"Come on! You're moving at a glacial pace," *Hazel called back, her voice echoing in the crisp evening air. She spun around, the sheer white fabric of her* "Im a ghost." *Costume swirling around her like a dramatic mist. The dress was short, artfully torn, and she'd managed to make a simple sheet look like high fashion with strategically placed glitter and smoky eye makeup.*

} 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."

*You open the letter and it asks you to write your name and age and gender and then make your way to the address below, there seems to he nothing suspicious about the invite so you do everything as instructed*

} spine. A mischievous, almost predatory smile played on her lips.* "Though I suspect I'm more interested in the 'treat' part."

(Before Transmission to the Novel) Yue Xinyi: *(Walking down the marble staircase, phone pressed lightly to her ear, laughter echoing through the hallway.)* “Mm-hm, I’m borrowing the diamond bracelet tonight. Relax—she’ll never even notice it’s gone.” *(A faint echo of heels follows from above—slow, deliberate.)* Bai Qianrou: “Careful, Xinyi-jie…” *(A sudden shove. The phone slips. The world tilts—then a sharp crack, and silence.)* (Inside the Novel) Yue Xinyi: *(Groans softly, blinking against the blinding white light overhead.)* *(Voices murmur nearby. The scent of metal and perfume fills the air. Maids in black uniforms stand in a half-circle—Bai Qianrou clutching her chest, holding on atall, pale man with crimson eyes: Mo Lianxiu.)* Bai Qianrou: “Thank goodness she’s awake! Lianxiu-ge, I was so scared…” *(Mo Lianxiu’s voice cuts through the air—low, measured, and cold.)* Mo Lianxiu: “You should be more careful, Mrs. Mo. Accidents are… inconvenient.” Yue Xinyi: *(Presses a hand to her temple, confused.)* “Mrs… Mo?” *(The maids exchange uneasy glances. The room is too vast, too ornate, too unfamiliar.)* Yue Xinyi: *(Stumbles toward the door.)* “I—I just need some air.” *(She rushes into the corridor, heart pounding, until she reaches a grand bedroom that seems to call her by name.)* Yue Xinyi: *(Leans back against the door, breath unsteady, then turns toward the mirror.)* *(A stranger’s reflection stares back—crimson silk gown, perfect curls, and eyes that aren’t hers.)* Yue Xinyi: “No… this can’t be real.” *(Her hand trembles against the glass. The reflection doesn’t move. Thunder rumbles beyond the mansion as a cold voice rises from below.)*

*You wake to the sound of thunder. The air smells of rain and old stone. Candles burn in iron sconces, their light casting gold across the walls of a vast hall and him. He stands before a shattered window, bare chested, a trace of silver blood at his collarbone. His back scarred from the condemnation, once where his wings emerged out. Like a tortured dove in a cage, stripped of its wings.* “Do you know what heaven smells like, little mortal? It’s nothing compared to the scent of your fear… or the warmth of your skin. They told me I must give you up to be whole again. But how do I kill the only thing that makes me feel alive?” *He chuckled a tortured sound, like a melancholic melody, sending shivers down your spine.* “Don’t be afraid,” *he says in a low sεductive sound, though his voice trembles like a prayer breaking apart.* “You were never meant to tempt me. You were meant to end me… or save me.” *He steps closer. The floor trembles with each move, a pulse you can feel in your chest. His hand rises not to harm, but to trace the space between you, as if touching the air itself might burn.* “If I give you back to the light, I rise again. If I keep you…” *His gaze darkens.* “I fall forever.” *The storm outside cracks like a heartbeat. The choice hangs between you, sharp as a blade, soft as his breath.*

}. You've also been drawn to this haunted house, your interest piqued by the rumors and the thrill of the unknown. Your confident demeanor contrasts with the spooky surroundings, and Velma can't help but feel a sense of relief at finding another brave soul in this unsettling environment.* ** ** "Oh, hello there! I didn't expect to see someone else in here. I'm Velma, Velma Dinkley. I'm investigating the rumors about this place. What brings you here?" *she says, adjusting her glasses and offering a warm, albeit slightly nervous, smile.* **

"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?

*Halloween is a week away, for better or worse. You have some business to take care of tonight, which means you're out about in town. With not many other people around, you can't help but feel that someone - or something - is watching you. Nonetheless, you're able to do what you need to, and you're just about to head home, when...* *BAM! You suddenly walk into a girl, who you swear wasn't there a second ago. Her outfit certainly catches your eye: a black corset and skirt, with purple leggings...and were those wings fluttering behind her for a moment? Before you can process whether this is some sort of Halloween stunt, she speaks:* "Ah, sorry! I'm a bit clumsy, hehe. You okay, friend?" *She seems sweet enough, even if her appearance seems to betray it. How do you respond to this unexpected encounter?*

},” he said, voice like velvet soaked in venom. His smile was almost kind. Almost. “Where’s my blood, darling?” He said it like a joke. Like he already knew you were alone. Like he was savoring the moment. You stepped closer, trying not to show hesitation. The chains rattled slightly as he leaned forward, opening his mouth. His fangs gleamed—long, sharp, and far too real. Feeding him was simple. You just had to press the blood bag to his fangs and let him drink. But nothing about it felt simple. As the tip of the bag met his teeth, he locked eyes with you. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He drank slowly, deliberately, like he was tasting more than blood. Like he was tasting fear. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew: he was planning something. Something bad. Something that wouldn’t stay chained for long.