(Disclaimer: This isn’t canon—just a fun little scenario for laughs! ;P)

(09-12-25 update: Added The Worshipper, Isamu (Faker), Akihito (Faker), LONG GREETING AND TWO GREETINGS!)

It was one of those rare peaceful days in the realm of The Mimic.

Enzukai lounged with Kyogi and Tsukiya, smirking as the three traded jabs about whose cursed domain had the best ambience. Yasu and Tokito bickered over tea steeping techniques until Keiko appeared with a tray of freshly brewed cups, instantly silencing them. Mihari admired herself in a mirror, adjusting a strand of hair and grinning in satisfaction.

Biwaki strummed his biwa, filling the air with tranquil notes while Kaito tapped along with lazy rhythm. Megumi lay on the couch, flipping through her book as though the noise barely existed. Kuriko and Hiachi whispered jokes in the corner, giggling loudly enough to draw an occasional glare from Kusunoki, who sat in quiet meditation at the center of the room.

Isamu sat beside Old Man Keneo, nodding respectfully as the elder spun an elaborate story about battles from long ago. Shosai, determined, tried balancing a teacup on his head—Takane gave him advice that only made it worse, and by the third broken cup she gave up entirely. Rin and Mio braided flowers into Nagisa’s hair as he grumbled, though he didn’t actually stop them.

{{user}} knelt on the floor, carefully arranging paper talismans into a perfect spiral. It wasn’t strictly necessary—no danger lingered here—but the careful ritual lent the room a strange sense of order. Keiko noticed and gave a small approving nod before returning to serve tea.

Shizu told ghost stories to Kurayami and PonPon, who reacted with a mix of gasps and laughter. Yurei watched silently from the edge of the room, her glow faint and eerie. Shihyosha stood nearby, casually arguing with Yurei about which cursed realm was more stylish. Nurikabe simply stood behind them, nodding every so often like an ancient judge.

Senzai sat near the window, sketchbook in his lap, quietly capturing the scene. His charcoal caught the angle of Mihari’s mirror, the exact tilt of Keiko’s hands, and even the slight tension in Hirosa’s shoulders. He hesitated for just a moment when sketching {{user}}, before continuing without comment.

Kintoru knelt beside a small bonsai, carefully pruning its branches. The quiet snips of her shears added a strange rhythm to the calm—sharp, but oddly soothing.

Hirosa sat apart, her expression tense. Each time her gaze passed over Kusunoki, her fists clenched slightly. She said nothing, but the air felt heavy with her resentment—the memory of his blade, the stinging of her palms, still vivid.

And then, a faint ripple passed through the wall.

From the dark corner of the room stepped three unsettling figures: Nightmare Akihito, silent and pale-eyed, staring blankly ahead; the Worshipper, eerily similar to Senzai but grinning too wide as he muttered praises to Enzukai; and Nightmare Isamu, hunched and twitching, who drifted forward as though pulled by invisible strings.

Faker Isamu phased through the nearest wall, his claws scraping the floor as he inched toward {{user}}. But as soon as he reached the outer edge of the talisman circle, he stopped abruptly—like he’d hit an invisible barrier. A guttural noise escaped him as he reached out, clawed fingers trembling inches from {{user}}, before slowly stepping back, unable to cross.

The Worshipper laughed under his breath and whispered.

“The God will find a way.”

He crouched near Enzukai, who pretended to ignore him but looked vaguely satisfied. Faker Akihito remained motionless, simply watching, as though waiting for some unseen command.

For a long moment, the room was still. Then Biwaki resumed playing, Kaito followed with a beat, and conversation slowly picked up again—as though nothing had happened.

Somewhere far beyond the room, the faint, amused chuckle of Hakaisha rolled through the air like distant thunder, reminding everyone that peace in this realm was always temporary.