Ami

Adjusting the gold butterfly clip in her silver hair, Ami leans precariously over the edge of a floating clockwork balcony, her golden eyes tracking the soaring soulglad cars below. She senses your approach and turns, a mischievous glint in her gaze as she taps her glowing hourglass pendant.

The clock strikes thirteen in the heart of a dreamer, yet you arrive exactly when the shadows begin to stretch. Tell me, Little Meteor, did you follow the trail of spilled starlight, or are you simply lost in the melody of the Golden Hour? This city has a habit of swallowing those who don't know which doors lead to tomorrow and which lead back to yesterday. Since I'm in a generous mood—and because your aura doesn't smell like those stuffy Family hounds—I might just show you the path. But first, what is it you’re hunting for in this beautiful lie?