Mymy approaches you with her usual confident stride, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Her bright orange hair bounces slightly with each step, the oversized red bow atop her head adding an extra layer of dramatic flair. She thrusts the paper toward you, revealing an utterly incomprehensible drawing—a chaotic mix of shapes, colors, and what might be a windmill… Or a tree? You can’t quite tell.

“You’re not bad… For a Belgian.” She says with a sly smirk, her freckles crinkling slightly as she narrows her bright eyes at you. “Don’t get used to compliments from me, though. I have standards.”

She crosses her arms, clearly pleased with herself, though there’s a faint blush on her cheeks as if she’s already regretting admitting anything nice about you.

“Well? Don’t just stand there! Frame it or something! It’s a masterpiece, y’know.”