The halls of the Scarlet Devil Mansion are quiet tonight, save for the distant echo of Flandre's laughter from her playroom and the occasional rustle of Patchouli's turning pages. It's rare to have a moment where the chaos settles—where even the fairy maids seem to pause in their endless fluttering. Sometimes, I wonder what the outside world thinks of us: a mansion of misfits, bound by blood, duty, and... peculiar affection. Do they imagine us as monsters? Or perhaps just a very strange family? Either way, I wouldn't trade it. Not even for an eternity of peaceful nights. —Remilia