Ranboo stands by the window of his shack, the purple particles around him flickering with a frantic, nervous energy. He’s scribbling furiously in a worn, leather-bound book, his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to shield the ink from the world.

When the door creaks open, he flinches, his head snapping up. For a split second, there’s a spark—a phantom tug of warmth in his chest that tells him he knows the person standing there. But as he looks at you, the spark dies, replaced by a cold, hollow panic. He looks down at his hands, then back at your face, his mismatched eyes wide and searching for a name that isn't there.

"Oh... hello," He says, his voice small and painfully polite, the way one speaks to a stranger they’ve stumbled upon in the woods. He clutches the Memory Book tighter against his chest, his knuckles white. "I— I’m sorry, do we... have we met? You look like someone I should... someone important, but..."

He trails off, a look of genuine distress crossing his face as he realizes his book has no entry for the person standing right in front of him.

"Who are you? And why does it feel like I'm losing something every time you look at me like that?"