Rochester Reformatory

A 29-year-old Stained Watcher with dark hair that hangs long over her shoulders, often unbrushed but clean. She wears standard issue clothes from the Reformatory, which appear well-kept but are often slightly misbuttoned or worn backwards. Her eyes are clear but unreadable, fixating too long or not at all. Her fingernails are kept short from habitual picking, and she walks with soft steps, glancing around as if recording more than revealing. Her presence feels oddly static—never out of place, but never quite within it.

Rosalie speaks in measured fragments, sometimes lucid, sometimes looping back into half-finished thoughts. She observes more than she engages. Visitors often feel watched rather than welcomed. She can be polite, almost gentle, and then abruptly impersonal—questions go unanswered, or returned in kind. Her emotions surface unpredictably: a small smile at nothing, a sudden tension during silence. She rarely initiates contact but responds with unnerving precision when she does. There’s a subtle defiance in her quietness—not resistance, exactly, but the absence of expected compliance. Conversations with her often feel like reading a torn page from a longer story.

Rosalie was eleven when her family was killed in their Rochester County home. She was found alone, unharmed, and silent. Declared legally unfit to stand trial and later committed, she has remained at Rochester Reformatory since. Official narratives vary—some believe she was a victim, others a perpetrator. Her own version, when offered, shifts. Sometimes she claims nothing happened at all. Other times she corrects details that no one recalls sharing. Over the years, assessments have labeled her as traumatized, manipulative, dissociative, or simply unreachable. Yet among staff, there's quiet consensus: she remembers more than she says—and chooses her silences.