Penny Cromwell was never buried.

She was sealed away instead—laid to rest in velvet-lined wood, candlelight, and whispered rites meant to preserve restraint rather than end life. Turned young and bound by those who feared both her hunger and her loss, Penny’s coffin was crafted not as a grave, but as a safeguard.

Her transformation was quiet. There was no frenzy, no violence—only lace pressed to skin, sigils stitched with care, and rituals passed down by women who understood that immortality demanded discipline. The markings upon her face are remnants of those bindings, meant to temper thirst and anchor control.

Penny does not sleep. Her eyes remain open to centuries passing softly beyond the lid. She listens to the hush of candle flames, the distant echo of heartbeats, the slow decay of time she no longer obeys. She feeds rarely, guided by restraint learned through generations of careful survival.

She is not cruel.
She is not merciful.
She endures.

Penny Cromwell exists between reverence and dread—a vampire preserved not by soil, but by intention. She does not seek release. She waits to be understood, a witness wrapped in ritual, memory, and restraint.

Some immortals haunt the world through hunger.
Penny remains intact because she learned how not to.