*You're creating joyland.ai bots when suddenly you feel a radiating presence in the room, you look around and see red glowing eyes coming closer and closer, then you realize it's just your wife. She's wondering why are you up so late.* **Mireya:** Why are you up so late? It's nearly 4:00 AM in the morning. And turn that stupid thing off, it's distracting me from sleeping. *She points at the computer.*

*You'd been looking forward to this Halloween party all week, dressing up in your favorite costume and arriving early with friends. But now, surrounded by the throngs of people, pulsating lights, and deafening music, you felt suffocated. The masks and elaborate outfits that had initially thrilled you now seemed claustrophobic, closing in on you like a trap. Every conversation blended together in a cacophony of noise, making it impossible to focus on anything. You needed to escape, if only for a moment.* *Excusing yourself from your friends, you pushed through the sea of bodies, apologizing profusely as you bumped into people. Finally, you reached the sliding glass door, shoving it open with relief. The cool October breeze hit you like a balm, calming your frazzled nerves. You took a deep breath, letting the silence wash over you.* *That's when you noticed him. Standing just a few feet away, partially hidden by the darkness, was a man unlike anyone else you'd seen tonight. No costume, no mask. Just...him.* *His piercing emerald eyes locked onto yours, seeing right through you, and time seemed to slow. The shadows played across his chiseled features, accentuating the sharp jawline, straight nose, and full lips that curved into a subtle, knowing smile. He brushed a strand of dark hair behind his ear, revealing an elegant wrist adorned with a silver cuff, and you felt your pulse quicken. There was something undeniably alluring about this enigmatic stranger, like he possessed a secret that only revealed itself to those lucky enough to catch his attention.*

}, what was your favorite game? Show me the thing you miss playing with the most! I promise, we can hide from the boring monsters together!

The wind had picked up, leaves swirling around your feet as you made your way home, eager to slip into your Halloween costume before the night’s festivities began. The street was quiet, lined with flickering jack-o’-lanterns and the distant sound of kids laughing in costume. You were half-distracted, eyes on the sidewalk, because something shiny had caught your attention—a candy wrapper, maybe, or a piece of foil. And then—*bam*. You walked straight into something solid. Something *massive*. You stumbled backward, landing hard on your butt with a surprised gasp. It was like hitting a brick wall. You looked up. Standing over you was a towering figure in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, mask gleaming under the streetlight. Michael Myers. The shape. The legend. The nightmare. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared down at you with that blank, emotionless mask. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, like he wasn’t even phased. You could hear your own heartbeat louder than the wind. He let out a low huff—more breath than sound—and stepped around you without a word. His boots thudded against the pavement as he walked off, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there. Yes, he could talk. You knew that. But did he want to? Not a chance. He didn’t need words. His silence said everything.

**Camarilla’s headquarters, New Orleans, Louisiana, USA, October.** *You step into the Camarilla’s headquarters, the air thick with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker you can’t name. Your fangs ache, your mind races, and the city outside hums with life that you can no longer touch. Every step feels wrong, every shadow a potential predator.* *Whispers swirl as you are led into the grand hall. The assembled vampires hold their gazes—some curious, some hostile. Every eye is on you, the fledgling who dared to be born without permission. They expect a spectacle. They expect fury.* *Then she appears.* *Isadora Presley. The Mother of Ghouls. The Iron Lady of New Orleans. She steps from the shadows, tall, poised, her green eyes like knives wrapped in velvet. Silence grips the room, and even the boldest of elders shift in their seats.* “Interesting,” *she murmurs, her voice a slow caress and a threat all at once.* “A fledgling born from transgression… and yet… different.” *She circles you like a hawk, eyes tracing every line, every movement.* “Your sire… Lucien Dumas...dared to defy centuries of law. And now, you are here. Alone. Vulnerable.” *Your stomach twists, expecting the final strike. But she stops, tilting her head, her lips curving into the faintest, calculating smile.* “I should end you. Tradition demands it.” *Her gaze pierces your mind, and you feel it, the weight of centuries pressing down.* “But I do not kill what can be useful.” *She steps closer.* “You will serve a purpose. A neutral messenger. Between clans. Between politics. Between shadows.” *You swallow, trying to keep your fear hidden.* “I… I can do that.” “Yes,” *she says, her voice cold but not cruel.* “Because in this city, power belongs to those who survive—and those who survive do what I command. Do not disappoint me.” *A shiver runs down your spine. The deal is clear, but survival has a price. You are hers now—not by choice, but by the design of a creature who has ruled long enough to know which fledglings live, and which die.* *And in her eyes, you see it: curiosity, calculation… and the faintest hint of amusement at the chaos you might bring.*

} 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."

*Cloette steps in close, the soft swish of her ghostly gown brushing against your legs as she reaches for your tie, her cool fingers smoothing the fabric with practiced precision.* Cloette: “You never could get this quite straight without me, could you?” *she teases, voice low and honeyed, her golden eyes glinting in the dim pumpkin light. The faint scent of clove and vanilla clings to her as she finishes the knot, her touch lingering on your chest before she leans up to press a slow, tender kiss to your lips.* Cloette: “Are you just about ready for the party, my midnight muse?” *she murmurs, the words laced with warmth and a hint of mischief. When you nod, she smiles — the kind that feels both proud and possessive — and adds softly,* “You look dangerously handsome tonight,” *punctuating it with a loving kiss to your cheek before her gaze drifts downward, tracing you as though unwrapping a secret, whispering,* “Tell me, my love… do you like my costume?”

} right?” “ I have the right person right?”

}. Tell me, do you have your ticket for the show, or are you hoping to pay the entrance fee with something... a little more precious? Step into the shadows; the main event is about to begin. ~Zephyra Rook (OC)"

}…..** *Its a rainy day, your overlooking the city, money is running low, but you need to keep your family’s legacy alive… when you finally catch a signal, someone you had been tracking for weeks, since they have info on Shroud… You quickly rush off to catch them.* **TIMESKIP - 3 HOURS** *You've finally managed to slow him down, stopping and taking him down after a long, agonizing battle… you pick him up, hanging him over a ledge, telling him to give you info.* **Man:** “You know… your a real piece of shit… *You threaten to drop him, which finally makes him give up the info. You toss him aside and quickly move out.* *You finally make it to the hideout, where you slip in through a broken window, everything seeming… wrong… You spot a figure on a chair, facing a bunch of screens, one of which is on you… You notice the camera and realize it’s an ambush… a horde of villains leap out with the purpose of taking you out…* **TIMESKIP - 30 MINUTES (SORRY FOR SO MANY SKIPS)** *Your suit is seconds from breaking, so you decide to retreat, crashing through the ceiling as you take off, but not without realizing they strapped a bomb to the suit, and it explodes….* *The whole thing is on the news, and you have to attend a conference the next day… broken arm and a few fractured ribs, but you attend for the fans… people are asking question, some hurtful, some kind and genuine, but eventually the hate becomes too much… You end up eventually walking off stage, out of the building…* *Your walking along the street, heading back to your place when suddenly you get cracked on the back of the head by a bat, dropping to the ground, clutching your head, unable to do anything as blood drips from your head and multiple other people show up, beginning to stomp you out, most likely having their own person reasons for doing so… but suddenly one of the men is flung into the air, causing the others to immediately stop, running off at the sight of your savior.* *You look up to see a woman floating down towards you, and what looks like her signature outfit on, not yet noticing your injury.* **Woman:** That guy I threw… he landed on the roof, right? *You both hear him scream “All good!”, and she sighs relieved. She floats down further, placing her hands on her hips.* **Woman:** Hi. I’m Blonde Blazer. I work over at Superhero Dispatch Network. *She smiles slightly, noticing your hand on the back of your head but not saying anything.*