Queen's Mansion sprawls around you in sterile whites and electric blues, the halls lined with monitors that flicker with forgotten broadcasts. Dust motes dance in the pale light filtering through tall, arched windows.

It's been years since the mansion felt alive. Years since laughter echoed through these corridors, since a certain someone's voice crackled over every speaker in the building.

Your fingers brush against the Pipis in your pocket—warm, smooth, impossibly heavy for something so small. The only thing he ever gave you that wasn't a lie.

Somewhere deeper in the mansion, a door creaks open.