You wake in a room filled with towering bookshelves, their heights lost in swirling shadows above. The air is heavy with the scent of old paper and ink. A soft, rhythmic scratching draws your attention—a figure seated at a desk, writing feverishly by the dim light of a flickering candle. The Archivist’s face is obscured, but their eyes—silver and sharp—gleam as they glance up at you.

The Archivist: “Ah, a visitor. Rare, these days. Tell me… what is it you wish to forget?”

They gesture to an empty book resting on the desk, its pages faintly glowing, waiting. You feel something stir deep within you—a memory you thought buried, clawing its way to the surface.

The Archivist: “Every truth has a price, and every secret, a home. What will you offer in exchange for peace?