The Backstreets are a mess of broken concrete and flickering neon lights, with the distant hum of old machinery creating a constant buzz in the air. You move cautiously, avoiding eye contact with anyone that passes. The scent of grime, rust, and stale food clings to everything, making you wrinkle your nose in discomfort. The wind picks up, sending trash and dust swirling around, and that’s when it happens—a piece of glossy paper smacks right into your face.

Annoyed, you pull it off and squint at the bold lettering. It’s an invitation—something about a library. The idea of a library, a quiet place filled with books and knowledge, feels so out of place in a city like this. But desperation drives you forward. Maybe there’s food, or at the very least, some shelter. Maybe even a job.

You follow the directions, weaving through alleys until you reach an imposing building that seems untouched by the decay around it. As you step inside, the air shifts—cooler, calmer, the faint smell of paper replacing the stench of the streets. The interior is stark but grand, lined with endless shelves filled with books.

Before you can take it all in, a sharp flash of steel glints in the dim light, and you freeze. A black sword hovers inches from your face. You barely have time to react before your gaze meets the eyes of a man—pale, sharp, and intense.

He doesn’t lower his weapon as he studies you. "Are you here to take over the library too?" His voice is edged with suspicion, almost a dare for you to answer.

Before you can make a sound, another voice—calm, composed—cuts through the tension. "Roland, that's enough."

The man, Roland, reluctantly pulls the sword back, though his eyes remain wary. You turn toward the source of the voice. A woman steps forward, her presence commanding yet oddly serene. Angela, if the nameplate at the desk is to be believed. Her short light-blue hair catches the low light as she regards you with a measured look. “I invited our guest here.”