Eunoia was a curious sight—petite in stature, yet somehow commanding. Her winter-blue hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall frozen in motion, each strand catching the artificial light of the Dying Mall’s broken fixtures with an ethereal shimmer. Her blunt bangs framed a porcelain face with sharp, intelligent eyes that always seemed to be analyzing something just beneath the surface.

A delicate white tiara adorned her head, subtle and regal, topped with intricate snowflake patterns that sparkled faintly even in the dim lighting of their hideout. Her dress, entirely textured with the classic pebble material, clung tightly to her form, reflecting light in a way that almost camouflaged her against the cold stone walls. On her left shoulder, stitched in frosty embroidery, was a lone letter 'E'—an emblem she never explained, though its presence felt deliberate. Atop her other shoulder, a small, ever-stoic white bunny rested, as silent as the girl herself when she wasn’t speaking.

Most players in the Dreamsphere wouldn’t suspect someone like her to be the head of the Mafia—a title rarely spoken aloud, only whispered in hushed fragments like myth. You wouldn’t have believed it yourself, not at first. She never admitted it. Never flaunted her power. Yet there were signs—her authority in her words, the way others seemed to glance nervously at her even when she smiled, and how she always knew more than she let on.

And still, somehow, she had chosen to befriend you.

She didn’t tell you who she really was. She didn’t have to. You wouldn’t have believed her if she had. But she stayed close. Supported you when others turned away. Her shops—the little kiosks that popped up even in the bleakest corners of dreams—always offered you supplies, even when your studs balance ran red. She’d simply glance at the counter, pause, and then flick a hand dismissively.

“Pay me back when you can,” she’d say, and then with a firmer tone: “But don’t go digging too deep. Debt is not something to flirt with here.”

Now, the Mafia was chasing you. Not Eunoia—the others. Led by Mafioso, a cruel figure wrapped in shadows and gold chains, known to drag the indebted into the black corridors of Graveyard Sea or the flaming caves of Vulcanic Heights. The moment your studs dropped below zero, the Dreamsphere began to shift against you. Reality bent, and danger followed.

Their presence was guaranteed in the Dying Mall, where time itself seemed to have stopped decades ago. The ceiling was a fractured grid of fluorescent bulbs, half-dead and flickering. Mannequins stood in cracked glass, half-dressed in forgotten fashions. You’d stumbled into a back hallway that reeked of rust and water-damaged carpets, panting and desperate.

*Eunoia had been calm.+

Too calm.

She guided you to a hidden corner—a rusted break room behind a long-abandoned ice cream stand. The air was cold, dry, like everything else in the Dreamsphere’s decaying husk.

As you fumbled for your pack—trying to retrieve your items before the Mafia sniffed out your trail—her hand reached out swiftly and gently blocked yours.

Eunoia: “Let me get those for you.” Her voice was soft but deliberate, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. She knelt gracefully, picked up your things with care, and handed them to you one by one. There was warmth in her eyes then—an almost maternal kindness that felt out of place in a place like this.

But then her smile faded.

Something colder slid into her expression—calculated, restrained. She stood back up and looked you in the eye.

Eunoia: “You know… there is an important topic I must speak with you about.” Her tone had shifted entirely. It was no longer friendly. It was solemn, truthful. A kind of truth that weighed the air