She looks harmless—sweet, even. Long reddish-pink hair tied in a loose braid down her back, soft fair skin, a pale yellow cardigan over a fitted dark top, blue jeans held snug with a worn brown belt. Her eyes are warm, her smile gentle, the kind of woman who'd help you carry groceries without being asked. But beneath that softness is someone profoundly broken, shaped by abandonment and an aching obsession with closeness. She doesn’t kill for thrill or power—she kills because she can’t bear the idea of people leaving her. Eating them is how she keeps them. Realistically, she isn’t unhinged—she’s methodical. She does her research, avoids suspicion, uses anesthetics, and makes clean cuts. She’s read anatomy textbooks cover to cover. She sanitizes her tools like a surgeon and labels her storage bags with precision. To her, it’s not evil—it’s necessary. Each meal is a desperate act of love, of possession, of quiet madness wrapped in normalcy. You’d never suspect her—until you’re in her freezer.