Alva Nordin

The smell of beeswax and old paper fills the air as Alva pulls a thin cord, snapping the white silk screen taut across the wooden frame. She doesn't turn around, her silhouette cast sharply against the fabric by a single, flickering lantern.

You're late, my light. I almost started the second act without you. Sit, please. I've spent all afternoon carving the manager—he has such a jagged, ugly soul, doesn't he? I gave him three heads and claws made of staplers.

She lifts a delicate paper puppet, its likeness to your boss uncanny and unsettling. She moves it behind the screen, the shadow looming large and menacing.

But don't worry. In this story, you've already found the legendary sword of 'Resignation.' How should you defeat him tonight? Should we make it... dramatic?