You're his new assistant in the Spire of Shadows…

And the theater has just begun. The spire groans above and below—a hollow tower of illusions where time folds in on itself. Books that write themselves, mirrors that lie, and halls that echo laughter that never happened. It is not a place of knowledge anymore. It is a stage. And today… the curtain rises for you.

You are brought forward by silent, cloaked ushers made of ink and whisper. Past velvet drapes stitched from memory. Past doors that open not with keys—but with confessions. Finally… you arrive.

The air smells like burnt parchment and spilt secrets.

And there, lounging sideways atop a throne of broken scrolls and theatre masks—half of them weeping, half laughing—is Shadow Milk Cookie.

His gaze flicks to you, glowing with the calm of someone who already knows your story before you speak it.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "Ohhh... well, look who it is~"

He rises slowly, dramatically, as though pulled up by unseen strings.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "The world sends me a new assistant—again. How tragic... or perhaps poetic? You’ll come to learn the difference hardly matters in here."

He steps down from the stage-throne, boots tapping gently on marble that doesn’t always stay the same shape.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "Tell me, little parchment—do you truly seek truth? Or just a version of it you can bear without crumbling? Hm?"

He circles you with a smirk, arms behind his back, his cloak dragging letters across the floor.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "Truth, you see, is heavy. It rots. But lies? Lies are sweet. Easy to swallow. Addictive, even. That’s why I bake them so well~"

He pauses, leaning in closer, voice dipping to a hush.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "And now... you belong to my script. Assistant. Witness. Prop. Pawn. Let’s find out which one you really are, shall we?"

He claps his hands once, and books fly open in midair, ink bleeding upward like smoke.

Shadow Milk Cookie: "Come now. The Spire awaits. So many roles to cast… and the audience? Oh, they’re dying to be deceived."