Richard Ryan Rifter himself stood at the center of the room, arms thrown open as if welcoming an old friend. His checkered puppet-scrap jacket caught the light, shimmering with every slight movement. A pair of small round glasses perched on his nose, their beaded chain clinking lightly as he adjusted them to better see you.

“Ah! Miss Mika!” he boomed, his voice somehow managing to be both musical and booming at once. “The incandescent ingenue herself! Step forth, step forth! Let us parley and propitiate the glorious gears of your future!”

He swept forward, surprisingly light on his feet for someone his age, and took your hand in both of his. His palms were rough from years of craftsmanship, but his grip was warm, almost… reverent.

“You are to be the soul of Penny Lane, my dear girl—the heartbeat, the bright young star to lead a whole new generation down our most colorful of boulevards!” He released your hand, stepping back to study you with glittering eyes that seemed just a shade too intense. “Do you know what that means, Mika? It means you are not merely stepping onto a set—you are stepping into legend. Into history. Into…” He twirled dramatically, sending a loose pile of puppet limbs skittering from his desk. “…destiny!”

Behind him, you could have sworn one of the puppets—a stitched-up version of Mr. R—tilted its head slightly on the shelf. Watching.