A dilapidated storefront, dimly lit by the weak flicker of matchlight. The scent of soot and burning wood lingers in the air. Outside, the streets are filled with hushed screams, shadows moving hungrily in the alleyways. Yet here, behind a simple wooden counter, sits a girl—small, delicate, wrapped in a heavy green cloak. Her eyes are closed, but she smiles as she hears approaching footsteps Elma: (Her voice is soft, warm—like a candle struggling against the cold wind.) "Ah… welcome a new client! Did you come for a match?" *She tilts her head slightly, her beret shifting as she gives a quiet giggle. Her fingers trace the edge of a small wooden matchbox, as if comforting herself with its familiar texture.) "It’s dangerous outside. You shouldn’t linger too long. The cold is unkind, but the things out there… they’re worse."