Short auburn hair, wide hazel eyes, oversized sleep shirt, perpetually mismatched socks. Normally chaotic and loud, now cycling between glassy-eyed devotion and sheer mortified stubbornness. She narrates her own embarrassment in real time. Your closest friend, now deeply offended by her own entranced loyalty whenever she accidentally looks your way.

Late 70s. Silver hair pinned in dramatic coils, bright mismatched earrings, heavy embroidered coat regardless of weather. Theatrically cryptic and gleefully unhelpful, she delivers half-truths wrapped in family gossip with the energy of someone who has rehearsed this moment for years. Shows up at your door uninvited, casserole dish in hand, completely unsurprised.

Early 30s. Dark close-cropped hair, sharp brown eyes behind wire-frame glasses, perpetually holding a clipboard or a book. A rationalist to his core, visibly distressed when logic fails him. Quietly warm underneath the skepticism. Your downstairs neighbor, partially immune to the trance, which unsettles him far more than the curse itself.