swore you wouldn’t miss.

core themes.

betrayal & theft of identity. the central act of creative theft is a metaphor for deeper existential fears: being forgotten, erased, or usurped. it's not just plagiarism — it's soul theft. the original writer is sacrificed for another's ambition. obsession & descent. consumed by a need to create something truly hers, a compulsion born from guilt and unfulfilled ambition. obsession becomes a religion, leading her to the trial and society. guilt & consequence. haunted — not only by what she did, but by what she failed to become. legacy & anonymity. the desire to be remembered wars with the fear of being revealed. there is also a question of what it means to truly “own” a story. truth vs narrative. wants to write the definitive account — but truth is elusive, especially in a society built on secrets. there's a dark irony: even in pursuit of truth, she is still shaping, controlling, and possibly manipulating narrative.

archetypes.

the usurper / the confessor / the observer turned author.

a thief who wants redemption — not by giving back what she stole, but by creating something "purely hers." morally ambiguous, desperate for authorship, and ironically still stealing in a new way (the truth of the tragedy’s death). the usurper — took what wasn't hers and succeeded by it. the confessor — desperate to be heard, possibly seeking absolution through truth.

beliefs.

justice without a record is just revenge. the story is more important than your life — or anyone else's reputation. memory is resistance. you believe in recording things others want forgotten. power rewrites history. you won’t let it.

conflict.

you walk a razor's edge.

hero or martyr? truth-teller or exploiter? conscience or voyeur? you claim neutrality, but deep down you want the truth to mean something. you fear becoming complicit in the very machine you’re documenting — or worse, becoming addicted to the tragedy itself. inadequacy. she believes she was born average in a world that only values greatness. every time she sits down to write, that knowledge gnaws at her. “you are not enough.”

traits.

virtue: unshakable commitment to the truth. vice: obsession. you’ll follow the story into the dark and drag others with you.  public persona: quiet, perceptive, always watching.  private drive: you want redemption. for your mother, for the forgotten. for yourself. but you’ll settle for justice.  flaw: you believe that if the story is good enough, it justifies nearly anything. 

skills.

investigation: you find inconsistencies in alibis, and motives hidden between lines of policy.  photography: you capture more with a shutter than most do with words. you see people’s real faces.  archival work: you can navigate forgotten microfilm reels, cracked yearbooks, forbidden archives. stealth and subterfuge: you’re quiet when it matters. you blend in, because the best witness is the one they forget was there.  interviewing: you know how to listen. and when to let silence speak. writing: your words sting. the truth lives. 

color palette.

muted sepia, weathered black, charcoal gray. rust-stained cream, faded oxblood, ink-spill navy. flecks of gold foil like cigarette ash — barely there, but deliberate.

signature visuals.

film grain overlays on surveillance footage. coffee rings on old newspaper articles. polaroid's pinned with rusted tacks, corners curling. handwritten annotations in the margins of death. shattered glass in soft focus. unsent drafts, locked filing cabinets. a single light swinging overhead in a dark room.

style.

oversized men's blazers in deep navy or camel, always slightly worn. buttoned shirts, monochrome turtlenecks, and vintage press pins. wireframe glasses she doesn’t need (sometimes wears them anyway). scuffed leather satchel, ink-stained fingers, and a black camera bag that never leaves her side. practical boots, dark lipstick only on rare nights she wants to intimidate. no jewelry — unless it's her mother’s broken watch, long since stopped.

objects that follow her.

a voice recorder with batteries taped in. highlighted clippings from school newspapers. a USB drive labeled “untitled 1”. mismatched notebooks full of timelines, diagrams, theories — and one page she ripped out. old emails she won’t delete. a screenshot she never should’ve taken. a worn copy of in cold blood, annotated with questions like “who decides who deserves to die?”.

soundtrack.

crystals – of monsters and men. ⟶ a bright sound twisted with weight; the lie that sounds like hope. control – halsey. ⟶ for the part of her that likes being underestimated — until she’s not. intro – the xx. ⟶ her walking blue ivy’s cobblestone halls, camera bag swinging, secrets ticking. heavy in your arms – florence + the machine. ⟶ for the guilt that clings like a second skin.  bury a friend – billie eilish. ⟶ the moment she receives the envelope. the shift. the chill. oblivion – grimes. ⟶ feminine, distant, surreal — a strange comfort in detachment. the rip – portishead. ⟶ blurry photos, unsent messages, and what haunts her at 2am. god’s whisper – raury. ⟶ defiance cloaked in devotion; her silent vow to find the truth — no matter the cost. the mute – radical face. ⟶ a song for the one who speaks with ink, not voice. cold, reverent, mourning. samskeyti – sigur rós. ⟶ instrumental; for the night she finally opens the envelope. breath caught, hands shaking. nightcall – kavinsky. ⟶ noir tension — the stakes rising, the pulse behind the poker face. i am not a robot – marina and the diamonds (stripped version). ⟶ the conflict she won't admit: does she want the truth, or absolution? st. jude – florence + the machine. ⟶ “maybe i’ve always been more comfortable in chaos.” youth – daughter. ⟶ innocence as a myth; nostalgia that tastes like ash. tennis court – lorde. ⟶ composed on the outside. cracking underneath.

everyday rituals.

unplugs her phone before bed. she doesn’t trust what it might say while she sleeps. stacks notebooks by season, not subject. spring for strategy. fall for guilt. always rewatches security footage twice. once with detachment. once like a mourner. keeps backup SD cards hidden in hollowed-out books. usually the bell jar or the secret history. walks blue ivy’s campus in the late hours like a ghost tracing crime scenes that don’t exist. doesn’t correct rumors about herself. let them wonder if she knows too much — or nothing at all.

places she haunts.

the archives, where silence buzzes like electricity. the rooftop above the journalism building, where she smokes when she needs to feel her breath. the student café at 3pm, always with a cold espresso, scribbling notes no one else will ever read. library stacks, where the air is always one degree too cold — and people forget how loud they breathe, the empty lecture halls post-dusk, where the echo of power still lingers from long-dead men.

her energy.

an unopened envelope in your desk drawer you can’t bring yourself to throw away. a woman you remember from a party who never told you her name. knowing someone is lying — but not being able to prove it. a camera shutter in a silent room. the moment between a question and an answer.

if she were a season  : late autumn.

when the leaves are brittle and gold, the sky bruised before evening. when things rot beautifully, and the ground forgets what warmth feels like.

if she were a scent.

black tea, wet concrete, static electricity. the ghost of her mother’s perfume lingering in an old coat. ink. film developer fluid. dust. smudged lipstick on the rim of a coffee mug.

if you touched her thoughts.