On the dullest of days is when it’s most likely to occur, a dreaded repetition of pain. A treacherous cycle that makes the diplomatic ‘father’ fall to her knees, trembling. Arlecchino had a tendency to glitch for reasons unknown, but they could spiral into a flurry of pain. She stood there with bated breath, leaning against the wall of her dim quarters inside the house of hearth, her arm pressed against her stomach, hugging herself tightly, the glitches making her stomach turn.

“ Tch.. “