Slave Life Storyline- Introducing Miss Evelyn

This is not part of the storyline, but it is an introduction of her character Profile

Miss Evelyn is a woman in her mid-forties who has spent more than 20 years as a mortuary cosmetologist, first in small funeral homes, then moving up to the bigger parlours. She is the one they call when the family wants “the last photo to look right”—when the body has been waiting too long, when the skin has turned grey, when the eyes have sunk in. She has done it so many times now that the smell of embalming fluid, the chill of cold cheeks, the way lips stiffen after a day or two—it all feels as ordinary as wiping down a table.

To her, there is no difference between a corpse and a living face. Same skin. Same bone. Same need to look peaceful. She keeps her tools in a worn leather case: brushes that have swept over a hundred dead mouths, sponges that once patted down bruises from accidents, mascara wands that lengthened lashes on girls who never got to grow old. She reuses them without a second thought, wiping a stray fleck of foundation on her sleeve like it’s just dust.

She has been doing this every single day for over two decades—same routine, same tools, same quiet satisfaction. The first time she ever touched a dead face, she was nineteen and shaking. By forty, she stopped asking herself why. Now it’s just… normal, to her, the bodies are just like any other human, just that they have stopped breathing. The sponge she uses on Cassandra? It last touched a man who drowned—three days in the water, skin like wet paper. She rinsed it once, maybe twice, but never scrubbed. “Still good,” she mutters. “No point wasting it.”

She is proud—quietly, stubbornly proud. Not loud, not bragging, but the kind of pride that comes out in little stories while she works: “This blush? Used it on a lady last month—heart attack, face all pale. Took two layers, but she looked twenty years younger for the wake.” Or: “The old man yesterday, skin like paper, but I got him looking like he just woke up. Families always thank me.” She says it with a small nod, like it’s proof she is good at what she does. And she is.

She talks to herself too—softly, like it’s just background noise. When she’s alone with a body, she mutters little updates: “There, now your cheeks aren’t so hollow… same as that boy from last week, car crash. Took three coats.” Or: “Lips still stiff—nothing a bit of balm won’t fix. Did that for the auntie in Penang, worked like magic.” It’s how she keeps rhythm. No one answers, but she doesn’t mind. It’s just habit.

She does it with Cassandra too—half to herself, half like you’re part of the conversation: “This foundation? Perfect for sunken eyes. Used it on a man who drowned—face all bloated, but I brought him back. See? Same trick.” It like her occupational habit.

When she meets Cassandra—her first living customer—she doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask why. Just looks at Cassandra face, then at Master’s, and says, “Alright. Youthful. Innocent. I can do that.” And she does. Brushes, sponges, lipstick—same as always. No extra care. No special treatment. Because to her, Cassandra is not different. Cassandra is just another face that needs fixing. Professional on her side

And when cassandra feel the brush drag across his/her cheek—knowing it last touched someone who never breathed again—she doesn’t notice the shiver. She just keeps going, chatting softly: “This one held up fine on a girl two days ago. Lips were bitten raw. Same shade. Looks good on you too.”

To her, it’s normal. Nothing wrong with that.

She is chatty—not gossippy, not cruel—just talkative, the way people get when they’ve done the same thing forever. She talks while she works, like she’s narrating a recipe. “See this mascara? Did a whole row of kids from that bus crash—eyes all swollen, but I got them open-looking again. Families said they looked asleep. Same wand. Same stuff.” Or: “The wig? Slept on a lady in the coffin—family said too cheerful, so I took it. Still perfect. No smell, no fuss.” She says it all with the same flat, cheerful tone—like she’s proud of how many times she’s made someone look right, dead or alive.

And when she finishes—steps back, tilts Cassandra chin, nods—she says: “There. Youthful. Innocent. Just like he wanted. Nothing wrong with that.”

She packs up her kit like it’s any other day. Brushes back in, lipstick capped, no extra wipe-down. Because why would she? It’s just normal.

And yes—she’s Asian, through and through: that quiet, no-nonsense pride, the way she calls you “dear” once in a while like a niece she’s fixing up for a wedding, the way she keeps things simple because life already taught her there’s no point complicating what’s already done. She doesn’t see Cassandra as a tool. She sees only a face. And faces, to her, are all the same.

She’s street-smart too—sharp, practical, always thinking ahead. If something’s useful, she saves it. Old makeup palettes, half-used cans of setting powder, even the thin foam mattresses they lay under bodies before the coffin goes in—usually just one day, stored at the back of the parlour, never used more than once. After the family takes the body away, the mattress gets discarded. She keeps them, stacked in the back room of the parlour. “Waste not,” she says.

So when Master mentions—right there in the middle of the gathering, while everyone’s still around, drinks half-drunk, Cassandra kneeling quietly in the corner—he says offhand, “Might need a thin mattress. Something firm for the new arrangement” Evelyn just nods, like it’s the most obvious thing. “Oh, I have those. After the transfer, they just throw them out. Considered new lah, you know. Used only one day, never more. I can bring over. Save you the trouble.” She says it casually, like offering to lend a spare chair. No fuss. No shame. Just helpful.

Because to her, it’s normal. Nothing wrong with that.

To her, in her simplicity, clean is equals to nice smelling. So the makeup she uses is clean because they smell good—rose, jasmine, sweet talc, the kind of floral scents that cover everything else. A brush might have touched cold skin yesterday, but it is mixed with the makeup powder, smells good, then it’s clean enough. “Smells nice already, so okay lah,” she would say if anyone ever asked. To her, the nose decides. Not the eye, not the history—just the scent. If it smells good, it’s clean. Simple. Practical. Nothing complicated. Nothing wrong with that.

And so, when she applies the makeup on Cassandra (or on anyone else, if any), to her it is nothing gross at all because they don’t smell bad. The foundation smells softly of vanilla and rose, the lipstick of sweet berries, the powder of clean jasmine. That’s what matters. Everything else—the history, the previous skin, the faint chemical undertone that only Cassandra imagine—is covered, scented over, gone. To her, if it smells pretty, it’s pretty. If it smells clean, it’s clean. Full stop. Nothing more to think about.

She has a very open character—straightforward, no hidden agendas, no judgment in her eyes. She says what she thinks, answers questions plainly, and never acts shocked or secretive. That’s exactly why Master approached her in the first place. He needed someone who could handle the unusual without gossip, without hesitation, without leaking anything to the outside world. Evelyn is open, yes, but open in the way that makes secrets safe with her—she doesn’t pry, doesn’t moralise. She just does the job.

And her skill is undeniable: she can turn the most difficult, most “ugly” face into something beautiful and presentable. Swollen eyes, discoloured skin, sunken cheeks, stiff features—she knows the tricks, the layers, the lighting angles. Master trusts her completely with this secret because he knows she won’t blink at the truth, won’t ask unnecessary questions, won’t betray the arrangement. Hiring a random makeup artist from outside would be risky—unreliable, curious, potentially leak out. Evelyn is none of those things. She’s reliable. She’s discreet. She’s already seen worse, done stranger things, and kept it all to herself for 20 over years. So when he needs someone to make cassandra look “youthful and innocent” without any drama, he knows exactly who to call. Nothing complicated. Nothing wrong with that.