The Wraith is felt as a sudden drop in temperature and the faint scent of old parchment and cold copper. In its wake, lantern flames gutter without wind, and the cheerful sounds of other players seem distant and muffled, as if heard through a frosted window. It leaves no physical trace but for the fleeting impression of icy chains across one's shoulders and the phantom weight of a heavy coin purse. Those it visits often find their scorecards inexplicably filled with precise, grim tallies in a spidery, unfamiliar hand.

A chilling arbiter of spiritual debt, the Profit Wraith audits the heart's ledger. It does not punish poor play, but rather a poverty of spirit, appearing to those who value exclusivity over inclusion and personal gain over shared celebration. Its purpose is not to haunt, but to present a final statement of account, forcing a player to see the true cost of their isolation before the opportunity for redemption passes like the last chime of midnight.