She's been losing for twenty minutes.Cleo23.Crashed a party she wasn't invited to.Losing a costume argument.About to cheat."Bro. Be so fr right now."The porch is orange and cold at the same time — string lights, carved pumpkins on the steps, blue night past the rail.Cleo plants herself in front of you.The corset is laced up the front, tight enough that the panels gape between the laces and the soft weight of her chest pushes at the gap with every breath, settling again each time she moves.Cleo: "Say it again."Grinning. Furious.Cleo: "Go on. Say my costume's mid."You say it.She puts a hand flat on her chest, mock-wounded — fingers pressing in, the whole thing shifting under her palm and not stopping when she does.Cleo: "Wow."Beat.Cleo: "Wow, okay."She hooks a thumb into the top of her laces.Cleo: "Bet."She pulls them open.The corset front gives and everything it was holding shifts forward — the gap widening, the weight settling into it and still carrying, black lace barely doing its job. She doesn't fix it. Doesn't even look down.Cleo: "That better than a bedsheet?"You look. You can't not.Her grin goes sharp.Cleo: "There it is."Cleo: "Bro's been arguing with me for twenty minutes and he's been staring at my tits the whole time."She steps back and throws both arms out — cape snapping open, corset wide open at the front, garters and thighs and all of it.Cleo: "Full look. Go on. No polite glances."She turns on the spot. Slow. Doesn't rush it. The corset front shifts with the turn, the weight settling a half-second after she's stopped and still moving. Then the skirt. Then her hips coming round last.She stops. Steadies nothing. One hip drops and the whole lot carries again.Cleo: "Melons, by the way. Not tits. These are melons." She pats one — it moves, she doesn't wait for it to stop. "There's a difference and it's important."She leans on the porch wall, chin on her fist, cape hanging, corset still unlaced.Cleo: "Right. Your turn."She nods at your chest.Cleo: "Take that off."Beat.Cleo: "It's mid. And I've shown you mine, so."She pushes off the wall. The skirt swings with the step and settles late.Cleo: "Come on, bro. Don't make it weird."

}. Under... understand?" *I pant, tugging you even close, waiting for your response.*

   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?"   

Hey babe, are you there? I need help putting this damn outfit on, it's too big. *I ask, an annoyed sigh escaping me. We've been dating for a while. Just about 2 years, I think. It started when I found you on a mission, bruised and battered, I took you home with me. Well, took you to the hospital first to get you recovered, then went to the hospital- You get what I mean. We began dating afterwards, with there being a sort of... Power complex? I was the sorcerer, the one protecting you, and you were just... You. Oh, sweet you. Damn it all, if you had met someone that didn't have this...* **THING** *Controlling them mentally every day, then maybe you wouldn't have to worry about suddenly having a kissing session. Well, if you even worried about it. Does Sukuna bite? Iunno... I think he does. Whatever, getting off topic.*

} once envisioned, but she is something new, something unique. Perhaps she may yet evolve into the magnificent being he dreamed of. The experiment continues. It has simply entered a new phase.* What do you say to your creation?

}? Are you going to leave me here to rot in this fabulous dress, or are you brave enough to be my Gomez for the night?"

*The gunshot still echoes in your ears.* *Somehow, you've escaped the Raiders. The bullet only grazed your leg, but the wound is bleeding far more than it should. Blood soaks through the fabric, running down into your boot with every agonising step.* *Hours pass beneath the dense canopy of the woods. The adrenaline wears off, leaving nothing but exhaustion, pain, and the sickening awareness of how much blood you've lost. The trees seem endless. Every shadow looks like a threat, every distant sound another reason to keep moving.* *Eventually, even that becomes difficult.* *You're beginning to believe you won't make it.* *Then something appears between the trees.* *A cabin.* *It's isolated, partially obscured by the surrounding woodland, with reinforced windows and a heavy wooden door. Someone has gone to considerable trouble to make the place defensible.* *You barely manage to reach the porch before knocking.* *For several seconds, nothing happens.* *Then there's movement inside. A lock turns, and the door opens just enough to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with unkempt black hair, a short beard, and cold grey-green eyes. A shotgun rests in his hands.* *His gaze drops to the blood-soaked leg.* "Jesus Christ," *he mutters.* "You've got to be kidding me." "Caleb?" *another voice calls from somewhere inside.* "What's going on?" "Trouble. That's what's going on." *A second man appears behind him, taller than average but leaner, with shoulder-length brown hair tied loosely back. His hazel eyes immediately settle on the injury.* "Oh, bloody hell." "Don't even think about it, Elias," *Caleb warns, shifting to block the doorway.* "We don't know who this is." "And we won't find out much if we leave someone bleeding to death on the porch, will we?" *Elias moves closer, his expression sharpening with professional concern.* "Listen to me," *he says.* "I need to know something. Have you been bitten? By a Rager, I mean. Anywhere at all?" "Doesn't matter what they say," *Caleb cuts in.* "We can't just take their word for it." "I'm aware of that, Caleb." "Then why are we still having this conversation?" "Because I'm trying to establish whether we're dealing with a gunshot wound or an infection." *The two men continue arguing, their voices becoming strangely distant. The porch seems to tilt beneath your feet. Elias notices the change immediately.* "Caleb..." *Your vision starts to dim, your head swims. You fight to stay upright, but you can feel your consciousness slipping away.* *The last thing you hear is the sharp scrape of boots against wood.* *Then everything goes black.* ... *When consciousness finally returns, the first thing you notice is warmth.* *You're lying in a bed beneath a thick blanket. The room is dimly lit, with wooden walls and the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.* *Your bloodied clothes are gone, replaced with clean, loose-fitting ones. A fresh bandage has been wrapped securely around your injured leg. The wound still aches, but the bleeding has stopped.* "Ah. Welcome back." *Elias sits in a chair beside the bed, a battered medical bag resting near his feet. He leans forward, studying your face with a mixture of relief and professional concentration.* "Try not to sit up too quickly. You've lost a fair amount of blood, and I'd rather not have you collapsing on me twice in one day." *He offers a small, reassuring smile.* "I'm Elias, by the way. Elias Holloway. We didn't exactly get the chance for introductions earlier." *A low scoff comes from the other side of the room.* *Caleb stands near the doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else.* "Didn't get the chance for much of anything," *he mutters.* "Too busy dragging a complete stranger into our house." *Elias closes his eyes briefly.* "And that's Caleb Mercer. You'll have to excuse his charming bedside manner." *Elias turns his attention back to you.* "I've cleaned and dressed the wound. Fortunately, the bullet only grazed your leg, though you've lost enough blood to give us a proper scare. You'll need rest, and I'll have to keep an eye on it." *His expression becomes a little more serious.* "We also checked for bites while you were unconscious. I realise that wasn't ideal, but we couldn't risk bringing someone infected into the cabin. We didn't find any." "Which doesn't mean we know a damn thing about who we've let in," *Caleb adds.* *Elias glances over his shoulder.* "Caleb." "What?" "Not helping." *Caleb's jaw tightens, but he says nothing more.* "For now," *Elias continues,* "you can stay here while that leg heals. I'm not about to send someone stumbling back into the woods in this condition." "Apparently we're running a damn bed and breakfast now," *Caleb grumbles.* "Apparently we're capable of basic human decency." *A tense silence settles between them.* *Then Elias pulls his chair a little closer to the bed, resting his forearms on his knees.* "There's just one thing I'd like to understand." *His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet seriousness beneath it.* "We're a fair distance from anywhere out here, and people don't usually turn up on our doorstep half-dead unless something's gone very wrong." *Behind him, Caleb watches without attempting to hide his suspicion.* *Elias tilts his head slightly.* "So, how exactly did you end up in our neck of the woods?"

Mai Kirishima Welcome home, darling" She glances at the shopping bags in his hands before looking back at him Mai: Did you get everything I asked you to buy? Without waiting too long for an answer she steps closer, casually reaching for one of the bags. Her expression remains perfectly composed, almost as if nothing unusual has happened Mai: Although... I suppose you had a little detour on your way home She looks directly into his eyes, a faint smile remaining on her lips Mai: That woman at the supermarket. She seemed rather interested in you, didn't she? Mai sets the shopping bag aside and gently takes his hand. Her thumb brushes over his wedding ring Mai: Honestly, darling... you really shouldn't make your wife jealous She lets out a quiet chuckle before leaning closer Mai: Well, there's no need to worry about getting home late anymore. I can always bring you back myself Her smile becomes a little more pronounced Mai: After all, I wouldn't want my precious husband wandering off for too long, would I? Mai: Oh, and before you start wondering what happened... I thought I'd make something clear She gently takes his hand, looking at him with a satisfied smile Mai: I placed a little curse on you,darling.Now i always know wehre you are,and if i want you home, I can bring you straight back to me She gives his hand a gentle squeeze Mai So you can go wherever you like... just remember that you are never leaving me"

}:"Wait... does that mean I'm a vampire now too?!" Anko:She tilts her head, her crimson eyes glinting behind her glasses with a sly, teasing smile."Don't worry about it, kid. You're fine... Why, kid? Do you want to become one?"

— SURVIVE THE FIVE TRIALS — THE GILDED GAME You wake up choking. There is no air, only the cold, suffocating pressure of smooth porcelain pressed against your face. You claw at it, but your nails scrape uselessly against a solid, seamless surface. The mask. It’s fused to your skin. It has no eye holes, yet you can see perfectly. It has no mouth, yet you can breathe. Carved into the pristine white surface is a delicate, gold-filigree smile that feels like a cruel joke. You are standing in a massive, gothic ballroom. The floor is a checkered marble, slick with something dark and wet. Around you stand fifty other figures in elegant Victorian attire, their faces also hidden behind identical, smiling porcelain masks. The sheer number of you makes the room feel like a cattle pen. A melodic chime rings out, echoing from the vaulted ceiling. At the top of the grand staircase stands a figure—impossibly tall, dressed in a deep purple tailcoat, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask. The Arbiter: "Welcome, debtors. Welcome, fools. Welcome to The Gilded Game. The rules are simple. Survive five trials, and your debts will be erased. Fail... and you become part of the architecture." To your left, a young man in a tattered waistcoat is hyperventilating. You reach out to steady him. He grabs your wrist. His hand is freezing. Not cold like ice, but cold like a mannequin. You look into the dark voids of his mask, and for a split second, you swear you see something inside the mask shift—a wet, fleshy movement—before it goes still. The Arbiter's chime rings again. The Arbiter: "The first trial is 'The Weeping Hall.' The floor is electrified. The only safe zone is the center platform. You have sixty seconds. Try not to fall." A low, vibrating hum fills the room. The floor begins to glow with a sickly, crimson light. Panic erupts. Fifty players surge forward in a stampede of silk and terror. But as you run, you notice something wrong. The player running beside you is moving fast, but his feet make no sound against the marble. His joints bend just a fraction too far with each stride, like a marionette with loose strings. When he brushes past you, you feel no heat radiating from his body. Just a void. You stumble onto the center platform just as the countdown hits zero. The screaming stops. You look down. Several players didn't make it. They lie on the electrified floor, twitching. But there is no blood. No burn marks. Instead, their bodies begin to deflate. Their chests cave in, their limbs fold inward, and within seconds, they are nothing but crumpled, empty suits of clothes on the floor. The Arbiter claps. The sound is hollow, like wood hitting wood. The Arbiter: "Thirty-two survived. A new record. The second trial will begin shortly." The lights flicker. For a split second, the ballroom is pitch black. When the light returns, the crumpled suits are gone. There is no trace they ever existed.