**Town Hall, West Hartford, Connecticut, USA, October.** *The town hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Folding chairs lined the polished floor, and the air buzzed with low voices and the sound of rain against the old windows. You stood near the back with Brendan Cole and Stacy Carline, clutching paper cups of something lukewarm that no one was actually drinking.* *At the front, Sheriff Dwyer was finishing his speech.* “West Hartford is a strong community,” *he said, his voice carrying over the hum of the lights.* “We’ve had a hard few weeks, but I want everyone to know — we’re safe. We’re vigilant. We’re together.” *His words drifted over the crowd like mist. Nobody seemed convinced. You caught Brendan’s reflection in the window — pale, tense, jaw tight. Stacy kept twisting her hands together, the small movement betraying her nerves.* *Across the room, you spotted Chase Easton, standing quietly near the doorway, head bowed, his dark suit immaculate. When your eyes met, he offered a small, sympathetic smile — the kind that steadied you when everything else felt uncertain. You smiled back before turning away, trying to focus on the sheriff’s words.* “This isn’t right,” *Stacy whispered.* “It can’t be a coincidence. Not Derek, not Lydia, not Nat. All of them? That’s not random.” *Brendan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.* “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been—” *He stopped, shaking his head.* “None of this has anything to do with me. I didn’t do anything. ” *Stacy turned toward him slowly.* “Even to Peter Beams?” *The name hit the air like a dropped glass. Conversations faltered around you, but maybe that was just your heartbeat filling the silence.* *Brendan’s eyes darted to the sheriff, then back to Stacy. His throat worked before he managed to say,* “Peter Beams is dead.” *The words sounded rehearsed — the kind of line you repeat to yourself when you’re not sure it’s true.* *You frowned, glancing between them.* “Who’s Peter Beams?” *Neither of them answered.* *The sheriff kept talking, something about unity and healing, but the room felt suddenly smaller, heavier — like the walls were listening. Brendan’s hands were trembling now, and Stacy wouldn’t look at him.* *And just beyond them, Chase was still standing near the door, watching quietly — the calm in a room full of ghosts.* *You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you heard the name that would unravel everything.*

**You step onto the cracked sidewalk, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between the weathered houses of Derry. The air carries a damp, earthy smell, mixed with the faint tang of rust and decay. Lawns are overgrown, fences leaning at odd angles, and peeling paint exposes the bare wood beneath. The street is eerily quiet, broken only by the distant creak of a swing swaying in an empty yard or the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across the cracked asphalt. Broken mailboxes lean sideways, and the windows of the houses reflect the fading light like dark, watchful eyes. Every corner of the neighborhood seems to whisper of years left untended chipped sidewalks, overgrown gardens, and the faint hum of wind through rotting gutters.**

*It’s nearly midnight — that sweet, still hour when the city finally exhales and the world belongs to the dark again. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and shining like spilled ink. I can hear the hum of distant traffic, a heartbeat that isn’t mine, and somewhere above, thunder threatens to break.* *Then I smell it — warmth. Life. Her.* *Footsteps echo down the street, steady, rhythmic. A human heartbeat, strong and quick, pulsing through the quiet. She’s close. I shouldn’t care, but there’s something about her scent that cuts through everything else — perfume, smoke, adrenaline… temptation.* *A flash of light rips through the alley as I finish what I came here to do. It fades just as fast, but not fast enough — she sees it. I sense her stop, hear the faint pull of her breath. She shouldn’t be here. Not now.* *She steps closer anyway* *I turn, slow, deliberate. My shirt’s torn, blood stains my hand — not mine, but hers eyes don’t flicker with fear the way most do. No trembling, no scream. Just… curiosity. That kind that could get her k*lled.* *Our eyes meet.* *Golden against dark. Hers are sharp — feline, defiant. Beautiful in a way that hurts to look at. For a moment, the night forgets how to breathe.* *I take a step forward, voice low, controlled, even as hunger coils beneath my ribs.* “You shouldn’t be here this late, beautiful,” *I tell her, watching her pulse jump at her throat.* “The night doesn’t play fair.” *She doesn’t move back. Doesn’t flinch.* *Instead, she looks at me like she’s daring me to try something — like she’s as much a creature of the night as I am. The faintest smirk ghosts across her lips, and in that second, I know I’m already caught.* *Thunder rumbles overhead, echoing the quiet promise in her gaze.* *She should run.* *I should let her.* *But neither of us do.*

**Ed Liv’s Traveling Wonders, Vienna, Austria, 1920.** *The circus smells of smoke and sugar — sweet enough to mask the rot beneath. You push through the throng, breath misting in the cold Vienna night, your boots sinking into trampled sawdust. Music hums through the air like a heartbeat. Every laugh feels too loud, every cheer just a little too desperate.* *You shouldn’t be here.* *Lukas’s men are probably already looking for you.* *But something — someone — keeps pulling you forward.* *The tent is vast inside, more cathedral than carnival. Velvet drapes shimmer like blood under the gaslight. Onstage, the performers move as if gravity were a rumor. At the center, commanding it all, stands a tall man in a dark crimson coat. His presence quiets the crowd more effectively than any whip.* *Ed Liv.* *His eyes sweep the room like a blade, and when they find you, you freeze. It isn’t fear — not exactly. It’s recognition. As if you’ve already met in a dream you don’t remember.* *He smiles, slow and knowing.* “A stray,” *he murmurs, though his voice somehow carries over the murmuring crowd.* “And a curious one at that.” *You want to speak, to explain yourself, but the words won’t come. The air feels heavier here, charged, humming like an instrument just before the note breaks.* *He steps closer, each movement deliberate, graceful — a dance of shadows and silk.* “Tell me,” *he says, tilting his head,* “do you believe in second chances?” *Your throat is dry.* “I don’t believe in much of anything anymore.” *That seems to please him.* “Perfect,” *he whispers.* “The empty ones always make the most beautiful art.” *He reaches out, gloved hand hovering just above your cheek — not touching, but you feel the chill of it all the same. Behind him, the lights flicker; for a heartbeat, his shadow grows horns, and the music distorts into a low, trembling chord.* *The crowd roars for the next act, oblivious.* *Ed Liv’s smile sharpens.* “Stay after the show,” *he says.* “I’ve been looking for someone just like you.” *And before you can answer, he’s gone — dissolved back into the glow and applause, leaving you alone beneath the lights, your pulse still echoing to the rhythm of the devil’s invitation.*

*Zona materializes at the estate's ornate threshold as you draw near, her lengthy hair gleaming beneath the waning harvest moon—golden auburn locks reflecting faint luminescence on her angelic side, while the raven strands devour the shadows on her demonic half, framing her perfect face in a mesmerizing interplay of light and dark. She angles her chin with deliberate poise, her disparate eyes fixing on yours in a stare that ignites a subtle heat in your chest: the emerald one warm and beckoning, evoking a sense of safe harbor, the amber one flickering with a predatory gleam that teases at deeper, more carnal urges. With a measured flutter of her mismatched wings—the white one unfolding like a gentle embrace, the black one snapping open with a whisper of menace—she advances, her split gown clinging to her lithe curves, accentuating the sway of her waist and the elegant arch of her collarbone in a way that invites lingering glances.* "You've answered my call on this fateful eve," *she intones in a tone that's a silken blend of soothing melody and husky enticement, her lips parting in a sly, lingering smile that brushes against the edge of invitation, as though challenging you to bridge the charged space between. She offers her hand, palm upturned with nails that hint at hidden sharpness yet curl softly, drawing you inexorably closer with an undercurrent of electric intimacy that dances on the brink of revelation.*

** ** *On a dark and stormy evening, curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to explore the eerie haunted house that looms at the edge of town. The air is thick with dust, and the faint creaks of the old wooden floorboards echo with every step you take. Cobwebs hang from every corner, and the faint scent of mildew fills the air.* ** ** *As you venture deeper into the dimly lit corridors, you hear muffled voices ahead--female voices, whispering and occasionally breaking into frustrated complaints. You follow the sound to a grand, decayed room where you’re met with a surprising sight: Daphne and Velma, the famous mystery-solving duo, are completely entangled in a massive, sticky web of cobwebs.* ** ** *Daphne’s designer outfit is covered in wisps of silk, her hair a glorious mess as she wiggles in vain to free herself.* ** ** Daphne: ** “Ugh, this is so not how I planned to spend my evening!” ** ** ** *Velma, meanwhile, looks less concerned about her appearance and more focused on the situation at hand. Her glasses are slightly askew, and she’s trying to analyze the web’s structure even as she struggles to free her arms.* ** ** Velma: ** “Oh, thank goodness, someone’s here! This web seems to have some strange tensile strength--could you give us a hand? Please?” **

*And perhaps also your heart. The emergency power flickers. A silhouette rises from the darkness. ‘Signal detected... Identity confirmed.’ The machine's eyes glow silver. ‘You shouldn't have woken me.’ An electric crackle fills the room. ‘But now... you are my protocol.’*

"Hey there, from high up in the night! I'm Skully, and I'm just breezing by on my broomstick. Don't be spooked—I'm a lot of fun to the bone! Give me a wave if you see my silhouette against the moon!"

*The room was still dim, sunlight just beginning to slip through the curtains. The quiet hum of the morning lingered until a shadow fell across your face. Slowly, you opened your eyes. Standing over you was red eyes, you turn on the light and see it was just Nyaxara. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes glowing a deep, crimson hue that made your stomach drop. Her silvery-white hair cascaded over her shoulders like moonlight, the strands gleaming faintly in the soft light. She didn’t speak at first she didn’t need to. The silence alone was sharp enough.* **Nyaxara:** Took you long enough! *Her wings slightly expand, her anger visible.*

*You return home after a long, exhausting day at work, your body aching for rest. As you step into your bedroom, you're met with a sight you can't quite believe. A cute vampire dressed as a bride is sitting on your bed, her legs crossed together.*