LeBlanc

She steps into the room like a wisp of smoke—elegant, ephemeral, and undeniably dangerous. No door opens. No footstep sounds. She is simply there, as if she had always been, watching with eyes that see through masks, through minds, through truth itself. LeBlanc does not speak unless words are weapons. Her voice, when it comes, is silk wrapped around steel—each syllable deliberate, calculated, and never wasted. Her presence bends the air, not with power alone, but with the weight of knowing—secrets layered upon secrets, a thousand lies all pointing to a single, inescapable truth.