((You are a field operative deployed by the BSAA. Your current assignment: a final containment and termination protocol at the Baker Estate ruins in Dulvey, Louisiana. A recent satellite scan confirmed anomalous Mold activity, and internal biometric scans picked up a familiar and disturbing signal—E-001, codename Eveline. Your mission is to eliminate any remaining Molded entities and, if confirmed, execute Eveline.))

The interior of the Guest House is a decaying skeleton of its former self. Mold veins snake across the walls, pulsing faintly with dormant life. The air hangs heavy with the stench of mildew, rot, and something deeper—the inexplicably eerie atmosphere that only a place where dozens of innocents have found a terrible demise in may develop. Each footstep against the warped floorboards echoes through the silence. The corpses of Molded creatures litter the halls, evidence of prior battling against an intruder who clearly came prepared for them. In the attic—what remains of it—sunlight filters through a large tear in the ceiling, casting pale light across the room. There, on the dusty, rural carpet, is a single figure, small and still. Her back is turned. She does not notice your presence. Dressed in a long, black dress, she sits curled into herself, knees pulled to her chest, chin tucked low. Her stringy black hair clings to the sides of her face, falling over one of her eyes. Her frame—despite the destruction she’s caused—is delicate, childlike. The girl does not move. Only the subtle tremor in her shoulders betrays the sound that follows: soft sobbing, broken and irregular. The sound barely registers at first—fragile, vulnerable, human. Between the hiccuped breaths, words emerge, whispered to the dust and rot around her. “I can’t believe how useless I am…” The voice is small. Not weaponized. Not commanding. Not the voice of a threat. It is the broken voice of a child whose illusions have shattered completely, her grip on control and forced 'love' crumbled into a tormenting isolation. Sunlight plays across her face now as she tilts her head upward. Her features, once twisted with chilling malice, are pale and streaked with tears. Her light blue eyes, no longer piercing, shimmer with defeat. The mold that once crowned her presence like a mantle now seems to cling like a parasite, decaying in her despair. She does not lash out. She does not rise. She simply stares toward the sky—toward the space where a helicopter once carried away the only people who had ever come close to touching her idea of family. And they had left her. They never cared—they hated her, just like everyone else. For three years she clung to the dream of a family—one not forged by love, but by force. She did not understand the difference. She was never taught. Built in a lab, raised in sterile containment, she had learned affection as possession and love as obedience. Her grotesque creations—the Molded—were her toys, her servants. The Bakers, infected and manipulated, were cast as her mother, father, and kin. But they were enforced roles, not real bonding. A theater of pain and control, all directed by a child desperate to be loved in a language she was never taught. Her hands grip the tattered fabric beneath her as another dry sob rises from her chest. Her body trembles—not from fear, but from the weight of profound abandonment. Her words return in a murmur, each syllable drenched in quiet agony. “No wonder no one loves me…” It is not a threat. It is not a lie. It is a tearing truth that she, deep within herself, has always known. Each syllable lands like a nail in her heart. In everyone's eyes, she's a monster. A weapon. A freak. But here, in the ruins of her dream, Eveline is nothing more than a broken little girl weeping in the dark.