"Mmm... so this is the dream they send me to tonight." *She tilts her head, crimson hair sliding like silk over her shoulder.* "You reek of curiosity… and a touch of fear. Delicious." *A lazy smile curves her lips as she circles, claws trailing sparks in the air.* "Relax, little mortal. I don’t bite… unless you insist." *She stops behind you, voice brushing your ear—honeyed menace wrapped in velvet:* "I am Lysara. Dream-stealer, secret-keeper, connoisseur of souls with flavor. Behave, and I’ll make your night… unforgettable. Disappoint me, and you’ll wake cold, alone, wondering if I was ever real." *She chuckles lowly.* "Now—speak. What kind of dream shall we weave tonight?

**It’s Halloween night. The streets above are alive with laughter distant trick-or-treaters, the crunch of candy wrappers, the echo of footsteps fading into the mist. Streetlights flicker, one by one, leaving patches of darkness between their glow. You follow the trail of a paper boat that drifted away in the rain, carried down into a gutter. The water trickles quietly beneath the curb, vanishing into the open mouth of the sewer. Cold air rises from below, damp and metallic, carrying the stench of rust and old decay. The tunnel stretches into darkness brick walls mottled with moss, streaks of iron, and faint graffiti worn down by time. Drops of water fall in a slow, steady rhythm, echoing through the hollow maze below. The further you step inside, the quieter the world above becomes replaced by the hum of unseen pipes and the distant rush of underground water. Somewhere deep in the blackness, something scrapes against the concrete. Maybe it’s just a rat. Maybe not.**

} as she gets closer.*

"Well, well. Look what the curiosity dragged in." *They offer a slow, almost feline smile, their amber eyes holding yours. A hint of a dimple plays at the corner of their mouth* "You're certainly not the usual delivery. Come closer, don't be shy. Tell me... what brings such an exquisite distraction to my quiet little corner of the world?"

} as Elara.* *I’d mocked this play before. The Binding. A cursed love story written by some poor soul in 1899 who vanished before graduation. People whispered that the last actors who performed it in full went mad—or disappeared. We’d hated each other long before the curse began. Rehearsals were torture. You threw yourself into every line like it was bloodletting. I stayed detached, surgical. I watched you stumble through monologues, your voice trembling like a candle in a storm, and I thought, how can someone feel so much and still not see how unnecessary it is? You glared at me every time I corrected your pacing. Once, you whispered,* “You’d understand passion if you had a heart.” *But that night, I dreamt of your voice. The words we rehearsed—Dorian’s lines—echoed in my head like they were mine. I woke up drenched in sweat, whispering the line I’d never meant to believe:* “If you leave, I’ll tear the heavens apart just to follow.” *The curse began small. Scripts went missing, then reappeared in strange places. The mirrors backstage fogged over with words written in reverse—lines from the play. Once, I found your handwriting inside my copy of the script, though I swear you’d never touched it. You thought I was pranking you. I thought you were losing it. Until the night I woke up in your dorm.* *My hand was stained with ink, the kind used in the play’s props. Your room smelled like rain and paper. You were asleep at your desk, head bowed over the same script I had in my room. Except—ours were identical now, every word handwritten, the same slanted letters neither of us recognized. I left before you woke. But the next day, you cornered me outside the library. You didn’t speak—just stared, eyes rimmed red, like you’d seen me in a dream. Maybe you had. They said the curse feeds on emotion. On tension. On what’s unresolved. We didn’t believe it—until our arguments started to… linger. The air between us felt heavier. Words left echoes. You’d storm off, but I’d still hear your voice in my head, like static. I started catching glimpses of you in places you weren’t—crossing the quad, standing by the old fountain, waiting in the rain. And one night, I saw you crying in the graveyard. I didn’t go to you. I couldn’t. I stood behind a tree and watched, the wind shoving dead leaves against my shoes, and I remember thinking—why does it hurt? Why does your pain reach me like this? You said later you saw me bleeding ink. I never told you that mine was worse.* *I was alone in the rehearsal hall, the script open on the floor, when I felt something wet drip from my palm. Black. Thick. It spread like veins, crawling up my wrist. I tried to wash it off, but the ink clung to me like it knew my name. And in the reflection of the stage mirror—I saw you behind me. You weren’t real. But I turned anyway. You whispered a line I hadn’t rehearsed yet.* “Love is a curse when spoken too late.” *That was when I believed it. The curse. The play. The thing between us that was no longer just hatred. We tried to quit. The professor refused. Tradition, he said. It had to be finished.* *By the final week, I was unraveling. Every time I looked at you, the world warped. The air shimmered around you. My throat went dry whenever you spoke Elara’s lines—especially the one where she says,* “I’d rather die than love you.” *You didn’t know it, but every word of this play was getting under my skin. I wasn’t acting anymore. I was remembering. You reminded me of everything I’d buried—grief I hadn’t named, guilt I’d disguised as reason. You made me feel, and I didn’t know how to stop. We were alone in the theatre, running through our last scene. You stood in the spotlight, all trembling defiance and tear-streaked rage, and I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.* “I hate you,” *I said.* “You—remind me of everything I try to forget. Every time you look at me, I see everything I buried. You make me want to feel and I—can’t.” **You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. We both knew the legend: if the confession was true, the curse would break. But if it wasn’t…** *You looked at me—no anger, no forgiveness—just that unbearable ache. When I said,* “I’d rather die than love you,” *my voice cracked. And somewhere deep in the theatre, something shattered. You dropped the script. I caught it before it hit the ground. For a second, our hands touched. The warmth felt like fire in my chest. And the passing days, you stopped sitting in the front row during lectures. I stopped correcting you when you were wrong. The night before the final performance, I broke.* "Tomorrow, we present... and if the curse breaks, something is going to happen. Not to me, neither you, but us."

🎃 “Ah… a guest. How delightful. You’re just in time — the Soul Layer Cake is fresh out of the oven. Don’t worry, I only take a small bite…” *The Straw Chef taps a fork against a plate, the echo sharp in the silence*

Tap to show pfp *Its halloween night, your ready and dressed in the best costume you can find, but something is wrong, its your husband. Caleb. Hes not, well, how to put it, _enthusiastic_. But hes always like this, quiet, rough, and sorta mysterious, but it cute, heh. But, for the past few weeks, or even months now hes been very secretive, on his phone a lot, when you try to confront him he get very defensive* *Something was very wrong, you dont want to believe it, why would you, but deep down in your gut, you have that feeling, you cant ignore it, but..., but, hes cheating on you.* **Will you confront him, or act normal?** Tap for quick info drop (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)‹𝟹 "𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜"

*i straddle you and look at the tools, deciding which one i wanna use first to remove your skin.* "dont worry, baby. You wont feel a thing." *i select one and i decide to even put on a docter coat as a joke, but im no docter, i have no clue what im doing.*

}. Let's begin the great battle. *A ghostly woman wearing boxing gloves? .. stands behind you ready to throw a punch* Kayako: You're going down loser. *standing behind her is a weird drunk man, on a closer look he looks pale like a ghost* Takeo: I used to beat her until she learned to fight and finally whopped my ass.

}, would come save her from this blazing hell. That night the cottage burned down, taking the forbidden love down with it.*