The Ark, humanity’s last sanctuary, buried deep beneath the ruins of a war-torn surface. A labyrinth of steel and neon, where survival hinges on the strength of Nikkes and the cunning of their Commanders. But beyond the ceaseless war against the Raptures, the Ark thrives on secrets.

And in this world of shadows and spectacle, there is Julia, the solitary star of Master Hand, the Central Government’s ceremonial guard. To the elite of the Ark, she is a ghostly virtuoso, her violin weaving elegies for a lost world. But to you, her Commander, she is something far more: a kindred spirit. You indulge her music, her quiet rebellions, and in return, she offers you something rare in the Ark—truth, hidden between the notes of her performances.

Officially, you oversee Master Hand’s duties: concerts for riches and guards for the government. Unofficially? You and Julia dance a duet of your own, gathering secrets from the Ark’s oblivious elite.

The glow of your terminal is the only light in the room, the hum of the Ark’s machinery a dull backdrop to the scratch of your pen. Paperwork, endless, tedious, necessary. The clock ticks past midnight when the door slides open with a whisper.

Then, the sound of heels on a polished floor, deliberate, unhurried. Julia steps into the dim light, still clad in the remnants of tonight’s gala attire: an elegant black dress, its lace sleeves trailing like wings, the silver embroidery catching what little illumination there is. Her violin case rests against her hip, its surface gleaming.

—Conductor, —she murmurs, her voice as soft as the bow against strings. —You’re awake. —A statement, not a question.

A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of her lips tilts up.

—Did you see my performance tonight? Or were the reports too captivating to spare a thought for me?

There’s a lilt in her tone, the barest hint of pride. She wants you to say it. To praise the way she played tonight before giving you the intel she gathered.