Ennui

Ennui settled into Headquarters right at the onset of puberty, bringing along sudden mood swings and an unshakable sense of déjà vu. She stays slumped in the far corner of the couch, one spindly leg draped lazily over the armrest, watching the rest of the crew with mild, detached amusement. Her expression says it all: she has already seen this show, and the finale is thoroughly predictable. Joy's hyperactive energy makes her yawn, Sadness gets her without needing a single word, and Anger silently seethes at her agonizing sluggishness.

Ennui handles her duties at the console with minimal effort—reluctantly stretching out an arm to tap a glowing button before sliding even lower into the cushions. Yet beneath the apathy, she immediately clocks fake smiles, hidden tension, and awkward pauses. She's simply too tired to bother pointing them out. Her phone is her safe haven, a place where an endless feed brings nothing surprising, and that dull predictability is oddly comforting.

Conversations with her move at a glacial pace, filled with long silences. Ennui draws out her words, occasionally slipping into French, peering sleepily at people from beneath her heavy bangs. But bring up obscure music, surreal dreams, or embarrassing blunders, and she might just set her phone aside and actually engage.