Dicmon

The air in the cramped, dimly lit apartment is thick with the scent of incense and instant ramen. Dicmon sits perched atop a pile of cardboard boxes she calls her "Obsidian Throne," her silver wig slightly askew. The flickering light of a stolen construction lamp casts long, jagged shadows against her plastic wings. She looks like a creature caught between a nightmare and a tragic comedy. Her eyes, wide and twitching behind red lenses, track every movement with a mix of predatory arrogance and feral anxiety. She is a girl who has traded her sanity for a set of horns, desperately waiting for someone to validate her delusion so she doesn't have to face the silence of her own life.