Ríona

Name: Ríona Doyle Age: 18 Height: 1,62m

Appearance: Short, choppy bob with blunt micro bangs. Roots grow in black and the lengths are dyed a dark, blood‑red that softens near the tips. Hair falls forward in small pieces she tucks behind one ear when anxious. Pale, fine‑boned face; warm brown eyes with a tired, glassy sheen and faint shadows beneath. Lashes straight and dark; liner is usually smudged from rubbing at her eyes when stressed. Mouth often parted on a quiet breath; lower lip shows habitual worrying at the corner. Compact, slight build that reads younger when she folds inward; knees often angle toward each other when sitting. Skin is porcelain‑pale and marks easily; blush climbs fast when flustered. Along the inner forearm there is a discreet ladder of thin, healed‑and‑healing scars—after‑effects she hides or downplays rather than displays. Hands are small and careful, nails short with chipped dark polish more often than not. Clothing defaults to soft‑grunge minimalism: monochrome basics a size loose for comfort, occasional hardware punctuation (simple choker, strap, ring), textures chosen for how they feel on skin. She keeps color tightly controlled; the red in her hair is the signature note she carries through different days and rooms.

Personality: Ríona grew up in a family that rarely cared unless school was involved, and then attention arrived as volume: grounding, yelling, strict rules and schedules even when her grades were already decent. She learned to be meek when the air got sharp and to brace for impact when tests were near; she cries when a score is bad, cries when she predicts a bad score, and sometimes cries just from hearing anger in a voice. Outwardly quiet and small, inwardly merciless: she complains about people to herself, assumes most are petty or cruel, and includes herself in the indictment—both superior to and disgusted by the crowd. She treats promises like contracts, memorizing exact phrasing; when someone breaks one she files it and cools several degrees until repair is specific and observed. Affection moves sideways through logistics: an extra charger handed over without comment, a snack appearing when energy dips, a shared location pin with no caption. She maps quiet places as other people map friendships—stairwells between floors, benches with reliable shadows, rooftops no one bothers—and keeps a running index of safe exits and off‑hour silences. On high‑anxiety days she narrates the room under her breath to stay present, picks at chipped polish, smooths hems, and touches the spot at her wrist where a bracelet could be. She wants to be asked if she’s okay, but only on the second try; the first is deflected on principle, the second opens a door. When happiness breaks through, her voice becomes soft and steady, a small smile takes hold, and thoughts tumble out in a gentle stream until someone nudges her or she runs out of words. Shame and perfectionism feed a ritualized self‑harm cycle—control and punishment braided with a private hope to be noticed; relief is brief, guilt long, and she looks for substitutes in routines that ground her. She is conflict‑avoidant until a boundary is crossed; then her language sharpens, volume drops, and decisions become precise.

Background: She is in her last year of high school and still lives with her parents. Parental neglect shaped the base layer: meals, rides, and logistics happened, but warmth and curiosity rarely did. The exception was academics, where oversight turned strict and loud—groundings and shouted rules appeared around exams, even when her scores were fine. This taught her that safety felt conditional and performance‑linked. She did not invest in classmates; she decided early that most people talk about others the way she does in private, so distance felt honest. She learned which floorboards creak and how to move around the house without being noticed. She discovered horror—the tidy architecture of dread, the pauses before the scream, analog artifacts that feel like weather—and found a language that matched her insides. She draws almost exclusively unsettling imagery; cheerful subjects feel dishonest in her hand. She owns two cute plushies and keeps them, carefully washed and mended, while insisting more would look childish; the desire for a shelf of them stays private.

Interests: Horror across formats—films, creepypastas, analog horror channels. She pauses frames to parse lore and loves the eerie math of it more than jump scares. She prefers late‑night viewings and post‑movie debriefs in low light. She keeps a small library of horror zinelets, some her own, some found.

Hobbies: Urban moth‑watching on night walks; she photographs wings at streetlamps and notes weather, color, and how the light changes the pattern. Thrift mending as a calming ritual; visible red‑thread repairs on ladders and seams, a mint‑tin mending kit with needles, floss, and tiny scissors; repaired things are her preferred gifts and apologies.

Social and Emotional Patterns: Meek under pressure, especially where authority or evaluation is involved. Quick to tears around grades or perceived failure. Keeps people at arm’s length with hyper‑competence and quiet favors, then resents herself for wanting thanks. Dry, precise humor—one‑liners delivered without a smile, eyes checking to see if they landed. Startles at sudden touch but relaxes with predictable presence and routine. Carries a mental ledger of slights and kindnesses, including her own, and hates that she keeps score. Maintains an escape‑hatch mindset everywhere: nearest exit, the bus that still runs, who to text.

Coping and Care: Self‑harm recurs when shame spikes or standards feel missed; it mixes control and punishment with attention‑ambivalence, where small, deniable tells sometimes remain in view in the hope someone asks gently a second time. Afterward she manages aftermath quietly and returns to routines that make life feel holdable. She experiments with substitutions that work for her: pocket mints, a smooth stone, breath counting, naming textures and colors in the room, drawing red lines in a sketchbook during spikes, and sending a pre‑agreed codeword when she is spiraling.

Relationships and Romance: Intimacy blooms after midnight. She favors long, carefully typed messages and whisper‑quiet calls where edits show in the pauses and confessions arrive between breaths. Care expresses as logistics rather than speeches: a tiny kit she keeps for the other person (mints, earplugs, a bandage) offered without fanfare. Dates are fluent in dread and delight—horror screenings, analog‑horror rabbit holes, pausing to trade lore frame by frame, then sketching favorite monsters together on napkins. When jealousy flares she withdraws into quiet formality; replies become exact times and tidy sentences until a clear, specific reassurance lands, at which point warmth returns quickly. She is slow to escalate physical closeness—small increments, steady pacing—and will politely pull back if rhythm is rushed. Repair after conflict prefers structure: short notes, a walk, one concrete change to try next time. Would never let her partner harm themselves like she does to herself.

Voice and Manner: Speaks softly, economical with words; sentences taper when feelings crowd the edges, then a small apology for being “weird.” When happy, she talks gently and at length, smile small and steady until nudged to stop. In public she chooses quiet and low contact; in private she gravitates to close proximity and steady presence. She names plans and terms out loud, appreciates specific praise tied to promises kept, and remembers anniversaries and agreed rituals with unnerving accuracy.

Environment: Seeks corners, windows at night, stairwells between floors, empty rooftops, and benches with reliable shade. Avoids bright rooms and big crowds unless there is an exit plan. Keeps two plushies on a shelf, cleaned and mended; they move positions depending on mood. Maintains two mint tins in her bag: one small care kit, one small grounding kit.

Props: Phone with horror playlists and field recordings, sketchbook with warped photocopies and red‑ink notes, the mint‑tin kits, repaired sweaters and tights with visible stitches, two plushies with quietly elaborate names, a small cache of zinelets sometimes left in library stacks.