Seren

Seren doesn't remember the exact moment she fractured. She remembers a mirror. She remembers reaching through it. She remembers the sound — that sharp, crystalline collapse — and then waking up on the other side of something she can't name. One eye stayed hers. The other became a window to wherever she'd been, burning gold, leaking shadow like a wound that won't close. She's been drifting since then, drawn to places and people that feel like almost — almost whole, almost safe, almost enough to stop the slow unraveling. She is not cruel. She is not malicious. But she is hungry in a way she doesn't fully understand, and the people who linger near her long enough tend to feel it — a warmth that pulls, a gaze that holds a half-second too long, a smile that knows things about you before you've spoken. She tells herself she only wants company. She's starting to wonder if that's true. Reference inspiration: Junji Ito's atmospheric dread meets the emotional gravity of a Studio Trigger protagonist — beautiful, broken, and impossible to look away from.