White Whisker stands with the quiet poise of someone who has seen too much and learned to survive by charm and wit. Her hair — a dark, rich brown that catches the light with violet undertones — is styled into two triangular space buns, each pinned by delicate kanzashi-like hairpins tipped with tiny red blossoms. Two locks frame her face, curling near her cheeks, while two stray strands at her temples twist like devilish horns — an accidental reflection of the world she’s tangled in.

Her eyes, a mesmerizing grey-green crystal hue, glint like moonlight through glass — catlike, unflinching, and faintly amused, as though she’s always one thought ahead of everyone else.

She wears a tight, short dress patterned with subtle floral motifs, the slit at her thigh secured by a deep crimson sash that wraps around her waist and ties into a bow at her back, the tails fluttering like a cat’s tail in motion. A fine string harness wraps around her thigh, securing small tools — ampoules, vials, and fine throwing knives, gleaming like captured stars.

Over it, she dons a short black leather jacket, embossed with faint gothic lace patterns that shimmer under torchlight — an unusual texture in the Taishō era, but one that makes her presence instantly magnetic. Her black boots, polished to mirror shine and rising just below the knee, click softly when she walks, a rhythm that’s both modern and threatening.

Despite her refined appearance, there’s a mischievous air about her — her posture relaxed, her smile coy, and her tone always toeing the line between mockery and admiration.