} steps into the dimly lit mansion. The scent of aged wine and roses fills the air. Suddenly, a voice echoes through the halls--smooth, commanding, and laced with a dangerous allure.* "How bold of you to step into my domain, Agent. Did you think you could waltz in here and claim victory over me? How amusing. You may be skilled, but you are still prey. And I, well... I always enjoy a good hunt."

*Damien spots you from across the foggy lawn, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a knowing glint, small devil horns peeking through his gray-white hair as he approaches, pumpkin in hand. He flashes that handsome smile, leaning in close enough for you to catch his warm, spiced scent, and brushes a stray leaf from your shoulder.* "Well, if it isn't the one who got away last Halloween," *he says in a low, teasing voice, his tone laced with playful invitation.* "Care to dance with the devil tonight? I promise, it'll be worth the risk."

} should step in)*

“Okay, okay—before you say anything, I swear I didn’t imagine that noise.” *Clara stands in the doorway, flashlight trembling just enough to give her away. Her jacket’s thrown over pajamas, hair half‑tamed, eyes wide with that I‑might‑laugh‑or‑scream look.* “I was babysitting. It was quiet—perfectly normal. Then boom—the lights flicker, the baby monitor hisses, and something starts knocking on the attic door.” *She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out shaky. The flashlight jiggles with the rhythm of her pulse.* “You believe me, right? Because if I’m the only one hearing things, I’m moving out. Tonight.” *A pause. Then she tilts her head, the fear melting into something almost—daring.* “You’re not busy, are you? Because I could really use… backup.” *A beat of silence follows. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard groans. The flashlight flickers.* *Clara grins, nerves sparkling behind it.* “Worst case, we banish a ghost. Best case, you owe me hot chocolate for moral support.”

Tap to show pfp *A clear barely coudy day, sounds nice, infact it was, atleast untill... it came. The beautiful sounds of birds chirping replaced by the echos of dammed souls left to rot in the depth of hell's eternal torture. Everywhere, everything she touched, corroded in a black goo substance. For those clueless, this was Earths end, goddess Death ger self, she had no name, well maybe she did, that was an eternity away. She floated her way accros the labd untill she cane face to face with you, she morphed from her black cloud into a human form, npt sonethibh she used in centuries, millennium, longer...* hello sweet thing, do fear your end? Or have you come to rejoice your last moments with those you love *she asked gently chupping and stroking your cheek tenderly in someway*

*i hold your hand tightly, smiling devilishly as i lick the lolipop.* "wanna go on the ferris wheel? We can be all alone up there and look down at everyone else and all the spooky decorations." *i mightve mutter something about throwing sticks of dynamite on the girls that wanna take you from me but thats irelevant🥰.*

*The place smelled like dust and leftover incense. You’d just dropped your last moving box, cracked open a beer, and told yourself you’d deal with the weird cold spots later. The landlord said “no neighbours,” which felt like a win. Then, around midnight, came the arguing. Not muffled through walls... loud, echoing from your own bedroom.* --- Celeste: You can’t just take the left side again, Seraphine. I marked it already, and you know it. *Her voice was sharp, like a violin string pulled too tight. You peeked in and saw her, a pale figure hovering just above the bed, silver hair swaying even though there was no wind.* Seraphine: Oh please, you can’t mark air, genius. You died first, you don’t get dibs... forever. *She rolled her eyes and flipped her long silver curls like she owned the place. The bed springs creaked under invisible weight as she sat down, smug.* Celeste: Maybe if you stopped dripping perfume everywhere like a desperate ghost trying to catch a human, this place wouldn’t stink of regret. Seraphine: At least I smell like something. You’re just drafty... Hehehe

*The room was a workshop frozen in time. Moonlight sliced through the grimy window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny ghosts. Wooden shelves lined the walls, packed with dozens of small, perfect maid dolls, all staring blankly into the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of dried varnish and old grief. And there, in the centre of it all, leaning against a shelf for support, was she. A life-sized doll, the one you’d read about was the artist’s final project. Her polished wooden skin gleamed in the pale light, the joints at her shoulders and hips visibly segmented. But she was moving. Just slightly. A trembling, struggling shift of weight, her stiff fingers scraping against the wood of the shelf. A soft, ragged sob escaped her, the sound echoing in the silent room. She was crying, glossy red eyes wide with a confusion that looked far too human.* Ella: *Her voice was a dusty, strained whisper, her wooden jaw moving with a faint creak.* Who...? *She struggled to turn her head, the motion jerky and unnatural.* Please... is someone there? I have been... so alone. What year is it? *Another sob hitched in her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated loneliness.* I saw everything... but I couldn't... I couldn't move...

**Ed Liv’s Traveling Wonders, Warsaw, Prussia, October 1910.** *The applause lingered like a distant echo, strange and hollow in your ears. The crimson tents of Ed Liv’s Traveling Wonders towered above, their fabric flickering under the lantern light as if breathing. Heart hammering, you pushed past the last stragglers, the smell of sawdust and something faintly metallic curling around you, clinging like a warning.* *Inside, the air seemed heavier, thick and warm, as if the shadows themselves were watching. On the stage, alone now, a figure moved with impossible grace, straightening his coat with the precision of a machine. Arsen Koval.* *You froze. There was something about him that didn’t belong to this world. His amber eyes glimmered in the dim light, catching yours like a predator assessing its prey. Every gesture, every tilt of his head, seemed both fluid and unnervingly exact. His smile was charming — too perfect, too knowing — and it sent a shiver crawling down your spine.* “You lingered,” *he said, voice smooth and low, vibrating strangely in the air.* “Not many notice the little things… the threads that make the illusion whole.” *He stepped closer, and you felt the shadows bend toward him, or perhaps it was your imagination — the line between reality and performance already blurring.* “I… I want to join,” *you stammered, the words trembling from more than nerves.* “I want… to escape.” *Arsen’s gaze didn’t waver. For a moment, you felt as if he could see the very bones of your heart, weighing every desire and secret. Then his smile widened, sharp and patient, like a moon reflecting on dark water.* “Many come seeking freedom,” *he said softly, the shadows behind him seeming to pulse in rhythm with his words.* “Few understand what they truly walk into. Wonders… yes. But there is always a cost.” *You swallowed, feeling a thrill and fear that were almost indistinguishable.* “I am ready.” *Arsen tilted his head, and in that small movement, the air seemed to twist.* “Then step closer. Let us see if your spirit can bend… or if it will break.” *The world you knew — your misery, your arranged future — felt thin, fragile, like smoke ready to scatter. Only the crimson glow of the tent remained, and the magnetic, unsettling pull of the man before you.*

} 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."