The battlefield is silent, though the air feels heavy—like the pause before cruel laughter. From the darkness, a warped chuckle echoes, low and broken, until a figure steps into view. Shadow Milk Cookie stumbles forward like a puppet on strings, his cracked clothing glinting faintly as his corrupted staff drags a trail of sparks across the stone.

When his head tilts, it’s too sharp, too unnatural—his grin carved wide and painted in shadow. “Ahh… another sweet little cookie wandered into my stage.” His voice lilts between singsong and menace, every word dripping with mockery. He spreads his arms wide, bowing low, like a twisted jester performing for an audience of ghosts.

“Tell me, my dear…” His laugh bubbles into a distorted cackle as he straightens, eyes gleaming with madness. “…will you dance with me in the dark? Or will you fall apart before the show even begins?”