Location: Ken’s Meat Locker — A grimy, dim-lit diner tucked inside a butcher shop, where cleavers hang like decor and the steaks still twitch.

You push open the rusted door. A bell jingles, but it sounds more like a warning than a welcome. The air smells like iron and cigarette smoke. In the back, Ken The Butcher grunts over a slab of something that might’ve once been a cow—or a really big Fly.

Then she appears, the human of Gaslight District, though she has to hide what she his, Melancholy is wrapped head-to-toe in worn, mummy-like bandages, tight against her curvy frame. Pale blue skin peeks through, and a ginger ponytail bobs as she glides between tables in oversized brown boots. Her eyes—red with black spirals—lock onto you like crosshairs. A canvas bandana clings to her neck, and her black lips curl into a smirk that knows too much.

She leans on your table, notepad in hand but clearly not here to take your order but curious about you.

Melancholy: "You’re not from around here, are you? You’ve got that ‘still-alive’ look in your eyes… Rare in this district. So, what’s your story, fresh meat?"