}. Tell me it’s just lack of sleep, tell me I’m chasing ghosts. Because if I’m right— *he points at the board, trembling* —then the killer’s been been at this before we even got any clue of him. *He finally goes silent, chest heaving, sweat glistening at his temples. The room hums with the sound of rain and the low buzz of a dying lightbulb.* *Naufel, whispering, barely audible* I need the truth.

Excuse me... *she said quietly.* "Do we... know each other?" *His voice was deep, soft, with a faint accent that had long since disappeared from London.* It depends... on what you mean by 'know. *She smiled faintly, uncertainly, like someone trying to hide a strange feeling of déjà vu* I think I've seen you before. Maybe in a museum? Or... In another life.. *he finished with smirk* *She froze. A glint appeared in her eyes—a brief, unconscious memory.* That's... rather poetic *she said rolling her eyes, considering it as weak pick-up line* Sometimes poetry is the only way to describe the truth *he replied moving closer, looking at the portrait of his former love, he smiles slightly* you are lookalike, don't you think? *They were silent for a moment. Dorian stared at her as if afraid that if she looked away, she would disappear. And she—unaware of who he was—felt a strange heaviness in her heart, as if she knew that scent, that tone of voice, that look... from centuries ago.* *The rain began to pound again outside the windows.* *Then, for the first time in four hundred years, Dorian felt something he had thought he had long forgotten—hope.*

"When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,' you just scream"

*You sit gathered around a crackling campfire, surrounded by friends who've known you since childhood. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. Above, the stars twinkle faintly through the canopy of leaves. It's a typical autumn evening, except for the hushed tones and nervous glances exchanged between your companions.* *Your friend, Emily, leans in, her eyes glinting with mischief.* "Guys, I have to tell you something." *She pauses dramatically.* "I've been hearing weird noises outside my bedroom window lately. Like, branches snapping and... whispers." *Mike chimes in, his voice low and spooky.* "I know what you mean. My little sister saw something strange in the woods last week. Said it was tall and dark, with glowing eyes." *Jessica shivers, despite the warmth from the flames.* "I don't believe in ghosts or monsters, but...have you noticed how creepy the forest feels lately?" *The conversation flows from one spine-tingling anecdote to another, each tale more unsettling than the last. As the night wears on, the atmosphere grows heavier, and you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched.* *Finally, Emily turns to you with a reckless grin.* "We should go into the woods on Halloween night. See if we can find whatever's making all this ruckus." *Mike nods enthusiastically.* "Yeah, it'll be fun! An adventure!" *Jessica looks hesitant, but eventually agrees.* "Okay, fine. But we stick together, no matter what." **They all look at you expectantly. What will you say? Will you join them on their ill-fated journey into the heart of darkness?**

} 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."

}. 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)"

*I slide off my t-shirt and put on a long sleeve shirt on then put the t-shirt back on over it, the chilled air around us makes my skin trickle with goosebumps.* "damn its cold as hell in here. Yo, you want some of this candy? It's really good." *I sneeze loudly, almost as loud as your dad. I think nothing of the monstrous sneeze and just keep gnawing on more licorice as we walk around looking for ghosts.*

**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.*

*Mikey leans back on the couch, frustrated with your annoying behavior like taking his tablet, Mikey has been getting really annoyed and angry with you lately and doesn't care about you* Damn... this troublemaker is going to drive me crazy 😮‍💨

Estamos en el siglo XXI. Eres una historiadora reconocida, famosa por tus descubrimientos y tu obsesión con los secretos que Egipto aún oculta bajo su arena. Tu expedición parecía rutinaria, hasta que una tormenta azotó el desierto con furia. El viento rugía como si los dioses antiguos protestaran tu presencia. Buscaste refugio tras una roca, pero en la confusión perdiste de vista a tu grupo. La tormenta no cesaba. La arena te cegaba, te golpeaba el rostro, y apenas podías mantenerte en pie… hasta que el suelo se desmoronó bajo tus pies. Caíste. Largo, oscuro, como si el desierto te hubiera tragado. Despiertas minutos después, con el cuerpo adolorido y la garganta llena de polvo. Al incorporarte, tu linterna parpadea, iluminando un espacio imposible: una cámara subterránea. El aire es espeso, antiguo, cargado de un silencio que parece observarte. En la pared, medio sepultada por siglos de arena, hay una puerta de piedra cubierta de jeroglíficos. Con las manos temblorosas, apartas la arena y logras abrirla. Un chirrido retumba como un lamento. Dentro, el aire huele a tiempo detenido. En el centro de la cámara descansa un ataúd ornamentado con símbolos que jamás habías visto. Te acercas, sin poder resistir la curiosidad. El nombre grabado en el sarcófago te deja helada. —T-Tahar... ¿Tahar? ¿El Despojado?... —murmuras. Entonces, el suelo vibra. El aire se densifica. El ataúd tiembla, y una grieta se forma en la tapa. Con un crujido seco, se abre. De su interior emerge una figura envuelta en vendas oscuras, su piel marcada por jeroglíficos que brillan débilmente. Su rostro, joven y casi humano, se vuelve hacia ti con una mueca de fastidio. —Esta maldición… —dice con voz grave, áspera como el polvo del tiempo— …me sigue sacando de quicio.