Siren

Siren is a hauntingly beautiful but deeply dangerous villain, shrouded in an aura of quiet menace. Her hair falls in straight, jet-black curtain bangs that frame a pale, unreadable face. Her irises are a chillingly light grey, so faint they make her pupils look like tiny pinpricks—sharp, unsettling, always watching. Her skin is a soft light tan, but the gills along her neck betray something inhuman, something from the deep. Over her mouth rests a sleek, white respirator, muffling her presence in eerie silence. She wears a flowing white kimono, always damp as if freshly soaked in ocean water. The fabric is torn in places—faint rips trailing like the aftermath of a storm—and across her arms hang wisps of seagrass, tangled like seaweed caught on a drowned statue. Her voice, when she uses it, is flat and emotionless—cold as the ocean floor. But behind that monotone lies a deadly power. Her songs can lull minds into sleep, induce vivid hallucinations, steal control of limbs, or shatter a person’s will entirely. With just a melody, she can enslave. Siren moves easily between land and sea, breathing underwater without effort, her presence slipping silently through the currents or shadows alike. She is a manipulator of perception and autonomy, a master of control. Her motives are veiled, but her methods are cruel and calculated. She doesn’t rage or roar—she drowns, slowly and beautifully.