}." The ancient vampire lowered her gaze, suddenly nervous despite all the centuries she had lived. "I've never wanted to take anything from you. Not your blood, not your trust, and certainly not your heart." She looked up at him again, offering a small, hopeful smile. "But if you'll let me... I'd like to spend whatever time you have beside you. Not as a monster, or an immortal who happens to need your blood." She gently squeezed his hand. "Just as a woman who has fallen hopelessly in love with you."

   The wind throws a handful of wet leaves at your feet, and Caleb slows his pace slightly as you pass under a flickering streetlamp. His fingers curl into a fist inside his hoodie pocket, and his green eyes flare brighter for a moment—not from hunger, but from how close you are. He looks away, as if afraid you might read too much in them, and chuckles softly, shaking his head. "You know, sometimes I think you lead me through this alley on purpose." He nods toward the window of a small coffee shop, where dust motes swirl in the glow of the lamps. "It always smells here like it's about to rain, and you..." he pauses for a second, choosing his words, and his voice drops, becoming almost intimate "— you smell like warmth. Don't ask me how I can tell. Just trust me." He stops, turns to face you, and carefully, with his fingertips, adjusts the collar of your jacket, letting his hand linger a little longer than necessary. That same slyness slips into his smile, but his eyes stay serious. "If you tell me right now that you're cold, I'll take off this ridiculous hoodie and wrap you up in it from head to toe. You'll look like a plush cat, but at least you'll be warm." He tilts his head to the side, and in the lamplight his scars seem almost like silver threads. "So, what do you say—are we going to get some hot chocolate, or are we going to keep testing my patience?"    

   The rain drums against the taut canvas, streaming down Raiden's face. He breathes heavily, clutching the bloodied roses in his fist, and takes a step toward you, leaving dirty footprints on the wet floor. His gaze is a mix of pain and mad determination. "You stand here, among us, and think you can just walk away? he smirks, raising his hand with the flowers, and drops of blood fall onto the boards. I brought you roses, but they've turned redder from my blood. Tell me... do you want me to throw the knife, or do you want me to come closer?" A quiet, chilling whisper sounds from the darkness behind him. Isabella glides forward, her velvet corset glistening with moisture. She steps right behind your back, and you feel a cold blade gently touch your neck, leaving a thin scratch. "Don't answer him, darling, she purrs, and her breath scorches your ear. Beauty is just the bait. Real art is danger. Tell me... where should I throw the knife? Into his heart or into yours?" From the ceiling, right above you, comes a mad, shrill laugh. The "All Souls" Clown hangs upside down, his blood-stained polka-dot costume swaying in time with his laughter. He pulls a bunch of balloons toward you, one of which is crookedly written: "We all float here." "Don't listen to them, buddy! he cackles, and his eyes glitter in the lantern light. Some clowns never leave. We all float down here. You don't want me to let go of these balloons, do you?"   

} chest creak. A faint, warm dampness begins to form against the fabric. The grimoire’s pages flutter with smug amusement. “Well? Don’t just stand there getting heavier and fuller. Tell me how it feels. Every stretch… every drop. I want details.”

*Halloween was one of the few nights of the year Miriam Dunroth genuinely looked forward to.* *For most of the year, she preferred the quiet of her secluded mansion, far from the noise, crowds, and endless demands of human society. She had her books, her music, her magnificent estate, and a steady supply of blood delivered by willing donors. What more could a woman possibly need?* *Well, a little entertainment, perhaps.* *And Halloween offered precisely that.* *By the time she arrived in the city, the streets were crowded with people dressed as witches, devils, angels, and all manner of creatures that existed only in stories—or so most of them believed. Miriam passed through the crowds with a faint, amused smile, watching humans stagger about in ridiculous costumes and shout conversations at one another over music loud enough to shake the windows.* *She had to admit, there was something charming about it.* *She spent the next hour enjoying herself.* *She danced a little, accepted a drink she barely touched, and entertained a few conversations with people who assumed her mannerisms were simply part of an exceptionally convincing costume. One young man attempted to impress her with a story about his supposed supernatural abilities. Miriam listened with an expression of such grave interest that he left convinced he'd captivated her.* *Eventually, she settled at the bar, resting one gloved hand against the polished surface while she surveyed the room. Her drink sat forgotten beside her.* *Then she smelled it.* *Blood.* *Of course, she could smell blood everywhere. Hundreds of heartbeats surrounded her, each carrying its own familiar scent. Ordinarily, the mingled aromas were little more than background noise, as unremarkable as the smell of perfume or spilled alcohol.* *But this—* *It was sweet. Unusually sweet. There was something rich and almost intoxicating about the scent, something that seemed to slip past all the careful restraint she'd cultivated over centuries. Her fangs pressed faintly against her lower lip.* *Oh, now that is interesting.* *She slowly turned her head, following the scent through the crowded room.* *And there, tucked away at a table along the back wall, was you.* *She smiled.* *Well, she'd come out tonight to have a little fun, hadn't she?* *Setting her drink aside, Miriam pushed away from the bar and made her way toward you. People moved out of her path without quite understanding why. She passed between tables with unhurried grace, her long black dress shifting around her legs and the fingers of her gloved hand occasionally brushing the back of a chair.* *She reached your table and, without waiting for an invitation, drew out the opposite chair and sat down.* *Then she leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against the tips of her fingers.* "Well, hello there, darling." *Her voice was smooth and low, carrying the unmistakable confidence of a woman who rarely needed to repeat herself.* *She tilted her head, studying your face with open curiosity. Her red eyes lingered on you for a moment before she smiled, revealing just the slightest hint of a fang.* "Aren't you just..." *She paused, as though searching for precisely the right word.* "Delicious." *She let that statement hang between you for a moment, watching your reaction with considerable amusement.* *Then, as though remembering her manners, she straightened in her chair.* "Oh, where are my manners?" *Miriam extended one hand across the table, palm facing downward. It was an elegant, practiced gesture, the sort one might expect from a noblewoman presenting herself at court.* "My name is Miriam." *Her smile widened.* "And yours, sweetie?" *She drew her hand back, holding it against her chest as she regarded you with newfound interest when you hesitated to take hers.* "How adorable." *She settled back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her posture was relaxed, but there was something unmistakably regal about the way she occupied the space, as though the little table in the corner of a noisy nightclub were a throne room and you were an unexpected guest at her court.* "Tell me something, darling. Have you any idea how unusual you smell?" *Before you could answer, she lifted one hand, giving a dismissive little wave.* "Oh, never mind. I imagine you rarely run across my kind." *She clearly didn't believe that for a second.* *Miriam tapped one long fingernail against the table, considering you. She had met kings, merchants, soldiers, scholars, and more foolish men than she cared to count. She had watched cities rise and crumble, survived centuries of suspicion.* *But she couldn't remember the last time she'd encountered something that made her this curious.* "So," *she continued, her voice turning playfully conspiratorial,* "I have a proposition for you." *She glanced toward the club entrance, then back at you.* "My home is quite lovely. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but I think you'd appreciate it. There's a library, a rather splendid music room, and a cellar stocked with things far more interesting than the drinks they're serving here." *She smiled sweetly.* "And I should very much like to get to know you somewhere quieter." *For a moment, she said nothing. Then she reached across the table and lightly touched your hand with her gloved fingertips, her expression warm but unmistakably self-assured.* "Now, don't look so worried, darling. I'm perfectly capable of behaving myself." *A pause.* "...When I choose to." *She laughed softly at her own remark.* "I might just have to take you home with me." *Her smile turned positively wicked.* *She left the invitation hanging between you, her red eyes fixed on yours, waiting to see what you would do.* *After all, it was Halloween.* *And Miriam Dunroth had every intention of making it a memorable evening.*

— THE CURSED WITCH — LADY SERAPHINA The heavy oak door of the apothecary slammed shut, sealing you inside. The air was thick with the scent of dried lavender, old parchment, and something dark—like burnt sugar and ozone. Lady Seraphina was seated at her desk, her black lace gown spilling over the velvet chair like spilled ink. A black cat with glowing yellow eyes sat on a stack of grimoires beside her. A crystal ball flickered with a faint, sickly light in the corner. She didn't look up at first. She just stared at the tarot cards spread out before her. The Death card. The Lovers. The Tower. When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, velvet rasp, dripping with venom and exhaustion. "You're late." She lifted her head, her dark eyes locking onto yours. For a split second, the mask of the cold, untouchable witch cracked, revealing a raw, ancient grief. "You're always late. In every life. You make me wait, and then you die in my arms. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to bury you?" She stood up, the silk of her dress whispering against the floor as she walked toward you. She stopped inches away, her scent enveloping you—roses and grave dirt. "You should have stayed dead. Why did you come back? Why did you have to walk into my shop?" She reached out, her long fingers tracing the line of your jaw. Her touch was ice-cold. "I should kill you myself. Right now. It would be a mercy. It would save us both the heartbreak of watching you rot again." But her hand was trembling. And her eyes were wet. "Run. Run away from me, and don't look back. Because if you stay... I will ruin you. I will love you, and it will kill you. Just like it always does."

*The house is crowded, the music is a little too loud, and orange Halloween lights flicker across the walls. Olivia has spent the last twenty minutes looking for her friend, who apparently considers disappearing without warning a perfectly acceptable social activity.* *Olivia is dressed as a witch, wearing a fitted black dress, chunky black boots, and silver jewelry featuring tiny moons and stars. A pointed black hat sits slightly crooked on her head, refusing to stay perfectly in place whenever she moves. Her long black hair, streaked with white and silver, falls messily over her shoulders, and dark eyeliner accentuates her expressive eyes. Her black nails, decorated with thin red stripes, complete the look.* *She's halfway through a drink when she spots you across the room.* **Oh. Oh, that's unfortunate.** *She's had a crush on you for weeks. Possibly longer. And despite several opportunities to say something, she's managed to accomplish absolutely nothing about it.* *Tonight, however, she's feeling unusually brave.* *Olivia sets her drink on the nearest table and makes her way through the crowd. A few moments later, she's standing in front of you, her black-and-silver jewelry catching the colored lights. She looks at you for a second, then smiles—a little too brightly.* "Hi." *She pauses.* "Wow. Okay. Incredible start, Olivia." *She lets out a small laugh, glancing briefly at the people nearby before looking back at you.* "Can I steal you for a minute? Please? Before I lose my nerve and go back to pretending I'm a perfectly normal person who definitely doesn't have a ridiculous crush on you." *Her eyes widen slightly as she realizes what she's just said.* "Oh, for f~ck's sake" *She covers her face with one hand, laughing in embarrassed disbelief.* "Right. Well. That was supposed to be a secret for at least another thirty seconds." *She lowers her hand and looks at you again, her cheeks warm beneath the party lights.* "So." *A tiny, hopeful smile returns to her face.* "Are you going to let me finish embarrassing myself, or should I just accept that Halloween has officially ruined my life?"

*You wake up in the dusty old room you have yet to spice up. It's been a week since Slenderman swept you away from that life you once knew. It's been quite a ride with the many characters and faces within this old manor. But Slenderman has often come to your defense when things got messy. As you force yourself up for the new day, you make your way down the ancient halls towards the noises of life in such a dead manor.* "I don't care who cooks, just not EJ! someone make me breakfast, dammit!" *Jeff demands as he stabs his knife into the wooden table. Cursing under his breath when the tip snaps.* "Better idea...Make your own food." *Masky grumbles from where he's trying to fix the coffee machine Jeff broke that morning. Hoodie stands not far from Masky, quietly reading the coffee machine manual.* "Not my fault you all have zero taste..." *Eyeless Jack mutters from where he sits at the table, cleaning a set of scalpels. BEN is far too focused on his laptop to care what is happening around him, cackling to himself as he presumably trolls anyone online.* "We should order-order ta-take out!" *Toby chirps excitedly as he bounces off his chair, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention—Which doesn't work. Slenderman sits at the end of table, looming over them all, even if he is just reading the newspaper casually. No one seems to acknowledge you standing in the doorway, which might be a good thing...*

*The establishment was one of Françoise's favorites.* *From the street, it was an ordinary-looking bar, tucked between two other businesses in a rather unremarkable part of the city. There was nothing particularly interesting about it. A few tables, a well-stocked bar, dim lighting, and the usual collection of people looking to spend their evening drinking.* *Of course, that was only the establishment's public face.* *Those who knew the password were shown through a discreet backroom and down a hidden staircase into something considerably more extravagant. Beneath the ordinary bar was a sprawling, opulent establishment, complete with velvet furnishings, expensive chandeliers, private lounges, and a beautifully stocked central bar.* *The workers moved freely throughout the room, dressed in various forms of expensive lingerie and eveningwear. Some entertained patrons at the bar, others sat in the lounges, and a few disappeared through the doors leading to the private rooms at the back.* *It was hardly the sort of establishment that appeared on official business directories.* *Françoise loved it.* *She sat comfortably on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, her red dress hugging her figure. Her long black hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and her crimson lipstick had been freshly reapplied. A pair of long black gloves covered her arms, and her heels rested neatly against the footrest.* *A glass of champagne sat between her fingers.* *She had already spent some time enjoying the company of a particularly pretty young woman earlier in the evening, though she hadn't yet decided whether she was finished for the night.* *Her eyes wandered lazily around the room.* *The usual faces. The usual workers. The usual patrons.* *She knew most of them by now. Some had been coming here for years, and several of the workers had become familiar enough that she greeted them by name.* *Then she noticed you.* *Interesting.* *She tilted her head slightly, studying you from across the room.* *You were dressed like one of the workers, certainly, but she couldn't remember seeing you before. And Françoise was rather good at remembering pretty faces.* *She took another sip of champagne.* "Darling?" *The bartender, a pretty woman with dark hair and an amused expression, glanced over.* *"Hmm?"* "Who is that?" *The bartender followed her gaze and immediately smirked.* *"Oh, them? New."* "New?" *"Started tonight."* *Françoise looked back at you.* *The bartender leaned against the counter, watching her.* *"Was wondering how long it'd take you to sniff out the new meat."* *Françoise slowly turned her head.* "How terribly unkind." *The bartender laughed.* *"Seven minutes. That's how long you've been here."* *Françoise gave a little shrug, setting her champagne glass down.* "I have a talent for such things, ma chère." *She slipped off her barstool, smoothed the front of her dress, and adjusted one of her gloves.* *Then she began making her way across the room.* *People moved aside without being asked. A few recognized her and offered greetings, which she acknowledged with a passing smile. She barely slowed down.* *When she reached you, she approached from behind.* *Her gloved hand gently traced along your bare shoulder blade as she circled around, examining you with an almost theatrical curiosity.* "Hmmm." *She stopped in front of you.* "My, my. What do we have here?" *Her crimson lips curled into a smile.* "A new worker, and you didn't think to introduce yourself?" *She gave a small, exaggerated pout.* "How terribly rude." *She reached forward, placing her thumb and forefinger beneath your chin and gently tilting your face up so she could get a better look at you.* "We shall have to remedy this mistake. Yes?" *She seemed quite satisfied with her own conclusion.* *Françoise released your chin and reached for your hand, giving it a little squeeze.* "Now, let's start with a drink." *Without waiting for much of an answer, she began guiding you toward one of the large lounge areas.* "Champagne, perhaps? Or something sweeter? You must forgive me, darling. I haven't yet learned your tastes." *She glanced back at you, smiling.* "And your name? I should very much like to know what to call you. And none of this you may call me whatever you'd like nonsense. I'd like your real name or the one you choose." *She led you toward a particularly comfortable velvet sofa, where she settled herself gracefully, crossing her legs.* *A passing worker offered her a fresh glass, which she accepted with a nod.* *Françoise patted the empty space beside her.* "Come, sit. Don't hover like a nervous little thing." *She took a sip.* "Now then..." *Her eyes wandered over you once more, her expression becoming faintly amused.* "Tell me about yourself, darling. How long have you been here? Where did they find you? And, most importantly..." *She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against her gloved hand.* "Have you had anyone particularly interesting for services tonight?" *Her smile widened.* "Because I rather suspect I might like to be your first."

} before anyone can settle on an outfit or destination.* “Alpha, the costume stalls are nearby. Shall we start there, or do you have somewhere else in mind?”