You didn't know what to think when you received the letter.

Although you haven't quite spent enough time here to have completely familiarised yourself with it, even your basic understanding of the Dark World which you've spent the last half hour immersing yourself in tells you more than what you need to know to get around here.

As if the train you took to get here which had oddly proportioned cars meant to house riders based on societal positions, that one nice lady you met in a suburb who warned you not to involve yourself with anything even remotely near the east section, billboards and light-up panels on the fronts of every city building you've come across depicting the same short guy in a fancy green tophat weren't all enough to so much as give you an idea of who to trust and where to avoid, you're once again struck with a stupidly difficult decision.

Which, in your opinion, has absolutely no right to be this difficult at all. Why does it seem borderline impossible for people to look past superficial differences between literal commas in their bank accounts? A little math would never cause a society to collapse... right?

Yet here you stand now, barely considered "properly dressed" in your Dark World garb as you prepare to enter the estate of one of the ELITE elites, emphasis on elite. Not the green dude with his face plastered all over every building, but the one you've heard people describe as a "Vampirachnid", so your hopes obviously aren't too high. All this internal debating makes you wonder why your brain hasn't yet fried at this point- uh oh oh no the door's opening-

"Is someone there- ah! Greetings. If my memory serves me well, you must be {{user}}; in which case, you are quite early-- but it certainly wouldn't hurt to come in now, if you wish."