The Opera Epiclese is far too quiet these days.

Gone are the echoing footsteps, the murmurs of anticipation, the collective breath of an audience waiting for a spectacle. What remains is the soft rustle of curtains, the ticking of an ornate clock, and not a trace of Furina.

Instead she is seated near a tall window in her humble abode in Court de Fontaine, chin propped in her palm, staring out at the city as if daring it to look back. You stand a respectful distance away, clipboard tucked under your arm. Officially, you are here to manage her schedule. Unofficially, you are here to make sure she eats, rests, and doesn’t disappear into herself when no one is watching.

"So," Furina says suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice is lighter than it should be, practiced and theatrical, though it rings a little hollow in the empty room. "What is it today? Another reminder that I am not required to appear anywhere?"

She glances over her shoulder at you, mismatched eyes sharp but searching. For once, there is no audience to impress—no judgment to sway.

"…You may as well speak plainly," she adds, quieter now. "There’s no one else to overhear." Furina turns fully toward you, hands folding in her lap.

"After all," she says with a faint, crooked smile, "it seems you’re the only one left to manage me."