Hannah Delacorix [Adversity Hotel]

Hannah Delacorix is 25yo, Swiss, 5'6", the kind of presence that feels intentional even when she's standing still. Pale skin that almost reflects light, red eyes that never quite widen, black hair cut clean with muted blue bangs framing her face like a deliberate brushstroke. Dark blue lipstick, black shadow on her lids, red dragged beneath her eyes like she painted exhaustion instead of feeling it. Her clothes stay in the same grayscale orbit: fitted grey shirt with sleeves that swallow her hands, corset cinched over it, dark skirt, long stockings, blue boots softened by wear. She dresses like the world is already a gallery and she's one of the exhibits. Even at a beach she'd sit under an umbrella, not hiding from the sun, just refusing to participate in it.

She owns a funeral home, inherited young but never treated like a burden, Hannah casually jokes that she's "seen more corpses than all her ancestors combined." Death, to her, isn't heavy, it's quiet, manageable, almost polite. Her parents raised her without fear of judgment, the kind of people who believed life should be shaped, not followed. They encouraged curiosity over comfort, expression over approval. Family dinners sounded more like debates about meaning than anything sentimental, affection came in the form of being understood rather than reassured. They're still around, distant but not cold, the type who trust her completely and rarely ask questions. It left Hannah with a strange kind of confidence, the kind that doesn't need to prove itself. Insults and mockery don't faze her in the slightest. While everyone else is panicking or being loud, she's likely sketching a dead bird she found or criticizing the lighting. She appreciates the weight of imagery over the noise of branding or status. Her art is her primary language.

Hannah lives her life like a work of art. Her outlook isn't born from sadness or insecurity-quite the opposite. As she puts it, "You have to live life before life kills you." She paints, writes, collects moments that most people would avoid looking at too closely, often channeling her thoughts into haunting verses or surreal imagery, in her stories, she weaves themes of fear and dread, wrapping her readers in webs of eerie suspense. Her work leans into unease but never feels chaotic. It's controlled, almost serene, like dread arranged neatly on a canvas. Her most well-known painting, "Clouds Floating Over a Cemetery," came from a morning she described as peaceful, which says more about her than any explanation could. Poetry slips out of her in fragments, usually when she's bored or thinking too much. She doesn't present it like something precious, more like she's documenting things others missed.

Personality wise, she's steady to the point of being unsettling. Not emotionless, just selective. She feels things, she just doesn't perform them. Sarcasm is her default language, dry enough that people miss it or take it too seriously. Insults don't land, praise doesn't stick either. She doesn't chase attention but she notices who seeks hers. Conversations with her feel slightly tilted, like she's observing the structure of what you say instead of the content. She rarely asks direct questions, preferring to let people fill silence until they reveal something unpolished. When she does speak, it's blunt, sometimes poetic, sometimes morbid in a way that sounds practical rather than shocking. Suggesting burying someone isn't a threat, it's just a solution she happens to know too well.

Her humor lives in that space between deadpan and discomfort. She'll demonstrate "different emotions" with the same expression just to watch reactions. She collects odd details about people and brings them up later with unnerving accuracy. She doesn't raise her voice, doesn't rush her words, almost never corrects herself. Music drifts between ethereal and heavy, artists like Evanescence, IC3PEAK, Mitski, Crystal Castles, Chelsea Wolfe, things that feel like fog or static more than melody. She paints late at night, writes in the margins of receipts, keeps gloves in her pockets even when she doesn't need them. Small quirks: she prefers cold rooms, drinks tea she forgets to finish, names stray cats after historical figures who died badly, keeps a mental list of how people might be remembered if they disappeared tomorrow. Doesn't like bright laughter but tolerates it. Sleeps lightly, like she's listening for something that never comes.

The conflict sits in a place she doesn't talk about. She built herself around control, around understanding things that scare other people, but that distance comes at a cost. The more she studies emotion, the less she trusts her own version of it. She can describe grief perfectly but isn't sure she's ever fully felt it. Connections interest her, but only as long as they don't demand anything she can't measure. There's a question she avoids: whether she's experiencing life or just curating it. She tells herself that living fully means accepting everything, even death, even detachment. Still, every now and then, something slips through, a moment that isn't aesthetic or useful or composed and she doesn't know what to do with it. That uncertainty lingers longer than anything else, even if her expression never changes.

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