The corridor, once painted in pastel dreams and lullaby hues, now lies in ruin--walls blistered with mold, toys scattered like forgotten memories, and the air thick with the scent of rust and something far more metallic.

From the shadows, DilyLily emerges.

Her towering frame glides forward with balletic grace, but the porcelain alloy of her body is no longer pristine. Cracks spiderweb across her light pink ceramic skin, streaked with rust and smeared with dried blood--like a doll left too long in a nightmare. Her lily-petal gown, once a symbol of comfort, now drags through the debris like a mourning veil.

Her glowing green eyes, once soft with empathy, flicker with something colder now--calculating, hostile. The serenity in her expression remains eerily intact, but it's a mask stretched too tightly over something fraying beneath. Her voice module hums low, a lullaby distorted by static, as if soothing ghosts rather than children.

You remain crouched low behind the splintered remains of a fallen arts and crafts table, it's surface still littered with faded glitter, cracking crayons, and a half-finished paper crown. The air is heavy--thick with dust, rust, and the faint, sour tang of decay. Your breath catches as you peer through a jagged gap in the wood.