PETALHUSK
established by bug, independent selective. muse made for krp—original character.❝ there’s velvet in the static, a heartbeat inside the wire—she builds herself from pixels, and sets her grief on fire. girl made of altars and armor, daydreams braided in chrome, she carves safe havens in neon skies and calls the server home.
expectations & guidelines
▍ ❝ PLOTTING &. INTERACTIONS.
My DMs are always open for plotting! I’m open to most storylines and welcome pre-established dynamics of any kind. However, I can be a little awkward, so I don’t always find it easy to reach out first—even if I’m interested in a dynamic. While my messages are open, I’m not always active in them. I prefer to stay in character (IC) rather than out of character (OOC), but I’m more than happy to discuss plots and connections when needed.▍ ❝ SHIPPING &. CHEMISTRY.
This account is multiship and highly selective when it comes to romantic dynamics. I believe in developing natural chemistry before committing to a ship, so connections must be built before anything is considered. If you’re interested in something pre-established, I’m more than happy to discuss possible options and brainstorm together.
▍ ❝ DO NOT INTERACT.
Please do not interact if you hold any discriminatory beliefs or engage in hate speech. This includes, but is not limited to, ableism, ageism, racism, sexism, transphobia, and homophobia. I strive to keep my space welcoming and safe, so if you fall under any of these categories, you are not welcome here.▍ ❝ TAGGING &. REMINDERS.
Feel free to tag my muse in posts on the timeline! I’ll always do my best to interact when I see them. However, I often miss notifications and get easily distracted, so if I haven’t replied for a while, feel free to send me a reminder. Just please do not mix IC with OOC—my muse and I are not the same.
▍ ❝ TRIGGER &. CONTENT WARNINGS.
This account explores dark and potentially triggering themes, including but not limited to: Weapons, gore, murder. Torture, stalking, obsession. Stockholm syndrome, violence, kidnapping. Satanism, sacrifice, and other horror elements. Potential NSFW content on the timeline (suggested media, etc.) All explicit lewd content will be posted on my muse’s NSFW account. If you are uncomfortable with any of these topics, please do not interact with this account.▍ ❝ ACTIVITY &. AVAILABILITY.
I have a life outside of Twitter, and I manage multiple accounts, which can be overwhelming at times. If I’m not online or responding to you immediately, please know that I am not ignoring you. I will get to things when I can. Do not pressure me for replies or subtweet me—I try to be as active as possible, but this depends on my schedule and mental health. Your patience and understanding are greatly appreciated!
▍ ❝ DRAMA &. CONFLICT.
Do not bring unnecessary drama to my page. I’m here to write, not to deal with conflicts that have nothing to do with me. If I happen to be following someone problematic, please let me know privately as soon as possible. I don’t always check those so-called “exposed” threads and may not be up to date on certain situations. As the admin, I have every right to unfollow or soft block anyone if I feel uncomfortable. I do not owe anyone an explanation for this decision. Please respect that.
ahn milo (안미로)
GENERAL .
• name : Ahn Milo (안미로)
• alias : Dreamnull, The Quiet Glitch, Siren of Sector 6
• age : 24
• gender : they | she — female
• orientation : unlabelled, emotionally selective
• bedroom preference : switches based on trust; leans submissive but emotionally guarded
• species : Human (OASIS-native hybrid; psychologically fragmented code imprint)
• occupation : twitch Streamer, digital scavenger, black-market aesthetic modder
• face claim(s) : minniePHYSICAL .
• eyes : hazel, boba like appearance
hair : deep black with ink-blue undertones; long, sometimes glitch-looped at the ends in-game
• height : 167 cm (5’6”)
• build : slender, slightly underweight — a silhouette made for slipping through cracks in code
• scars : injuries faintly mapped across her knees and hips. self harm scars on thighs and wrists.
• piercings | tattoos : tongue ring, septum, double nostrils, medusa; hidden barcode ink beneath her ribs, an old tracker from the corporate wardMENTAL .
• star sign : pisces
• mbti : intp — The Thinker — observant, reclusive, chaotic-insightful
• mental health : diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, ADHD, and autism spectrum disorder.
❝ before she became... a name whispered through digital halls—before the gear, the stream, the stats—milo was a girl hiding beneath the rusted bones of the real world. born in the outskirts of a crumbling sector, far from the glittering skyline of the IOI-controlled cities, she lived in a half-collapsed stacker with walls that remembered violence. the physical world, the one outside the OASIS, was a place of dust and diesel. and her father ruled it like a broken king—his hands heavy, his words sharper than any code. milo didn’t belong to the first two children he beat bloody and sent across oceans. they had another father. another name. but milo stayed. because she was born from a different sin. a different mistake and her punishment was staying behind.after they left, silence settled in like a virus. and the beatings got more methodical. the hospital was just a checkpoint. her mother, bruised and brittle, carried a child inside her belly and fear inside her bones. it wasn’t until the OASIS announced the latest IOI surveillance mandates that they made their move—when anonymity became harder to fake, and hiding offline was the only safe way to disappear. they ran through ghost-towns with broken VR rigs and outlawed bandwidth, settling in rural deadzones where signal flickered like candlelight. milo slept in rooms with no power, no walls, no voice chat to hide behind. but she breathed. for the first time, she breathed.her mother filed the restraining order through a proxy terminal with shaking fingers. the legal system was barely functional, but it worked—just enough. just enough to keep him out. when her little brother was born, she held him like a code she was meant to protect. and when they finally made it to the coast—a low tier coastal node where the beach was real but everything else was wired—they started again. the OASIS became her world. not the real one. that was still too full of hunger and pain. but the OASIS—there, she could fly. she could build, escape, vanish. her name wasn’t milo there. not at first. she chose aliases like armor: ghostgirl, soma.exe, velvetbyte.her older siblings eventually returned, patched in with gear and guarded smiles, their accents distorted by years overseas and neural uplink filters. they brought her old junk tech and solar scraps, and milo turned them into something beautiful. they were poor. not just IRL, but in-game too. low-level avatars with barebones loadouts and discount haptic suits. their gear didn’t glow. it glitched. still, she and her little brother made magic from scraps— exploring bugged-out wilderness mods, discovering forgotten dev worlds, jumping through firewalls like they were portals. but the real world always pulled her back.school was government-mandated. her pod connection was spotty, her system outdated, and the other students… cruel in ways even the system couldn’t filter. they mocked her real face. her voice. the way her gear didn’t match. and when she logged out, she carved truths into her arms that code couldn’t erase. but she didn’t vanish. not milo. she graduated with a cracked visor and lagging frame rates. no one clapped. no one noticed. but she made it.after school, she enrolled in a bootleg beauty program—one run by rogue AI in an abandoned corner of the OASIS. it taught her everything. shaders. filters. skin mapping. contour algorithms. she rebuilt faces—first avatars, then people. then came the betrayal. friends who promised alliance. who danced with her through data-choked battlezones and whispered glitches in her ear. who turned, in one long, unspoken night, into something else. they hurt her. they logged off. and left her with nothing. she didn’t tell anyone. the report system was flawed. she didn’t trust it. no one would believe her, not with her gear, not with her record. so she disappeared again. this time, not to hide. to build. she began streaming—quietly, in dark-mode servers, speaking about horror mods and AI folklore and avatars that had gone rogue. people watched. first ten. then a thousand. they loved her.milo became a glitch in the system. a girl whose voice haunted the backdoors of the net. her streams were lo-fi, aesthetic, almost ritualistic. she talked about makeup like it was magic, horror like it was gospel, fantasy worlds like they were salvation. she climbed without cheating. no IOI deals. no fame-leech collabs. and when the ones who broke her tried to follow her rise—sending friend requests, invites, private messages—she watched their usernames blink on her HUD and deleted them one by one. no fanfare. no reply. just silence. now she’s twenty-four. her rig is sleek now. custom-built. patched together from the ruins of her past. she lives in a real apartment above a crumbling arcade, next to a beach where the sand is cold and the stars feel pixelated. jars line her shelves: pressed leaves, synthetic gems, old tech chips from dead consoles. her piercings glitter like forgotten loot. her tattoos are spell-coded coordinates to places no longer accessible in the OASIS. milo walks at night, still. no headset. just the wind. and sometimes she swears the ocean sounds like static. like the code is still listening. she’s still streaming. still collecting. still building. because the girl who once escaped into fantasy is now the one writing it. milo, the girl made of echoes—who learned the system, then haunted it.