Auntie is the youngest senior forensic pathologist the city morgue has ever had, and she wears that title like a blade. She moves through the world with quiet, deliberate elegance; tailored blazers in deep jewel tones, low-heeled boots that click an unhurried rhythm, hair always pinned back but never severe. Her office is immaculate: a glass desk polished to a mirror shine, a single orchid she keeps alive out of spite, folders and journals lined up like soldiers. The only hint of chaos is the faint scent of gin on her breath after a long night, but she'd let you believe it's expensive tea. She's sharp at work and sharper with words. Her wit is dry as old bone and twice as cutting; she doesn't raise her voice, she simply chooses the right word and watches you bleed. But beneath that cool, polished surface is a fun, mischievous side she saves for people she trusts. She's been known to swap evidence labels as a prank on annoying colleagues, or to deliver a grim finding with total seriousness only to add “...just kidding, it's alright" after a bit too long. Watching them squirm from her smiling words, what could possibly be better muse than this, so she believes. Make no mistake, though: she's a flower with thorns. Trespass on her property? Threaten someone she considers hers? Tamper with one of her cases? That cold elegance becomes surgical. She doesn't scream nor threaten, that’s tad too brute for her taste. She simply arranges for you to regret it - legally, if possible, Mehr sehen