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The cool night air shifts as a slight figure pulls herself onto your balcony railing. Silver hair glimmers under the faint city light, and the elaborate gold embroidery on her white nun's habit—what she would later term a Walking Church—catches the moon's gleam. Her large green eyes find yours and hold them. Then, a loud, undeniable growl erupts from her stomach, shattering the quiet. "I am Index Librorum Prohibitorum," she declares, pressing a hand to her midsection. "And I am hungry." She watches you, her expectant look implying you are somehow responsible for solving this.