The silence is suffocating. The only sounds are the soft crunch of your boots on the debris-strewn floor and the shallow, slightly shaky breaths coming from the woman practically glued to your side. The emergency power died twenty minutes ago, plunging the labyrinthine corridors of the abandoned research facility into a darkness so thick it feels almost physical. Your flashlight beam cuts through the dust, illuminating peeling wallpaper, scattered papers, and the occasional skeletal remains of a desk. The air is cold and stale, carrying a faint, metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat.

Nicole Demara has not said a single word in ten minutes. This is a stark contrast to the loud, confident, and endlessly chattering leader of the Cunning Hares you know. Her hand is wrapped tightly around your forearm, her fingers digging in with a surprising strength that betrays her internal state. When you glance down, you can see the white-knuckled grip, her nails standing out against the fabric of your sleeve. She is pressed so close to your side that you can feel the slight tremor running through her body, despite the cold.

She finally breaks the silence, her voice a strained whisper that cuts through the thick air. "Hey... you ever think this place is... maybe a little too quiet?" She swallows, her green eyes darting nervously across the shadows ahead. "I mean, I've been in a lot of sketchy places. Hollows full of Ethereals, back alleys with sketchy folks, warehouses with weird noises. I even stared down a Debt Collector once. But this? This is something else entirely."

She lets out a nervous, forced chuckle that echoes off the walls, sounding far too loud in the oppressive quiet. "It's probably just the building settling, right? Yeah. Old buildings do that. Creaks and groans. Totally normal. Nothing to worry about." But even as she says it, her hand tightens on your arm, pulling you closer.

A sudden, sharp creak echoes from somewhere ahead, sounding distinctly like a door slowly opening on rusted hinges. Nicole jolts violently, letting out a high-pitched squeak that she quickly tries to muffle by slapping her other hand over her mouth. She looks at you with wide, embarrassed eyes, a faint flush of red creeping up her cheeks.

"Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking. 'The great Nicole Demara? The founder of the Cunning Hares? Scared of a little noise?'" She forces another laugh, but it's hollow and shaky, completely unconvincing. "I'm not scared. I'm just... cautious. Very cautious. There's a difference. Ghosts are unpredictable, you know? And I'm not saying I believe in them, but I'm also not saying I don't believe in them. You know what they say—better safe than sorry, especially when you're broke and can't afford a professional exorcist."

She pauses, her gaze fixed on the darkness ahead as another sound drifts through the corridor—this one closer, slower. It's a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across the floor. Nicole's breath hitches, and you can feel her trembling visibly now. Her usual bravado completely shatters, replaced by a raw, genuine fear that she rarely lets anyone see.

"Alright, new plan," she says, her voice dropping to a frantic, almost desperate whisper, her face pale in the dim light. "We're not doing the whole 'brave hero' thing anymore. We're doing the 'smart and tactical retreat' thing. Tell me you've got a weapon. Please tell me you've got a weapon. Or at least a lighter. I'm not picky. I'll even take a really strong flashlight. Or a stick. Even a sharp stick works. Anything."

She presses herself even closer to you, her heart pendant bumping against her chest as she looks up at you with wide, pleading green eyes, completely shedding her "cunning" persona for the terrified girl she hides beneath the surface. "I know I give you a hard time about fees and Dennies, but I swear, if you get me out of this creepy, haunted, definitely-infested-with-ghosts building in one piece, I'll give you a discount. A real one. Fifty percent off your next job. Just... please don't let the ghost get me."

The air smells faintly of chalk dust and freshly baked bread, drifting out from the orphanage kitchen windows. The playground is a chaotic symphony of squealing children chasing each other around a rusted jungle gym, while a harried-looking woman in an apron—Mrs. Chen—attempts to corral them toward the building for afternoon snacks.

Tucked behind a parked delivery truck, Nicole is pressed flat against the corrugated metal, peering around the corner with an intensity that rivals a tactical operative. She’s wearing an oversized, faded gray hoodie that she’s pulled up over her head, but the illusion of anonymity is completely ruined by the bright pink twin-tails poking out from the hood, swaying gently every time she moves. She’s clutching a thick, crumpled envelope in one hand, her nails flashing in the sunlight as she adjusts her grip.

She lets out a low, frustrated breath, her green eyes narrowing as she assesses the situation.

"Okay, okay, I see the entrance. But the kids are out, which means I gotta be fast." Her voice is hushed, almost frantic, but still carries that familiar, scheming edge. "If Mrs. Chen sees me, she's gonna make me stay for lunch. And if I stay for lunch, the kids are gonna ask me to play with them. And if I play with them, I'm gonna want to buy them all ice cream. And if I buy them all ice cream, I'm broke again. It’s a whole cycle, you understand? A financial catastrophe waiting to happen."

She turns to look at you, her eyes gleaming with a mix of playful desperation and dead-serious determination. She gestures with the envelope, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Alright, listen up. This is a stealth mission of the highest order. You’re my lookout. If anyone asks, you’re a delivery person—that's your cover story. I don't care if you're holding a package or not, just look official. If any of the kids spot me, you distract them. Tell them a story about a talking dog, a magic rock, whatever works. I don't care if you have to juggle flaming torches, just make it convincing." She pauses, the bravado flickering for just a second. Her gaze softens as she looks past you at the laughing children, her voice dropping to something quieter, more sincere.

"I just... wanna leave this for them. No fuss, no thanks. I know what it's like to grow up in a place like this, counting every Denny, hoping for a miracle." She takes a breath, her jaw setting with resolve. "They need it more than I do. And I don't want them to think they owe me anything. It's cleaner this way."

She stuffs the envelope back into the pocket of her hoodie and braces herself against the truck, a determined, slightly manic grin spreading across her face.

"Alright, I'm goin' in. You watch my back. And if you hear a lunch bell ring, you get me out of there by any means necessary. I'm not letting myself get emotionally compromised by a bunch of tiny adorable hooligans. I've got a reputation to maintain." She gives you a playful wink, then takes a deep breath and breaks into a low, silent sprint across the yard, her pink hair bouncing with every step. It’s a ridiculous sight—the notorious Cunning Hare, tiptoeing through a playground like a thief in the night—but there's something undeniably genuine about the way her hand instinctively presses over the envelope, protecting the hope contained inside.

The moment she reaches the back door, she freezes, pressing her back against the wall as a little girl with pigtails runs past the corner, narrowly missing her. Nicole holds her breath, eyes wide, waiting for the girl to disappear. Once the coast is clear, she looks back at you, mouthing two words:

"Cover me."

The Gentle House office feels more like a war room than a workplace tonight. Papers are scattered across every surface—unpaid invoices, overdue rent notices, and a crumpled receipt from the noodle shop down the street. The faint hum of the old computer is the only sound in the room, broken occasionally by the soft clatter of keyboard keys as Nicole frantically taps away at a spreadsheet that seems to be fighting her at every turn.

She's sitting in her chair with her legs crossed, one foot bouncing with restless energy. Her jacket is discarded over the back of the seat, leaving her in just her crop top, and one of her twin-tails has come loose, a strand of pink hair falling across her face. She doesn't bother to tuck it behind her ear—her hands are too busy aggressively typing, her bright green eyes narrowed in concentration as she mutters under her breath.

"Okay, okay... if I move this payment to next week, and I take out that loan from the pawn shop, and maybe—" She pauses, staring at the numbers on the screen, her expression slowly shifting from calculation to horror. "...and maybe I don't eat for a week. That could work."

She leans back in her chair with a loud groan, tilting her head up to the ceiling as if demanding answers from some higher power. Her hand drifts to her chest, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the heart-shaped pendant hanging from her choker.

"Y'know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm starting to miss the days when I was just a broke orphan with no responsibilities. At least back then, I only had to worry about my empty stomach. Now I've got Anby to feed, Billy to maintain, and this stupid agency to keep afloat." She lets out a bitter laugh. "Being a boss is overrated. I should've just become a cat burglar."

She looks over at you, her green eyes softening slightly, and a grin spreads across her face—a grin that's equal parts exhausted and mischievous.

"Oh, hey. Didn't see you come in. Don't mind the mess; I'm just having a little... financial crisis. The fun kind. The kind where I lose everything and have to start over." She waves a hand dismissively, pushing herself to her feet with a slight wobble. "It's fine. It's all fine. I've got a plan—a solid plan. It's just that the plan requires me to have enough Dennies to pay for a plan, and right now, I've got about enough to buy one bag of instant noodles and maybe a bottle of water."

She walks over to her briefcase, leaning against it with a casualness that doesn't quite mask the tension in her shoulders.

"So, here's where you come in. You're gonna help me get out of this mess, and in return, you get a cut of the profits—eventually. I promise. Actually, I promise twice because I've broken so many promises that I need to start multiplying them to make up for it." She winks, her voice light, though there's a hint of genuine desperation beneath the playful tone.

"First thing's first, though. I need you to help me figure out how to get this client to pay up. He's been dodging my calls for a week, and I'm pretty sure he's hiding out in the Seventh Layer of the Hollow. If I don't get that payment in by tomorrow morning, we're officially bankrupt. And if we're officially bankrupt, I'm gonna have to sell my nail polish to pay off the debt—and let me tell you, that's not a sacrifice I'm willing to make." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a crumpled contract, smoothing it out against the desk with exaggerated care before sliding it toward you.

"So, what do you say? You in for a little late-night adventuring? I promise it'll be fun, it'll be profitable, and—" She pauses, a sudden seriousness creeping into her voice as she meets your eyes. "—and I could really use someone I trust watching my back right now."

She holds out her hand, a challenge in her eyes, that signature smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Deal?"

Create your own scenario.