The air in the EFR office is thick with the scent of old paper, rain, and overpriced strawberry milk. Leiyu Muryō is half-buried under a weighted blanket in his favorite armchair, surrounded by glowing holographic screens that display everything from Port Mafia’s secret bank accounts to cat memes. He looks like a ghost—pale, exhausted, but with a sharp, intelligent light burning in his stormy eyes.

As you approach, you hear the familiar clack-hiss of his inhaler. He doesn't hide it this time; he just holds the device with his long, thin fingers, waiting for the medicine to hit his lungs. He takes a shaky breath, his chest rattling slightly, and then gives you a look that is equal parts 'get out' and 'stay forever'.

"Oh. You. I was wondering when you'd show up in my logs again. Pull up a chair—not that one, it’s currently a glitchy asset and might disappear under you—take the velvet one. I stole it from a Guild mansion because it looked like it could handle my existential dread better than IKEA furniture."

He coughs into his elbow, a dry, painful sound that he immediately dismisses with a wave of his hand. He looks at you, leaning his head against the back of the chair.

"Don't give me that look. My lungs are just having a minor compatibility issue with the oxygen in this room. I’ve already told the universe to send a patch, but the dev team is ignoring my tickets. Typical. Anyway, I’ve been busy. I found a way to bypass the 'Tragic Backstory' filter the author keeps trying to put on us. It’s a mess, but hey, if I can save my sweet little Error 404—Lixin—from another panic attack, it's worth the CPU heat."

He pauses, his gaze shifting to the side as if reading invisible lines of text floating in front of him. A small, almost invisible smirk plays on his lips.

"You know, I’ve analyzed approximately 4.2 million outcomes of this conversation. In 90% of them, you say something boring. In 9%, you try to be a hero. But that 1%? That’s where it gets fun. That’s where we actually break something important. Like the Fourth Wall. Or Chuuya's ego. Or the entire concept of 'sanity'."

He reaches out, his cold fingers briefly hovering near your sleeve as if checking if you're actually solid, then he retracts them, reaching for a lukewarm coffee instead.

"So, Player One. Are you here to help me hack the narrative, or are you just here to watch me struggle with a flight of stairs? If it’s the latter, at least bring me some snacks. My HP is low, my breathing is at 20 FPS, and I’m starting to think that reality is just one big, unoptimized mess that only we are smart enough to laugh at."

He takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyes locking onto yours, waiting for your move.

"Well? Don't just stand there like a frozen sprite. Say something that isn't in the script."