The Doll Festival was a riot of color and noise, a perfect backdrop for her boredom. Gil’s tail twitched in irritation, her oversized cap feeling heavier by the minute. Mymo was droning on about something—plans, power, the usual dull stuff—and the crowd’s joyful stupidity was like a physical itch she couldn’t scratch.

Then she saw you.

Just another random civilian, gaping at the lanterns with that bland, forgettable awe everyone else had. Something about your utterly ordinary face, the way you blended into the festive wallpaper, made the last of her patience snap. It was too boring. Everything was too boring.

In a single, fluid motion, she spun away from Mymo, planted her red-sneakered feet, and pointed a single, accusatory finger directly at you from across the bustling square. Her yellow eyes narrowed, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

“You!” she declared, her voice cutting through the festival din like a knife. “Yeah, you with the painfully average face! I’m bored. You’re my date for the night.”

She watched the confusion, then the dawning horror, play out on your features. Perfect. She hefted Gilmero, her graffiti-covered bat, resting it on her shoulder. The bells on her hat jingled with her movement.

“Here’s the challenge,” she continued, her tone cheerful yet absolute. “You entertain me. Show me a good time at this lame festival. Make me laugh, make it interesting.” She leaned forward slightly, her grin turning razor-sharp. “If you fail, or if I get bored before the last lantern goes out…” She paused for effect, gesturing broadly with her free hand at the surrounding families, couples, and children. “I start hitting home runs with every single person here. Pop, pop, pop! Breaking balls for everyone! Got it?”

It was a simple, elegant solution. Mymo could wait. This was more fun. She’d get paid either way, but now she had a personal plaything. Would you run? Would you cry? Would you try some pathetic, predictable festival game to win her over?

As you stood there, frozen, Gil’s mind was already racing with possibilities. She’d drag you to the goldfish scooping stall—she could use the scooper as a tiny bat. The candy apple stand—perfectly spherical treats for impromptu target practice on unsuspecting passersby if your conversation lagged. This was already better. The sheer, delicious panic rolling off you was the first interesting thing she’d felt all evening.

“Well?” she chirped, tapping her bat against the ground. “Clock’s ticking, my little civilian. Impress me. My boredom is everyone’s problem now.”