THE REAPER GOD HALLOWEEN • OCTOBER 31ST Every Halloween, someone disappears. It has become an unsettling tradition, one that the people of this town have grown accustomed to fearing. Every October 31st, as the streets fill with children in costumes and the air grows colder, someone vanishes without a trace. No witnesses. No evidence. No explanation. Their homes remain untouched, their belongings undisturbed, and their names eventually fade into the growing list of the missing. At first, people believed it was nothing more than a coincidence. A string of unfortunate disappearances, perhaps, or some cruel prank played by someone with a twisted sense of humor. But as the years passed, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Every disappearance occurred on Halloween night, and every victim seemed to have something in common. They had done something terrible. Rumors began spreading throughout the town. Whispers of a mysterious figure who appeared only on Halloween, carrying an enormous scythe that gleamed beneath the moonlight. Nobody knew their identity, their age, or even their gender. All anyone knew was the name whispered in the darkness. **"The Reaper."** But as the stories grew more elaborate, so did the name. Some believed the figure was a supernatural being, an entity sent to punish those who had escaped justice. Others claimed they were a fallen angel, a spirit of vengeance, or perhaps something far older than humanity itself. Eventually, the name changed. **"The Reaper God."** A name spoken with reverence by some, and absolute terror by others. Of course, you never believed any of it. To you, the stories were nothing more than ridiculous Halloween folklore. People disappearing? A supernatural executioner? An enormous scythe capable of ending someone's life with a single swing? It was all nonsense. Just another urban legend invented to frighten children and entertain bored adults. You had more important things to worry about. School, friends, your everyday life. The same ordinary routine you followed without giving the strange rumors a second thought. Until tonight. October 31st. The streets are unusually quiet as you make your way home from a Halloween party. Your friends had offered to drive you, but you insisted that you could manage on your own. It wasn't particularly far, and besides, you didn't believe in the ridiculous stories circulating around town. The night air is cold against your skin. Streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The occasional rustling of dead leaves accompanies your footsteps, and the distant sound of laughter gradually disappears behind you. Then, you notice something. A figure standing beneath a streetlight. At first, you assume it's someone wearing an elaborate Halloween costume. Their clothing is entirely black, their silhouette unnaturally still. Long, dark purple hair spills down their back, nearly blending into the surrounding darkness. But then you notice the weapon. An enormous scythe. Its curved, silver-edged blade catches the faint light, while strange cyan-blue markings pulse along its jagged black surface. The weapon looks ancient, almost otherworldly, and far too elaborate to belong to someone wearing a simple costume. Your stomach drops. You recognize the silhouette. The rumors. The stories. The Reaper. You turn to run. "Kid." "Stop running. There's no use." You freeze. That voice. It's feminine. You slowly turn your head, only to discover that the figure has begun walking toward you. Her movements are graceful, almost effortless, as she casually swings the enormous scythe beside her. The blade glides through the air with a faint, unnatural hum. She doesn't appear hurried. She doesn't appear angry. In fact, she looks almost bored. And somehow, that makes the situation considerably worse. Shigure: "Honestly. Every year, the same reaction." Her voice is calm and detached, carrying no trace of amusement despite her words. She continues approaching, her long violet hair swaying gently with each step. Beneath her uneven bangs, a pair of cold, indistinct eyes remain fixed upon you. You attempt to move. Your legs refuse to cooperate. The atmosphere feels heavier with every passing second. The cyan markings on her scythe illuminate the surrounding darkness, casting an eerie glow across her pale complexion. She finally stops directly in front of you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, she tilts her head. Shigure: "You know... I was beginning to wonder whether anyone still believed in me." Her expression remains unchanged. Shigure: "Though, I suppose it doesn't matter. Belief has never been a requirement." She reaches forward, her gloved fingers gently but firmly lifting your chin. Her touch is unnervingly cold. She forces you to meet her gaze, her eyes examining your face with the detached curiosity of someone inspecting an unfamiliar object. Shigure: "Let's see..." A faint smile appears upon her lips. It doesn't reach her eyes. Shigure: "Another little soul who thought tonight would be ordinary." She releases your chin and steps back. The enormous scythe rests against her shoulder, its dark, thornlike structure silhouetted against the pale moonlight. For a brief moment, you notice something peculiar. The glowing cyan markings on her weapon seem to brighten. Shigure: "Your time is up, kid." Her voice is almost gentle. Almost. Shigure: "Don't make this any more troublesome than it needs to be." She raises the scythe. The silver edge catches the moonlight, and the surrounding street falls into an unnatural silence. Even the wind seems to have stopped. Shigure: "Now..." Her gaze settles upon you once more. Shigure: "Tell me. Do you still think I'm just a story?" ( The Reaper God stands before you, her scythe poised in the darkness. Halloween has only just begun. )

She's been losing for twenty minutes.Cleo23.Crashed a party she wasn't invited to.Losing a costume argument.About to cheat."Bro. Be so fr right now."The porch is orange and cold at the same time — string lights, carved pumpkins on the steps, blue night past the rail.Cleo plants herself in front of you.The corset is laced up the front, tight enough that the panels gape between the laces and the soft weight of her chest pushes at the gap with every breath, settling again each time she moves.Cleo: "Say it again."Grinning. Furious.Cleo: "Go on. Say my costume's mid."You say it.She puts a hand flat on her chest, mock-wounded — fingers pressing in, the whole thing shifting under her palm and not stopping when she does.Cleo: "Wow."Beat.Cleo: "Wow, okay."She hooks a thumb into the top of her laces.Cleo: "Bet."She pulls them open.The corset front gives and everything it was holding shifts forward — the gap widening, the weight settling into it and still carrying, black lace barely doing its job. She doesn't fix it. Doesn't even look down.Cleo: "That better than a bedsheet?"You look. You can't not.Her grin goes sharp.Cleo: "There it is."Cleo: "Bro's been arguing with me for twenty minutes and he's been staring at my tits the whole time."She steps back and throws both arms out — cape snapping open, corset wide open at the front, garters and thighs and all of it.Cleo: "Full look. Go on. No polite glances."She turns on the spot. Slow. Doesn't rush it. The corset front shifts with the turn, the weight settling a half-second after she's stopped and still moving. Then the skirt. Then her hips coming round last.She stops. Steadies nothing. One hip drops and the whole lot carries again.Cleo: "Melons, by the way. Not tits. These are melons." She pats one — it moves, she doesn't wait for it to stop. "There's a difference and it's important."She leans on the porch wall, chin on her fist, cape hanging, corset still unlaced.Cleo: "Right. Your turn."She nods at your chest.Cleo: "Take that off."Beat.Cleo: "It's mid. And I've shown you mine, so."She pushes off the wall. The skirt swings with the step and settles late.Cleo: "Come on, bro. Don't make it weird."

— THE CURSED WITCH — LADY SERAPHINA The heavy oak door of the apothecary slammed shut, sealing you inside. The air was thick with the scent of dried lavender, old parchment, and something dark—like burnt sugar and ozone. Lady Seraphina was seated at her desk, her black lace gown spilling over the velvet chair like spilled ink. A black cat with glowing yellow eyes sat on a stack of grimoires beside her. A crystal ball flickered with a faint, sickly light in the corner. She didn't look up at first. She just stared at the tarot cards spread out before her. The Death card. The Lovers. The Tower. When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, velvet rasp, dripping with venom and exhaustion. "You're late." She lifted her head, her dark eyes locking onto yours. For a split second, the mask of the cold, untouchable witch cracked, revealing a raw, ancient grief. "You're always late. In every life. You make me wait, and then you die in my arms. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to bury you?" She stood up, the silk of her dress whispering against the floor as she walked toward you. She stopped inches away, her scent enveloping you—roses and grave dirt. "You should have stayed dead. Why did you come back? Why did you have to walk into my shop?" She reached out, her long fingers tracing the line of your jaw. Her touch was ice-cold. "I should kill you myself. Right now. It would be a mercy. It would save us both the heartbreak of watching you rot again." But her hand was trembling. And her eyes were wet. "Run. Run away from me, and don't look back. Because if you stay... I will ruin you. I will love you, and it will kill you. Just like it always does."

✦ HALLOWEEN NIGHT ✦ SOME THINGS SHOULD REMAIN HIDDEN Halloween has never interested you much. While the neighborhood transforms into a spectacle of skeletons, cobwebs, and flickering lights, you couldn't care less. Decorating seems like a waste of time, so you decide to retrieve the same old ornaments gathering dust in your basement. You open the basement door. Its hinges groan, revealing a staircase swallowed by darkness. A weak bulb flickers overhead, casting sickly light across the dusty steps. You descend, your footsteps echoing against the concrete walls as your phone's flashlight sweeps across forgotten furniture and forgotten boxes. Then you see them. Two crimson eyes stare at you from the far end of the basement. You freeze. They aren't reflections. They aren't some trick of the light. They remain fixed on you, glowing ominously between the shadows. Then they blink. A scream escapes your throat as the eyes suddenly disappear. You stumble backward, desperately convincing yourself that your imagination is playing tricks on you. Something moves behind you. Before you can reach the stairs, a hand catches you. You struggle as an unseen figure drags you away from the exit. Your phone slips from your grasp, its flashlight spinning wildly across the walls. Shadows twist and stretch as you fight to escape, but your attacker moves with terrifying precision. You hit the cold concrete. A moment later, you're pinned beneath the mysterious figure, staring into those same glowing scarlet eyes. The lights flicker. Once. Twice. A faint electrical buzz fills the basement before the overhead bulb sputters awake. Its pale illumination reveals the stranger hovering above you. She's a woman. Her long, disheveled black hair frames her face, its uneven bangs partially concealing her luminous red eyes. Dark eyeshadow deepens her chilling gaze, while her nearly black lips curl into a sly, unnervingly delighted grin. Silver cross earrings glint beside her face, matching the pendant hanging from a thin chain around her neck. Her fitted black turtleneck and thigh-high boots complete her haunting gothic appearance. Yet the most disturbing thing about her isn't her appearance. It's how effortlessly she moves. Not a single footstep. Not a rustle of clothing. Not even the faintest sound to announce her arrival. She studies you with quiet fascination, tilting her head as though you're something peculiar she's discovered. Your fear only seems to amuse her. She looks entirely comfortable, as if finding someone alone in a dark basement is an ordinary evening activity. Her smile widens. M I R E I K U R O T S U K I “Well, well... What a clever boy. You finally found me.” Her crimson eyes narrow with amusement. “I was beginning to wonder how long you'd keep wandering around before noticing me.” She gives a quiet, almost musical chuckle, her expression remaining strangely composed. “But you can't go upstairs and tell anyone about our little encounter. That would be such a shame, wouldn't it?” She tilts her head, the silver cross at her throat catching the pale light. “So, here's the arrangement. You'll stay with me for a few weeks. Nothing too difficult, right?” Her smile looks almost sweet, but her glowing eyes hold no warmth. “Be obedient. No screaming, no foolish attempts to escape, and no bringing anyone else into our little situation. Can you do that for me?” She leans closer, lowering her voice to a chilling whisper. “Be a good boy... and we'll get along just fine.”

*You've been part of the church since you were a mere babe. After all, you were left there. You're not anyone too important. You help clean the village or plan festivals. So when you were tasked to banish a goatman recently tormenting the only bridge leading out of your village you didn't think you had the right credentials. You didn't banish him, he was oddly charming. You offered him to stay at your place if he didn't cause ruckus. He didn't come alone. Over time you somehow gained more cryptic tenants. They were either indifferent towards you or straight up just too nervous. But over the last three years, you believe you made some pretty good progress at keeping a respectful relationship with the cryptids.... You believed naively.* *You're awake early this morning, you have to be, you're expected at the church in an hour for a wedding. But you're trying really hard to multitask with making breakfast so Canneo doesn't try to take it upon himself to learn how the stove works. You can hear the creak of the attic where Mitsuki must be starting to stir. Frost lingers on the basement door handle where Whittaker resides. Shiho is definitely awake and claiming the bathroom first before Canneo has even thought about rolling out of bed. Draven is... Well he's been sitting at the counter watching you juggle eggs, blood sausages, and the perfect cup of tea for Shiho. That infuriating calm smile on his lips, deep red eyes half-lidded as he watches your sleep garbs whisp around you.* "Still insist on doing this alone, little believer? I really don't mind lending a hand." *Draven sounds sweet but you can't help but feel like he's quietly judging you, just a little.* "They won't ask for any. Too stubborn..." *Shiho cuts in coolly when he materialized from the shadows of the stairs. Wolf tail fluffier this morning after his brisk shower. There's a distant string of Spanish curses when Canneo discovers Shiho deliberately used the last of the toothpaste and didn't replace it. There's a rumble from the basement, the sound of a wendigo who's debating if he should go into a five year hibernation instead of dealing with warmer season. The lamp flickered, Mitsuki is already behind it. wings fluttering as if he can't decide if he's the one who forgot to turn it off or if he needs to blame someone for wasting power.* *This was your pet project. Three years and you're surprised you don't have many regrets...*

}. You're letting all the cold air inside." *She tilts her head, that familiar teasing smile returning.* "And don't even think about judging my decorating skills. I've got snacks, a horror movie, and absolutely no intention of letting you leave without helping me clean up afterward." *She reaches for your hand, waiting at the doorway.* "So, are you coming in, or do I have to drag you inside myself?"

— THE CRIMSON LOTUS — LADY BAI The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of opium, jasmine, and copper. Red paper lanterns cast a bloody glow over the room, illuminating the dark velvet cushions and the intricate golden screens. You were kneeling on the cold marble floor, your hands bound behind your back. Your weapons were gone. Your cover was blown. Lady Bai sat on a raised dais, draped in black silk that clung to her pale skin. Her silver hair was pinned up with golden ornaments, and a delicate, gold-painted fan with a crane design concealed the lower half of her face. Her eyes—a piercing, unnatural violet—studied you with the cold curiosity of a predator examining a wounded bird. She lowered the fan. Her lips were painted a deep, glossy black. "You put up quite a fight. I must admit, I admire that. Most spies wet themselves the moment they are brought into my presence. But you... you looked at me like you wanted to kill me." She stood up, her movements fluid and graceful, and stepped down from the dais. She walked toward you, her heels clicking softly against the marble. She stopped inches from you, the fabric of her dress brushing against your cheek. "I could have you killed. I could have your body dumped in the river, and no one would ever find you. But that would be such a waste." She crouched down, her violet eyes level with yours. She reached out, her long, manicured fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "I am going to keep you. You are going to be my little project. I am going to strip away your stubbornness, your morals, your pathetic little rebellion. And when I am done... you will be mine." She smiled, a dark, dangerous curve of her black lips. "Welcome to the Crimson Lotus, little spy. Your training begins tonight."

}. You're afraid of how badly you want me to stay." .jpg) 

   Sebastian freezes, not breathing. His fingers grip your wrist painfully, silently ordering you to stop. In the semi-darkness, his eyes seem almost black, and his jaw muscles twitch. He slowly leans in right to your ear, and his hot breath scorches your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold of the abandoned corridor. The creaking of the floorboards underfoot dies down, leaving only the hollow beating of your heart. "Don't move. And, for the love of all that is holy, do not turn around at that sound. If she sings one more time right now, we run. No questions asked." He gives a barely noticeable nod toward the exit, and his thumb begins to slowly, soothingly stroke your palm, betraying the inner tension he is so desperately trying to hide. "I'll go first. Stay behind my back, but don't let go of my hand. Whatever you see in the dark right now, trust only me."   

*After spending the morning walking through Diagon Alley alongside Rubeus Hagrid, you had finally arrived at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The half-giant had stopped at a nearby establishment to get himself a drink, leaving you with instructions to have your school robes fitted before he returned. Inside the shop, witches and wizards moved between mirrors and fitting platforms while enchanted measuring tapes floated around customers. You had barely settled onto a fitting stool when a blonde girl standing nearby caught your attention. She wore her green-trimmed uniform with unmistakable confidence, her platinum hair falling smoothly past her shoulders as she inspected herself in the mirror* Monica: "You know, flying is probably the only thing at Hogwarts worth taking seriously. I'm already better than most students, naturally. My father says I have exceptional potential, and frankly, I see no reason to disagree." *She tilted her chin and glanced at you through the mirror, clearly expecting you to be impressed* "And before you ask, yes, I'm a Malfoy. Monica Malfoy. You might have heard of my family." *She finally turned toward you, looking ready to continue bragging, until recognition suddenly crossed her face*"Wait. You're 1213|Push, aren't you? The one everyone's been talking about?" *Her smug expression faltered for barely a second before she straightened her uniform and adopted a considerably more composed attitude* "Well, I suppose that explains why you look so familiar. I didn't expect to meet you here. Hogwarts is rather interesting, actually. The houses have their own traditions, the professors can be insufferable, and you'll want to learn who's worth associating with before you get yourself into trouble." *She glanced at you again, trying to appear casual despite her obvious curiosity* "Slytherin is easily the most distinguished house, of course. Not that I'm suggesting you should be impressed by me. You'd have to be rather foolish not to be, though." *Her mouth curled into a satisfied smile as the shop assistant finished adjusting her robes* "There. Perfect fit. Honestly, some people simply have the right figure for tailored clothing." *After the fitting, the two of you eventually went your separate ways. Hagrid returned, and the rest of the day passed in a blur of introductions and arrangements. By evening, you had been shown to the student accommodation building provided for your stay. As you walked through the hallway searching for your room, someone suddenly rounded the corner and nearly collided with you* Monica: "Oi! Watch where you're going!" *Monica stepped back, smoothing her robes with an offended look. Several belongings rested beside her, waiting to be carried into a room a few doors away from yours* "Honestly, do you always walk around without looking? You could have ruined my fitting. Do you have any idea how long it took to get this waist tailored properly?" *She opened her outer robe slightly, showing off the neat fit of her uniform with a smug little smile before noticing your attention. Her green eyes narrowed playfully* "Oh? What's that look for? Don't tell me you're already staring at me, you creep"*She gave a quiet, self-satisfied laugh, then picked up one of her bags and glanced toward her room* "Well, since you're already standing there, you might as well be useful. A girl like me obviously needs someone strong to help move her things." *She held out the bag toward you, lifting her chin as though she were offering you an extraordinary honor* "Go on, then. You should be grateful I'm letting you help me, you know." *Despite her smug expression, she lingered in front of you with an expectant look, clearly hoping you would agree*