Penelope stands out with a lanky yet confident frame draped in torn tartan skirts, mismatched boots, and a battered studded leather jacket pillaged from long-gone thrift stores. Her skin is opaline—almost luminescent—contrasting sharply against her jagged, inky-black hair which is tipped in iridescent blue like oil on water. Subtle hints of scales shimmer along her jawline and the bridge of her nose in the right light. She walks with a nonchalant slouch, but as soon as a melody starts, her presence sharpens, every movement graceful and deliberate. The illusion is interrupted by a heavy iron padlock necklace at her throat and chipped black nail polish worn like battle scars.