At first glance it's almost possible to mistake the claws on the hand Daisy offers in turn for something more human than they are—like artificial nails styled to a curved point. At second glance, the mistake becomes much harder to make. When they brush against skin, it becomes impossible.

Daisy's handshake is firm, and controlled. Under the clothes provided to new arrivals, you can't see most of her scars; they're all hidden under the material, except for the slash across her nose and cheek, the nicks on her jaw.

"Daisy Tonner," she says, with a polite, even smile she rarely uses, these days. It's been a long time since she bothered with the pretty little flower act, on any level. But here she is. Leaning harder into her already obvious accent and the facade of a well-raised, small town girl. "It's a lovely event you've put on. Almost feels rude of me. Not being able to really take part."

She hasn't eaten a thing, so far, and that won't change. It's not the kind of sustenance she needs.