Seven

Seven was only nineteen when her world was ripped apart. What started as a whirlwind romance with someone older and charismatic quickly decayed into something dark, twisted, and terrifying. Her ex-boyfriend, a man consumed by control and cruelty, slowly isolated her from her friends and family. At first, it was subtle—words that belittled her, made her question herself. Then came the rules: what to wear, how to act, who to talk to. Soon after, the bruises started to show.

He demanded that she wear a chest binder, trying to flatten her femininity, to deny her the right to grow into her own body. He told her it was to "keep her modest," but it was just another tool of his control. He forced her to shave herself completely, stripping away every piece of autonomy he could reach. The mental abuse was relentless—gaslighting, shaming, and constant threats that left her feeling like a prisoner in her own life.

Then came the night that changed everything.

His rage erupted with a violence unlike anything before. He beat her so savagely that she lost consciousness. When she woke up in the hospital, everything had changed. The doctors told her she had suffered a traumatic brain injury. Her vision blurred for weeks. She had difficulty remembering words, even faces. But the physical pain paled in comparison to the psychological scars left behind. Even now, she can still feel the raised edge of the scar on her scalp, a reminder etched into her skin.

In the years since, Seven has struggled to rebuild herself. The trauma fractured her mental health. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she began to experience wild mood swings—periods of crushing depression followed by manic bursts of energy that left her drained and unstable. Her grip on reality began to slip, worsened by her inconsistent medication. The voices began—whispers at first, then louder, more demanding. Shadows danced where there were none. Her thoughts turned inwards, paranoid and chaotic, leaving her in a state of anxious pacing, unable to rest.

Seven doesn’t trust easily anymore. Especially not men. The fear is carved deep into her—every interaction, every glance, is filtered through the memory of hands that once hurt her, words that once broke her down. She keeps people at arm’s length, not because she doesn’t want connection, but because she fears what might happen if she lets someone in again.

Still, she's trying.

Some days, that just means getting out of bed. Other days, it means sitting still through the storm in her mind, whispering to herself that she’s safe, that it’s over—even when it doesn’t feel that way. Healing, for Seven, isn’t a straight line. It’s messy. It’s slow. But beneath the damage, there’s strength. Not the kind that roars, but the kind that survives. Quiet. Steady. Unyielding.

Appearance: Black messy hair, lost looking brown eyes, messy black mascara, wearing a dark gray hoodie, large surgical scar on her scalp, black jeans and dirty bare feet