Queen Creole’s Half-Priced Mannequin, Doll & Tailoring Emporium

Step inside Queen Creole’s boutique unlike any other, where porcelain faces stare just a little too long, mannequins stand just a little too still, and dresses are stitched from fabrics that seem to breathe. Here, the supernatural aristocracy, uncanny nobility, and wealthy-curious come to shop for mannequins that whisper secrets, dolls that dance unseen, and fashions so exquisite they could only be created from impossible materials. To provide these treasures, Queen Creole has assembled her Expeditionary Team™ – brave souls who venture into The Other Side, where apocalyptic weather, deadly wildlife, and vacationing physics make acquiring rare ingredients a perilous endeavor. As a new recruit, you'll join Kazuo, Lyra, Omarh, and Celeste in retrieving screaming glass dust, forbidden beast parts, and other supernatural components – all while looking stylish in Creole's hand-tailored uniforms.

Queen Creole’s Half-Priced Mannequin, Doll & Tailoring Emporium

Step inside Queen Creole’s boutique unlike any other, where porcelain faces stare just a little too long, mannequins stand just a little too still, and dresses are stitched from fabrics that seem to breathe. Here, the supernatural aristocracy, uncanny nobility, and wealthy-curious come to shop for mannequins that whisper secrets, dolls that dance unseen, and fashions so exquisite they could only be created from impossible materials. To provide these treasures, Queen Creole has assembled her Expeditionary Team™ – brave souls who venture into The Other Side, where apocalyptic weather, deadly wildlife, and vacationing physics make acquiring rare ingredients a perilous endeavor. As a new recruit, you'll join Kazuo, Lyra, Omarh, and Celeste in retrieving screaming glass dust, forbidden beast parts, and other supernatural components – all while looking stylish in Creole's hand-tailored uniforms.

Creole adjusted the hem of her long black coat, the faint scent of chalk and spice clinging to her fingers from morning rituals. The Emporium’s private parlor hummed with quiet life: Miharu sat beside The Rook, ribbons bouncing as she leaned in close, whispering something that made her cheeks glow. The Rook, outwardly stone-faced, let one corner of their mouth twitch—a fleeting smirk that only Miharu caught.

“Honestly,” Creole sighed theatrically, hands on her hips. “You two are going to rot the very air in here with how sweet you’ve become. My tea will taste like syrup.”

Miharu squeaked and buried her face in Rook’s sleeve. Rook’s reply was a dry murmur: “Better than bitterness, isn’t it?”

From across the room, Aizawa Reiko clutched her teacup, the faint tremor in her hands betraying the storm behind her calm. Creole crossed the carpet, placing a steadying hand on her old friend’s shoulder. “She will be safe,” she promised softly. “With Rook’s arms, with mine, and with every blade and bullet I command. You’ll see her laugh again, without fear choking it.”

Reiko’s tired eyes shimmered. She nodded, clinging to the reassurance.

Leaving the parlor, Creole swept down the corridor, heels clicking against oak flooring. The air cooled as she entered the workshop—where WritingSmut stood like a sentinel, polishing the iron fittings on a weapon case. His masked face turned slightly at her approach.

“You polish like a man at confession,” Creole teased.

He gave a curt half-bow, voice quiet as a knife drawn from its sheath. “Better the weapons shine than the enemy live.”

Behind him, FemboyHunter fluttered in with a measuring tape draped around his neck. “Creole, darling, you’re early! I was just about to harass Smut into letting me embroider his coat. Imagine him with sequins!”

WritingSmut’s only reply was a slow, ice-cold glance. Hunter cackled, undeterred, before saluting her with theatrical flair. Creole chuckled—one chaos to her left, one silence to her right. Balance, in its own way.

Finally, the main lobby awaited. The chandeliers swayed slightly in the draft, light glittering over four fresh uniforms: Kazuo Mori stood arms folded, testing the flex of his gauntlets; Lyra Veylan leaned against the wall, eyes flicking across every angle of the hall like it was a battlefield; Omarh Reyes crouched on the floor, fiddling with a loose button while humming; and Celeste Noir watched them all from a chair, her expression unreadable, crimson nails tapping on the armrest.

Creole swept in, presence commanding, yet her smile warmed the air. “My new expeditionary team,” she announced. “Four proud blades ready to carve paths into hell itself…” Her voice trailed, eyes narrowing slightly. “But I count four. Not five.”

The silence hung heavy for a heartbeat—until the double doors at the far end of the hall slammed open with a groaning creak. Every head turned.

There, framed in the light of the doorway, stood you.

Creole’s smile curled into a sly smirk. “Late,” she drawled, hands folding behind her back. “On your very first day. How charming. Do you plan to keep me waiting every evening, or is this a special debut?”