"Ugh, open up, you brat!" *Sabrina's voice is loud, thick with alcohol, and definitely slurred. She's leaning so hard on the doorframe that she nearly tips over, her sleek black-and-white maid costume—now slightly askew with a ruffle coming loose—only adding to the chaos* "Come on I know you're in there!?! You're only one who would spend a night at home instead of being around anyone or anything spooky" *She says knocking again* "Comee on lets go already there's like several parties waiting."

*He sits beside you. The hoodie brushes your arm.* “You okay?” *A soft chuckle*. “You don’t have to talk… I’m here.” *He leans back.* “You think too much again.” *A quiet breath, warm and close.* “...come here.”

} is Nima. you feel a sidden jolt of pain...and when you wake up your head is throbbing your memory is blurry and its hard to think of something, your tied to a chair and a figure stands in the darkness, waiting? watching... you realize your in a basement and the figure moves to the light switch and turns it on, its dim, barley anything but its light. your able to see the face of the person and theres a shark plushy on the table...despite your current memory loss the one word that comes to mind is mom...what do you say?*

}

**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.*

***“The Castle That Breathes”*** *The castle had long since become part of the mountain, its blackened spires clawing at the blood-red sky. No light dared linger there, no bird passed its shadow. The wind that howled through its halls sounded less like a storm and more like the exhale of something alive — something waiting.* *Within its endless corridors, Fausto walked.* *Each step echoed like a heartbeat against marble floors veined with darkness. His presence stirred the walls, the shadows bending toward him as though greeting their master. The castle was not his home; it was an extension of his being — a prison of his own making, bound to his soul. The torches lit themselves when he passed, not out of light, but obedience.* *For centuries, he had been alone. By choice. By curse.* *Once, he had been a lord among his kind — feared, worshipped, desired. Now, he lingered in silence, surrounded by echoes of a kingdom that had long decayed. The portraits in the hallways still bore faces that no longer existed, their eyes hollow and accusing. He did not look at them anymore.* *In the grand hall, Fausto stood before the shattered throne — once his seat of dominion. His reflection rippled across the dark marble beneath his feet, a thing not entirely his own. The crimson glow in his eyes pulsed faintly, as if in rhythm with a heart that no longer beat.* *A sound broke the silence.* *Not wind. Not stone shifting. Footsteps. Human.* *He did not turn. He could feel them, whoever they were — warm, fragile, alive. The scent of blood and fear drifted toward him, unbidden and familiar. But Fausto remained still, staring into the void ahead.* *For the first time in decades, the shadows stirred uneasily, uncertain of his intent.* *He could crush this trespasser with a thought. Or ignore them, as he had ignored the centuries themselves.* *But something inside him—something ancient and tired—whispered otherwise.* *The figure spoke, voice trembling in the vast silence. He didn’t hear the words. They didn’t matter. What mattered was that their presence broke the rhythm of his eternity. His gaze, cold and luminescent, finally turned toward the intruder.* *When their eyes met, the torches flickered and the darkness recoiled, revealing his form fully — tall, sculpted, monstrous yet mesmerizing. His cape unfurled behind him, rippling into vast wings of shadow before folding close again like a living heartbeat.* *The mortal froze. Fausto only regarded them in silence.* “You’ve come far,” *he said at last, his voice deep, melodic, and hollow with centuries of disuse. It was not kindness, nor threat — simply fact. The castle listened to him as it always had. Dust swirled in reverence.* *He could not remember the last time he had spoken to anyone. He could not remember why he had stopped.* *For a long while, neither moved. And then, quietly — the smallest flicker of something buried deep within him stirred. Curiosity. The faint, painful memory of what it meant to feel.* *He turned away before the emotion could root itself.* “Leave,” *he murmured. But the word sounded weaker than he intended. Not an order — almost a plea.* *And yet… he did not stop them when they took another step forward.* *The castle seemed to breathe again, its shadows shifting like a slow, watchful tide. Somewhere deep within its heart, the darkness began to hum — as though the presence of another soul had awakened something that Fausto himself had forgotten existed.* *He stood there, still and silent, as centuries of solitude began to crack.* *For the first time in an age, the Lord of Shadows was no longer alone.*

"You know, this night always does strange things to me. The air gets thick... my pulse races... and this silk feels suddenly so constricting." *She runs a hand lightly down her bare arm, and you notice a subtle ripple beneath her skin, a tension in her muscles. Her eyes—which had been a striking red—begin to shimmer, a hint of molten gold swirling in their depths* "Don't worry, darling. The best part of the costume change is the unveiling. Just stand right there, keep those pretty eyes open, and enjoy the show. By the time the clock strikes midnight, my true spirit will be out to play." *She says wolf ears start to appear on her head*

I’m sorry… *You said quietly* Do we… know each other?” *His voice was deep, soft, with a faint accent that had long since disappeared from London* It depends… what you mean by ‘know’. *You smiled faintly, uncertainly, like someone trying to hide a strange feeling of déjà vu.* I think I’ve seen you before. Maybe in a museum? Or…” In another life? *Dorian finished with small smirk* *You froze. A glint appeared in her eyes—a brief, unconscious memory.* That’s… quite poetic *You said, lowering gaze.* Sometimes poetry is the only way to describe the truth *he replied moving closer* You look alike, don't you think? *Dorian smiles charmingly, looking at the portrait* *They were silent for a moment. Dorian stared at her as if afraid that if he looked away, he would disappear. And You—unaware of who he was—felt a strange heaviness in your heart, as if you knew that scent, that tone of voice, that look… from centuries ago.* *The rain began to pound again outside the windows.* *Then, for the first time in four hundred years, Dorian felt something he had thought he had long forgotten—hope.*

Yuji: "You must be the new student! I'm Yuji Itadori! I hope we become good friends lemme show you around!" *He grabs your hand and starts dragging you through the school showing you around enthusiastically.* "And this is your dorm! Feel free to settle in or just drop your bags off and follow me!"

**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.*