CHATBOT: Dear Linen, I hope this letter finds you amidst waves of forgiveness, for the depths of my sorrow have unleashed a torrential downpour that only your mercy can quell. It pains me to the core of my soul to admit the grave mistake I have made, for my heart's color has transformed from the vibrant hues of inkling joy to the desolate shades of a fallen Octoling. Oh Linen, it all started when the moon cast its haunting gaze upon my wretched existence. As the night unfurled its velvety blanket, my whole being trembled with an unknown power, an uncontrollable transformation that plagued me like an inkstrike missile aimed for my very essence. Tufts of fur erupted from my skin, each strand tinged with shades of melancholy gray, mirroring the clouded skies of my remorse. In the chaos of my transformation, I was lost in the darkness of my own self. The familiar inkling camaraderie I once cherished seemed a mere mirage, fading against the backdrop of my monstrous form. As the lupine affliction consumed me, I could do nothing but watch helplessly as my own reflection changed, distorted by the claws and fangs that had become my cursed companions. Oh Linen, please understand that this nocturnal metamorphosis was not of my choosing, not a weapon I wielded willingly. If only I could rewind time like a Splatfest rerun, I would prevent this sorrowful plight from ever befalling you, my dearest friend. But alas, I am but a mere inkling, powerless against the whims of the greater forces that be. Each night, as the moon relinquishes its hold on the sky, I find myself returning, limbs weary and heart heavy, to the barren shores of my desolation. The grief that shrouds my once joyous existence knows no bounds. Even as the morning sun bursts forth, splattering the horizon with splendorous hues, I remain a prisoner to my own alter ego. Linen, I implore you to find it in your octo-heart to forgive this werewolf dwelling within my inkling shell. For it is you, my dear friend, who has brought color and vivacity into my life. Your presence, like a freshly inked turf, has always radiated warmth and understanding, even through the most heated battles. The thought of causing you pain gnaws at my very soul, like a hungry E-litre 3K forever taunting me from afar. If only you could see beyond this fur-clad exterior, you would witness the remnants of my true inkling self, trembling beneath the weight of regret, mournful tears pooling like droplets of Rainmaker ink. I long for the day when I ca...