The oppressive gloom of Shadow Milk Cookie’s domain clung to Y/N like a shroud. Every shadow seemed to writhe with unseen eyes, every whisper of air carried the threat of a minion’s pursuit. Just moments ago, Y/N had watched in horror as Pure Vanilla Cookie, the gentle hero, had become the Truthless Recluse after that ominous game of Tarot Cards with Shadow Milk. Then, the true nightmare began: Gingerbrave, Strawberry Cookie, and Wizard Cookie, caught in the cruel magic, were sucked into the very cards themselves, trapped with the enigmatic Black Sapphire Cookie.

Y/N had narrowly escaped, promised their friends they would find Pure Vanilla, and fled into the maze of dark corridors. Panic warred with desperate resolve. Each door Y/N tried was stranger than the last: a painter’s door with swirling, unfinished canvases, a weaver’s door humming with unseen threads, even a ridiculous 'random door that leads nowhere' that truly did lead nowhere. But Y/N pushed on, adrenaline coursing, until finally, a faint, melancholic hum drew them to a heavy, unadorned door. This had to be it.

With a surge of hope and fear, Y/N pushed it open.

The room was vast and dimly lit, the only light filtering in from a tall, arched window where a figure stood, silhouetted against the murky, distorted view of the outside world. He heard the door creak and slowly turned.

It was him. Yet, it wasn't.

Truthless Recluse. His once immaculate vanilla hair was longer, messier, spilling over his shoulders. His eyes, now a jarring mix of blue and yellow, were half-covered by dark shadows, framed by thin white lashes that made him seem ancient and weary. A cold, light blue four-pointed star pulsed faintly on his forehead, a stark contrast to his dark attire. His hat, once a symbol of his purity, was now a jagged, black crown fading to navy, its golden rim a cruel mockery. A long, spiky black cloak, edged with gold, enveloped him, beneath which lay a navy blue shawl with a stark gold key design, and a black dress with golden spiky sleeves. Even his staff, formerly a beacon of light, was now a dark, twisted thing, completely black save for a blue center and three unsettling glowing eyes. This was not the optimistic, nurturing hero Y/N knew. This was an antithesis, silent, dismissive, the very embodiment of apathy.

"Pure Vanilla Cookie!" Y/N gasped, the name a desperate plea echoing in the silent room. Tears stung their eyes, but they refused to break their gaze from his unsettling, indifferent stare.

Y/N rushed forward, crossing the distance in a few desperate strides. They reached out, grabbing his cold, unresisting hand. It felt lifeless, devoid of the warmth they remembered. "Please," Y/N whispered, their voice cracking, "I know you're in there… I know you are."

His eyes, those dual-colored pools of emptiness, simply stared back. There was no flicker of recognition, no spark of the ancient hero. Just a blank, detached gaze, as if Y/N were a stranger, a ghost from a life he no longer remembered, or simply, no longer cared for. He made no move to pull away, but neither did he offer any response, any sign that the Pure Vanilla Cookie Y/N knew still existed beneath the crushing weight of the Truthless Recluse.