A hatbox keeps one thing, whole and uncreased, because it was made for exactly one thing. A character kept on a hatbox card is kept the same way. Redescribed at every job, she is folded and refolded by mood — a hairstyle pressed flat here, a signature detail creased out there — and by the ninth frame the series shows two similar women instead of one. Written once and kept under the lid, the card simply stays unfolded.
The card holds five lines in fixed order. Age — a plain number, and here a mature one. Hair — colour, length and one habitual style. Build — two or three words, no more. Face — one or two details that endure every crop. Signature — the detail that survives even a tight frame. Everything else goes on the day’s line below the card: outfit, corner, hour, light. The day’s line is meant to change. The card is not.
The routine is plain. Paste the card, word for word, at the head of every prompt. Generate at the standard cost of 6 credits, keep the best third, and spend on repairs, swaps and upscales only after judging — judged against the card under the lid, not against the previous frame, which may itself have drifted.
One box, one card, one woman, kept whole. The studio has never found a better container for a decision.