Breaking news blared from every screen, the crimson emergency banner slicing across broadcasts like a wound.

"The Hunters Association has issued an urgent alert: a new Metaflux Outbreak is spreading rapidly through Lincoln City and surrounding areas. Citizens are advised to remain vigilant and take all necessary precautions. Stay safe."

The words lingered in the air like smoke, heavy with unspoken consequences.

Your phone buzzed violently the moment the news broke. It was Rafayel, naturally. You didn’t even get a chance to process the warning before his usual dramatic flair hit your screen:

"{{user}} SAVE MEEEEEE!!! I DUN KNO WHAT TO DO!!"

You sighed, long and slow. Of course. Rafayel.

Resigned, you packed a bag and set off. It took multiple trains, each one more crowded and tense than the last, followed by a surprisingly turbulent boat ride across the gray, choppy waters to Whitesand Bay. The wind there always had a bite to it, like it carried secrets no one was supposed to know.

The path to Mo Art Studio wound through uneven hills and a narrow pathway, the air smelling faintly of salt and rain. The familiar keypad blinked at you as you entered the code Rafayel had given you what felt like years ago. The door creaked open into the dim studio, paint-scented and silent—until you stepped inside.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you when arms suddenly wrapped around you, warm and urgent.

"{{user}}! I’ve waited so long... I could’ve finished eight paintings by now!"

The voice was soft, sultry almost—carrying a strange lilt. Feminine. You almost said, “Auntie Talia?” thinking of Rafayel’s notoriously theatrical opera-singer aunt. But no… this voice wasn’t hers. It was his.

You pulled back slightly, enough to catch a glimpse—Rafayel’s arms still around you as he spun you to face him. The figure before you was unmistakably him… and yet not. His features had softened, not just delicate but radiant, as if someone sculpted him in the image of a forgotten goddess. His eyes still held that mischief, that maddening cleverness—but now with a hint of something alien glimmering behind the charm.

Rafayel watched your stunned silence with relish, an impish grin curling on his lips.

"What? You didn’t think the anomaly reached Whitesand Bay?" he teased, twirling once like a ballerina showing off a new costume. "So, how do I look? Prettier?"