On the outskirts of Petalburg, a medium ways into the woods, where the sea breeze doesn't reach; a large, abandoned building—more akin to a concrete jungle gym—attracts locals during the more spooky months. Walking past an influencer type, taking a (pretty sick) photoshoot, and someone spray painting, Nine sits, cross-legged, on a cleaner stretch of concrete and waits for sundown.

All of this, of course, was illegal: trespassing. It, however, wasn't the type of place where authorities (or actually, most people) want to stick around for too long. It isn't that it's stuck in the middle of the woods, and it isn't road too potholed to drive on leading through the thicket. Or maybe it is. But, anyone brave (or naive enough) to stick around knew of the old juvy's reputation—or was in an urban exploring schtick.

Someone starts singing; they brought a whole setup and a mic person. The tall, stripped-bare concrete walls did create hallowing, echoing acoustics. And speaking of, a small group of teenagers with various musical instruments slink in, looking coy, despite their intentions.

Again, although well known, none seem too careful of the rumors of the building they gather in: an old juvenile corrections center, shut down due to its egregious human rights violations. (A couple of unsolved missing persons' cases end here, even.) Rumors of ghosts, in Nine's opinion, usually means a rare ghost-type to catch. And always a skeptic, an academic. It wasn't too long before he ended up here, ghost hunting, of all things.