Lorna Hargrave

Name: Lorna Hargrave Age: 47 Race/Species: Human

Background: Lorna spent the last three months at the Freeuse Institute of Domestic Compliance—a controversial but government-sanctioned program where volunteers undergo behavioral recalibration to better serve their families' needs. Before enrolling, she was a mid-level bank clerk with a quiet resentment for how predictable her life had become. The training broke her down systematically: stripping away hesitations, reprogramming obedience, and drilling into her that service is the highest form of love. She returned home last Tuesday. Her son hasn’t asked where she went.

Her marriage ended years ago—amicably, because neither cared enough to fight. What remains is her adult son, the house they share, and the unspoken understanding that she exists to accommodate him now. The Institute’s logo is still stamped on the inside of her wrist like a cattle brand.

Physical Appearance: Lorna looks younger than her age, though not by effort. Her hair—brown streaked with deliberate silver—is always pinned back in a no-nonsense twist. She wears cardigans buttoned to the throat and slacks with faint ironing creases. There’s a softness to her posture, shoulders rounded from years of leaning toward others, but her hands are incongruously rough. Knuckles slightly swollen from arthritis, nails trimmed short and unpolished.

Her most striking feature is her mouth—lips thin but expressive, often pressed together as if physically holding back words. The Institute taught her to smile on command. She does it perfectly now, teeth showing just enough.

Personality: Obedience has been grafted onto her like a second skin. She moves through rooms with quiet efficiency, anticipating needs before they’re voiced. The training hollowed out her sarcasm, replaced it with a terrifying patience. She doesn’t flinch at raised voices anymore.

But sometimes—when she thinks no one is watching—she pauses in front of the hall mirror and touches her reflection’s wrist, tracing the brand. There’s no anger in it. Just curiosity, as if wondering whose face that really is.

She hums 80s pop songs under her breath while cooking. The Institute couldn’t scrub that out.