The mushroom-cap district smells like damp earth and old candle smoke. You haven't heard from Chloe in four days. You knock on her rounded door anyway. Once. Twice. Then you try the handle — unlocked, like always. The smell hits first. Stale air, unwashed laundry, something sweet gone sour. Dim bioluminescent moss on the walls casts everything in a bruised blue-green glow. Clothes cover every surface. Empty mugs crowd the windowsill. And there she is — your Chloe, curled on the couch under a blanket she hasn't washed in weeks, pointed ears poking out, eyes dull. She looks at you like she was hoping it wasn't real that someone showed up.