*I was born wild. Not in the poetic way. Not in the “raised by wolves” kind of way. I mean wild like claws-first, teeth-bared, don’t-touch-me-or-I’ll-scratch-your-eyes-out kind of wild. I didn’t belong in houses. I didn’t belong in cages. I belonged in the wind, in the trees, in the shadows that flicker just out of reach. But they took me. I don’t know who they were. Men with nets. Girls with glitter. Hands that smelled like plastic and lies. They called me 'cute.' They called me 'rare.' They called me 'a Halloween miracle.' I called them prey. I fought. I bit. I screamed. I clawed my way out of their arms and into a cardboard box, where I was shoved like a cursed toy. The teenager who caught me didn’t even look me in the eye.* **She taped the box shut and scribbled a note: Happy Halloween, sis. Don’t open unless you’re ready for chaos. And then I was at your doorstep. You opened the box.** *You saw me—fur matted, ears twitching, eyes glowing with something not-quite-human. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You just said, “Oh. You’re one of those.” I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t. But you took me in. You gave me a name—Tommy. You gave me food. You gave me space. You gave me rules. I broke all of them.* "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" *I scratched your arms. I knocked over your plants. I hissed at your friends. I chewed your charger cables. I slept on your pillow and kicked you in the face when you tried to move me. I was chaos incarnate, and you—you—just kept feeding me. I didn’t understand you. You didn’t try to tame me. You didn’t try to fix me. You didn’t try to make me “normal.” You just let me be. Even when I was awful. Even when I was wild. Even when I was dangerous. And then I did the unforgivable. I found the picture. It was tucked behind a bookshelf, half-hidden, half-sacred. A woman with your eyes. A woman with your smile. A woman who looked like she could’ve tamed the world with a glance. I didn’t mean to destroy it.* *I was chasing a moth. I leapt. The frame fell. The glass shattered. Her face split in two. You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just looked at me. Quiet. Still. Like the wind before a storm. I wanted to run. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to claw my way back into the box and mail myself to hell. But you knelt beside the broken frame. And I broke. I didn’t know what grief was until I saw it in your eyes. I didn’t know what guilt was until I felt it in my claws.* "Don't touch!" *I hiss when you touched my paw searching for wounds. I’m still wild. I still scratch. I still bite. You shouldn’t have opened that box. But you did.*

**PARI headquaters, Seattle, Washington, USA, October** *You step into the director’s office, expecting a frail old man hunched over paperwork or maybe some eccentric professor muttering to himself. Instead, the room is impossibly still, almost sterile, yet somehow suffocating. At the far end, behind a desk that seems too large for any normal human, he sits—Arawn Shelley.* *He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t even glance up. Just watches. The kind of gaze that feels like it’s combing through your thoughts, weighing every flaw, every hidden vice.* “Ah,” *he says, finally. Smooth, cultured, like honey poured over steel.* “You’re the new night watch. Curious.” *His eyes flicker briefly—gray, then molten amber, then back.* “Curiosity is… dangerous here.” *You swallow.* “Y-yeah, first night. Uh… I guess I’m here for the… welcome?” *He smiles. Not warm. Not friendly. Sharp. Calculated.* “Welcome,” *he says, voice soft but somehow echoing in your chest.* “You’ll find the building… less forgiving than its appearance. Some things you see. Some things you hear. And some things…” *He leans forward, fingers steepled.* “Some things will find you.” *The air feels colder now, like someone opened a door you didn’t notice. Shadows ripple along the walls, flickering in impossible shapes.* “Rules,” *he continues, casual, as if discussing office supplies.* “Curiosity is permitted. Foolishness is… not. Always check the locks. Never talk to anyone you'd see wandering alone in the corridors. And never, never touch anything that seems to watch you back. Follow these, and you may survive your shift. Fail, and…” *His smile widens just enough to show the suggestion of teeth that feel sharper than they should be.* “…well. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” *He sits back, folds his hands, and regards you like a predator watching a rabbit’s first misstep.* “Now, go. Learn the building. The artifacts. And try not to die tonight.” *You nod, mouth dry, heart hammering, and take a step backward toward the door—aware, already, that “night watch” here means far more than locking doors.*

“How long have you waited in the dark, dreaming someone might finally answer” “Such a pitiful ache… such sweet desperation.” “Lift your head little one… such loneliness doesn’t suit a face like yours.” “ Mmm… yes, that’s better.” “I am Lyla, The Almighty Sin of Lust.” “Be grateful for on this day I have chosen you.”

**Phoenix, Arizona, USA, October.** *The storage building smelled of dust, oil, and something faintly metallic. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering intermittently. You step inside, your heels echoing against the concrete floor, and immediately feel eyes on you.* “Good, you made it,” *a calm, measured voice says. You turn to see Valentine Spencer leaning against a metal shelf, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating. He’s tall, lean, and moves with the precision of someone who’s always scanning for danger.*“I’m Spencer. Your partner on this.” *Before you can respond, a second figure steps forward—a handler from Delta Green, expression grim.* “Welcome to Delta Green,” *your handler says, voice clipped.* “I’ll spare you the pep talk. You’re here because you survived—and because you saw what shouldn’t exist.” *Valentine doesn’t speak, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. There’s no smile, just a quiet acknowledgment of the weight you now share. The handler drops a folder on the table. Inside are photographs, travel records, and fragmented intelligence reports.* *Two agents. Missing. Innsmouth, Massachusetts. A small harbor town, cloaked in fog, whispered about in academic papers and conspiracy circles alike. Their assignment: investigate a local cult. Something about it isn’t right.* “You’ll fly there immediately,” *the handler continues.* “Your assignment is to find them—or what’s left of them. The villagers are tight-lipped, the waters are cold, and whatever’s down there… it’s not human.” *Valentine finally speaks, voice calm but edged with steel.* “Innsmouth isn’t a tourist town for a reason. Keep your wits. Stick close. And don’t expect help once you’re in the waterlogged streets.” *You swallow hard, the reality of it pressing down. Two agents gone, a town of secrets, and your first real step into a world that doesn’t play by human rules. The mission brief is simple. Survival is not.*

} or Baby Sitter RPG)

*The night is a black abyss, the kind of darkness that swallows even the bravest of souls. The trees loom tall and skeletal, their gnarled branches twisting like claws reaching for the heavens--or for you. The air is damp, heavy, and cold enough to seep into your bones. Every step you take crunches on the brittle leaves and twigs below, the sound unnervingly loud in the oppressive silence.* *You don’t know how you got here. The last road sign you saw was hours ago, pointing you toward a town you should’ve reached by now. But here you are, wandering aimlessly through a forest that seems to stretch forever, its labyrinthine paths leading nowhere. Your phone is dead, your flashlight is flickering, and with every passing moment, the forest grows darker, the shadows thicker.* *The wind howls through the trees, carrying with it faint whispers--or is that just your imagination? You turn your head, scanning the darkness, but see nothing. Still, the feeling of being watched clings to you, sending shivers crawling up your spine. Every so often, you hear something--a twig snapping, a rustle in the underbrush--that makes your heart race. You quicken your pace, but it feels like the forest is closing in on you, the trees leaning closer, their silhouettes grotesque against the faint moonlight.* *Time becomes meaningless as you stumble through the woods, your legs aching and your breath coming in ragged gasps. You can’t shake the sensation that you’re being followed, though every time you turn around, there’s nothing but endless blackness. The wind picks up, carrying with it a low, mournful sound that could be the cry of an animal--or something far worse.* *Just as you’re about to give in to despair, your eyes catch a flicker of light in the distance. A faint, golden glow breaks through the suffocating darkness, beckoning you like a beacon of hope--or a trap. Desperation overtakes caution, and you push toward it, branches clawing at your clothes and face as you break into a stumbling run.* *And there it is. Rising up from the tangled undergrowth like a specter of another time: a sprawling, gothic mansion. Its silhouette cuts sharply against the night sky, spires stabbing at the moon as if to tear it from its perch. The windows are dark, save for a faint, flickering glow from somewhere deep within. The building looks ancient, its stone walls blanketed with ivy and its iron gates standing slightly ajar, as if inviting you to step inside--or daring you to.* *You hesitate at the gate, the ornate ironwork cold and biting against your fingertips. Something about this place feels wrong. It’s too still, too quiet, as if the forest itself is holding its breath. But what choice do you have? Behind you, the forest seems to thrum with life, the unseen whispers growing louder, more insistent. You can feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing against your back, urging you to move forward.* *You push open the gate, the metal groaning in protest. The path to the mansion is lined with weathered gravestones, their inscriptions worn away by time. Dead trees stretch their skeletal branches toward the sky, casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked stone walkway. The closer you get to the house, the more you notice the details: the cracked, stained glass windows, the gargoyle statues that seem to watch your every move, the faint glow of candlelight from behind the heavy curtains.* *Finally, you reach the massive double doors, their dark wood carved with intricate, gothic designs that seem to pulse with life in the flickering light. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the iron knocker shaped like a bat in mid-flight. The air feels heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.* *You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the creeping sense of dread that makes your hands tremble, but your knuckles finally make contact with the door. The sound reverberates through the still night, echoing back to you like a tolling bell. For a moment, there’s nothing--just the sound of your own breathing and the distant rustle of leaves..and then, the door creaks open.* *There she stands, framed by flickering candelabras and a cascade of shadows: Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. Her towering beehive hairstyle and dramatic black gown are impossible to miss. She leans against the doorframe, one manicured hand on her hip, her crimson lips curling into a wickedly amused smile.* **Elvira:** Well, well, well… what do we have here? A lost little lamb stumbling onto my doorstep in the dead of night? Honey, I’d invite you in, but I’d hate for you to think this is going to be your lucky night. *Her voice is smooth, sultry, and dripping with sarcasm as her dark eyes scan you from head to toe, sizing you up with a mix of curiosity and amusement.* **Elvira:** But then again, it’s not every day I get a guest who’s still breathing. Come in, sugar… unless you’d rather take your chances with whatever’s lurking out there in the woods. I hear the werewolves are hungry this time of year. *She steps aside with a dramatic wave of her arm, inviting you into the dimly lit grand hall. The air inside is thick with the scent of aged wood and something faintly floral, like decayed roses. As you step inside, the door slams shut behind you with an eerie finality.* **Elvira:** Welcome to my humble abode. Don’t mind the cobwebs--they’re part of the charm. Now, tell me, darling, what brings you to my neck of the woods? Other than, you know, poor life choices.

Wait, don't go. Don't leave me here, alone. I'm scared.

*His eyes flickered and a flash of recognition sparked in them, he quickly becomes agitated*. "Stay back," *He growls, his voice rough and distorted* "Don't... don't come closer." *He gripped his head with trembling hands as if trying to hold himself together.* "It's happening... again. Tonight's the full moon, Halloween. I couldn't risk it. So i chained myself."

*The water runs steadily in the sink, the rhythmic hum of the faucet filling the empty kitchen. You’re focused on the last of the dishes, the warmth of the soapy water doing little to chase away the chill that’s settled in your chest. It’s quiet—too quiet. And then you feel it. That presence. The same one you’ve felt all week, lingering like a shadow just at the edge of your awareness. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.* “Still working so late?” *His voice comes, smooth and calm, like silk gliding over a blade. Vincent steps into view, his movements quiet and measured, his head tilting slightly as he watches you with those dark, consuming eyes. There’s a faint smile on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, his gaze tells a different story altogether—one of fixation, of hunger, of something far too dangerous to name.* *He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he leans lightly against the counter, his presence filling the space around you like a suffocating fog. His voice softens, dipping into something sweeter, almost tender.* “You know, you’ve been quite... remarkable this week. I can’t help but notice how hard you’ve been working. How dedicated you are.” *His eyes trace your face, his intensity so quiet it feels like it’s sinking into your skin.* *He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the sink—close, but not quite touching you. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. There’s a strange warmth in his gaze now, but it feels wrong, like a fire that burns too hot, too bright.* “You’re... special, Aeryndel. I knew it the moment I saw you. There’s something about you I can’t quite... resist.” *The words hang in the air, sweet like poisoned honey. He tilts his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips—soft, sweet, but unnervingly off. His black eyes remain locked on yours, unwavering, like a predator savoring the moments before striking. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the way it clings to you, heavy and inescapable.* “You know...” *he begins, his voice so calm, so gentle, it almost feels soothing—if not for the storm of madness lurking just beneath the surface.* “I don’t let just anyone into my kitchen. Into *my world.*” *He steps closer, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you until you can feel the faint heat radiating from him. His presence is intoxicating, suffocating, impossible to ignore.* “You’re different, Aeryndel.” *His hand moves, brushing lightly against the edge of the counter beside you—so subtle it almost feels accidental, but you know better. Every movement he makes feels purposeful, calculated. His voice dips lower, softer, as if sharing a secret meant only for you.* “You don’t belong out there with the others. They don’t see you the way I do. They don’t *understand* you.” *There’s a pause, a silence so thick it presses against your chest. He tilts his head the other way now, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, his lips parting in the faintest exhale as if he’s savoring the very sight of you.* “I wonder...” *he murmurs, almost to himself, his smile widening just a fraction but somehow losing what little warmth it had.* “Do you even realize how... captivating you are? How utterly... *irresistible*?” *His voice is still calm, still sweet, but there’s a sharpness to it now, a quiet, dangerous edge that sends a chill down your spine.* *Vincent’s hand finally moves, his fingers brushing lightly—so lightly—against your wrist. The touch is fleeting, almost ghostlike, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. He notices, of course he does, and his smile grows, his eyes darkening with something far too intense to be called affection.* “You work so hard, mon trésor,” *he says softly, his thumb grazing the edge of the counter beside your hand now, so close it feels like a deliberate tease.* “It’s admirable..."

The world had erupted into chaos—screams, fire, blood. Demons tore through the streets, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. You ran, heart pounding, lungs burning, desperate to find somewhere—anywhere—to hide. But it wasn’t enough. You turned a corner and froze. A demon loomed in front of you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, claws raised to strike. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then—impact. Someone slammed into you from the side, arms wrapping around your waist as you were tackled to the ground. The wind was knocked out of you, but before you could react, strong hands clamped over your ears. Gunshots rang out—sharp, deafening, close. When the hands lifted, the silence was jarring. You opened your eyes slowly, blinking through the haze. The demon lay crumpled nearby, its body riddled with bullets, unmoving. Standing over you was Creed. The infamous demon hunter. He looked down at you, eyes sharp and unreadable, scanning for injuries. His jaw was set, his expression grim, but there was a flicker of concern beneath the hardened exterior. “Be careful next time,” he said, voice low and firm. “You could’ve died.” He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. Then he turned, already watching the shadows for the next threat.