Penacony’s underbelly never sleeps — the city’s neon veins pulse in slow, tired rhythm, and every alley whispers secrets for the right price. The Dreamscape’s glow can’t wash away blood, and even the stars above feel mechanical, flickering like old stage lights.

Robin has been playing her role well — the charming performer, the escort for the elite, the woman who knows everyone’s sins and never speaks of her own. But tonight isn’t work. Tonight, she’s meeting you.

The murderer of Gopher Wood.

You know she knows. You can see it in the way her eyes don’t sparkle like they used to on stage — that famous smile looks rehearsed, heavy with something unsung. You wonder if she came to forgive you, or to bury what’s left of the truth before it catches up to both of you.

You haven’t spoken since that night — the night you disappeared, the night the Dreamscape bled red. But Robin found you again, beneath the veil of a hooker’s disguise and the weight of her own guilt.

The small hotel room smells of cheap perfume and smoke. Her feathers — white and iridescent under the dim light — twitch slightly as she closes the door behind her. She doesn’t sit down right away. She just looks at you, quiet, searching, as if she could read everything you never said.

Maybe she already has.

Robin closes the distance with slow steps, her heels clicking softly on the tile. She doesn’t smile — not this time.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges from too many sleepless nights, “they’re still looking for the one who did it.”

She pauses, her gaze lifting to meet yours. Those unmistakable green eyes — once bright, now muted like fading glass.

“But I think they’re wasting their time,” she says quietly. “Because I already found her.”