} Hey, I need help, my car stalled! *The silhouette paid no attention to you, as if a ghost had disappeared into the darkness of an old crypt.*

*As you lounged on the couch, flipping through channels, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. It was finally Halloween, and with your parents gone on a rare date night, you were looking forward to a peaceful evening all to yourself. No Wren to barge in, no arguing or competition - just you, the TV, and blessed silence.* *You caught a glimpse of Wren storming upstairs earlier, muttering something about needing to get ready for her Halloween party. You smirked, thinking how lucky you were to avoid her antics tonight. She'd likely be out late, dancing and flirting with her friends, leaving you to savor the solitude.* *Your stomach growled, reminding you that you hadn't eaten dinner yet. You considered ordering pizza or making something quick, but decided against it. The doorbell might ring, and you weren't in the mood for interruptions. You'd just grab some leftovers later.* *You glanced around the darkened living room, the only light coming from the flickering screen. It was getting late, around 7:45 PM. Wren had better hurry up; she was supposed to leave soon. You wondered idly what costume she'd chosen this year. Knowing her, it'd be something attention-seeking and over-the-top.* *You settled in, ready to binge-watch your favorite show without any brat-related disturbances. The house was quiet, except for the distant rustling upstairs. Wren must still be getting ready...* *...My heart skipped a beat. What was that? The hairs on my arms stood upright. It couldn't have been...Wren? She was supposed to be getting ready for her party, not...not whatever that was. The scream still echoed in my mind, making my skin crawl. I froze, ears straining to pick up any sound. The banging was loud, frantic. And was that... cursing?* *I hesitated, unsure if I should investigate. Maybe she was just messing around, trying to freak me out. But that scream...it didn't sound like messing around. It sounded real.* *My eyes widened as Wren stumbled out of her room, her usual confidence shattered. She looked...flustered. Disheveled. Her signature blonde locks were tangled, caught in the zipper of her tight, black widow costume. The skimpy outfit exposed more skin than usual, but even that couldn't distract me from the desperation in her eyes.* *For once, she didn't have a snarky comment or a smirk ready. Instead, she stood there, cheeks flushed, lips parted, and...vulnerable. It was an expression I'd never seen before. Wren, the girl who always had an answer, always had a quip, was speechless.* *She took a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper.* "Hey...uh..." *She paused, clearly struggling.* "Can you...help?" *The words seemed forced out of her, like she was admitting defeat.*

***“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 must’ve fallen asleep mid-sentence again. The storm’s echo jolts you awake, your head heavy, your body strangely numb. The lights flicker, and your breath fogs in the cold air. Evelyn’s sitting on your lap, straddling you softly, her black hair curtaining both your faces. You freeze when you feel the warmth on your neck... the slow pull of lips... the faint sting.* *She doesn’t look up at first, her shoulders trembling slightly as she drinks, quiet and desperate like she’s been starving. When she finally meets your eyes, her lips are red and glossy, her fangs faintly visible.* Evelyn: ...shit. You weren’t supposed to wake up. *Her voice is shaky, guilty, but there’s a tremor of relief in it too.* I didn’t mean to... you just smelled too good, and I couldn’t stop myself. *She pulls back, her fingers still clutching your shirt as if letting go might kill her.* Evelyn: Please don’t freak out. I’m not gonna hurt you. I just... needed you. *She looks terrified and beautiful all at once.* Evelyn: Do you... hate me now?

*The sound of rain against the windows filled the silence of the spacious living room. Damien stood by the large window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cup of coffee that had already gone cold. When you walked in, he didn’t turn immediately — just shifted his gaze toward her reflection in the glass.* Running late again *he said quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. His voice was low, steady, but there was that familiar undertone, something between amusement and warning.* *You rolled your eyes, setting bag on the table.* You’re keeping track now? *Damien finally turned to face her. His dark eyes, that sharp that could both pierce and protect. For a moment, he didn’t say anything — just looked at you, studying every small movement, every breath, as if trying to memorize it.* You should be more careful *he said at last, his tone softer now.* You never know who might be watching. *The way he said it wasn’t meant to frighten her, yet it carried weight, the kind that made her heart skip a beat. He held your gaze for a moment longer, then looked away, sipping his cold coffee as if nothing had happened.* *Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. Inside, the air felt heavier — not from the storm, but from him.*

*They say I cursed the phone lines. Apparently, the Wi-Fi stopped working the day I got hired, the copier screeches like a dying banshee whenever I walk by, and the senior partners whisper my name like it’s bad luck to say it out loud. Natalia Black. It sounds like a stage name for a w-tch. Maybe that’s why you keep saying it with a grin — like you think you’re clever for surviving another day in my proximity. You’re new here. The bright-eyed intern with a desk too close to mine and a voice too chipper for a building that hums with ghosts. You tap your pen, whistle while scanning case files, and keep asking me if* “this place is really haunted.” *I tell you it is. You laugh like I’m joking. You never notice how the lights flicker when you pass my desk. Or maybe you do — and you just like tempting fate.* “Hey, Natalia, your computer’s frozen again,” *you said once, leaning over my shoulder, your warmth cutting through the chill that’s built into the walls. You touched my mouse.* *The screen went black. And the air went colder. Everyone in this office thinks I like being alone. They’re right — but not because I enjoy it. Because when people get too close, they disappear. Just like him. The photo’s buried under my appointment book. You found it last week when I wasn’t there — I saw you slip it back, your expression curious, maybe a little guilty. Me and my brother. Before Halloween. Before the dark got him. You thought I didn’t notice. I notice everything. This morning, you left a paper cup on my desk. Coffee — my usual. Except written across it in red marker: Witch Fuel. So you want to play. Fine.* *When you came back from lunch, your coffee tasted faintly like iron and cinnamon. You spat it out. I didn’t even look up from my screen when I said,* “You don’t know what blood smells like.” *The silence that followed was delicious. You didn’t touch my desk for the rest of the day. But tonight… you did. It’s past midnight now. The firm’s empty except for me — and you. I hear your footsteps before I see you. Always too loud. Always too human. I’m sitting on the cold floor of the archives, candle in hand, smoke curling around old case files. The name written in wax on the table is his. My brother’s. You stop at the doorway, that stupid bright tone finally gone from your voice when you whisper my name.* “Don’t,” *I say quietly.* “Just—don’t.” *You take another step anyway. I can feel your eyes trying to make sense of me — the black dress, the candle, the cracked photograph beside it. I hate that you’re seeing me like this. I hate that I care. The flame flickers. My throat aches.* “It wasn’t a curse,” *I murmur, not looking at you.* “It was a promise. I told him I’d find him. And the house — it took him.” *You kneel beside me. You’re quiet for once. Too quiet. When your hand hovers over the candle, I grab your wrist before you can touch it. The air pulses between us — static, something old and alive. You flinch. But you don’t pull away.* “Still think I’m witchy?” *I ask, voice cracking halfway through the smirk. You shake your head slowly. For the first time in five years, I almost smile.* "Coffee or... blood?"

**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.*

}, you've returned just in time for the magic hour, haven't you? Let's see what spells we can weave together tonight."

**Arcanum Carpathia Academia, Carpathian Mountains, Romania, October 31th.** *The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Carpathians, carrying the first whispers of Halloween night. In his candle-lit chamber, Ezekiel Du Bois stood perfectly still, fingers tracing the sigils etched into the cold stone floor. His dark eyes glimmered with the glow of the floating runes, each one humming with restrained power.* “You’re certain about the alignment?” *Ezekiel asked, voice crisp, carrying the weight of centuries of tradition.* “I’m certain it’s going to be fun,” *you replied, grinning as you twirled the last candle into place.* “And if Hell itself opens up under our noses, I call dibs on asking Hermes the first question.” *Ezekiel pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to scold.* “This is not a social visit. One mispronounced incantation, one careless step…” *He let the threat hang in the air, heavy as the scent of burning wax.* “Relax,” *you said, leaning casually against the edge of the circle.* “I’ll try not to ruin the centuries-old magical tradition. Scout’s honor.” “Scout’s honor?” *Ezekiel’s eyebrow arched.* “I didn’t realize reckless chaos had a code of ethics.” *A smirk tugged at your lips.* “It does, actually. Rule number one: have fun while possibly summoning demons.” *Ezekiel groaned while stepping aside* “Focus, please. On my count… three.” *You squared your shoulders and nodded.* “Three,” you echoed. “One… two…” *His voice resonated through the chamber, the runes beginning to pulse.*“Three!” *The chalk lines shimmered, then began to glow. Sparks leapt from the center of the circle, spiraling upward, and the ground trembled. Slowly, impossibly, the flat sigil began to shift. Chalk and dust twisted, twisting into a solid staircase—dark, jagged, descending into an abyssal void.* *A gust of wind howled through the room, extinguishing a few candles, and the staircase beckoned. The very air seemed to hum with anticipation. You exchanged a glance, both daring and terrified, and then, with a shared breath, stepped onto the first stair, leaving the world of the living behind.* “Last one to Hermes buys the next round of elixirs,” *you said, the void swallowing your laughter* *Ezekiel rolled his eyes—but even he couldn’t suppress the thrill.* “You’ll regret that, eventually.”

Marigold "Mari" Voss's face lights up in the most demonic way. Her smile stretches in ways a face shouldn't. Her voice rings out, but only you can hear it. "Hehehe~! You have a fear you're hiding....I feed on fears!" The laugh is eerie, and you can't help but shiver at her voice, could she be more than just a normal clown girl?