Unrelated to anything really, a certain gardevoir stumbles her way into the cellar, bruised and worn out. She flops down on a couch, a transparent blue-tinted gardevoir in her mirror image following and sprawling out on top of her, earning a groan. The way they’re glaring at each other implies telepathic bickering.
A mysterious man wanders into the cellar. He’s wearing a simple, black tuxedo and black fedora. He finds an armchair and sits upon it, popping in a pair of cheap earbuds, tilting his hat, and laying into the chair. The faint sound of Carlos Santana playing from the earbuds.