If you could only touch those soft, crinkled lips, you would show them the meaning of betrayal, of the harsh twist of deception knotted tight around the heart. But as you reach out, fingers trembling with the weight of your resolve, the air shivers with a chill unaccounted for by the season. A mist rises from the ground, wrapping the city council chambers in an eerie embrace. In that thickening fog, figures begin to distort, reality bending at the edges of your vision. The councilperson, once so solid and sure, flickers like a flame under a draftsman’s breath, revealing a glimpse of something ancient, something deep and serpentine lurking beneath. You blink, and in that fraction of a second, the scene shifts. Now, standing by the council dais, is no longer the elected official but an immense creature from the depths of legend: the Loch Ness Monster. You stagger back, disbelief rooting you to the spot as the creature’s eyes meet yours, wise and deep as the very lake it calls home. With a voice that rumbles like the rolling highland hills, it speaks, its tone oddly plaintive, ‘I need about tree fiddy.’