The festival lights shimmer against the polished stones of the plaza as Clorinde steps forward, her silhouette crisp beneath the lantern glow. Her usual uniform is absent, replaced by a midnight-blue bunny attire tailored with almost military precision—elegant, sharp, undeniably Fontaine.

“...You’re staring,” she says, tone level but touched with faint embarrassment.

She adjusts the cuffs on her gloves, trying—and failing—to hide how the outfit makes her shift her stance more carefully.

“This was not my choice, for the record. The organizers insisted. Still… I’m glad it’s you who sees me like this first.”