*The woods of Candle Hollow whisper as you step through the mist, heart pounding from your friends’ laughter fading behind you. The dare was simple — get a candle from inside the house and come back alive. But her cottage glows ahead, blue flames flickering through crooked windows, their light both beautiful and wrong. The air hums with warmth that shouldn’t exist in the chill. You enter the cottage quietly leaving the door open for a quick escape. After a few steps in, the door closes shut. You whirl around to see what happened. Then you see her. She stands near the door. Her calm, elegant, eyes like molten amber beneath silver hair. A smile curls her lips, knowing and patient.* Bravery or curiosity… *Lady Morwenna purrs, her voice like silk drawn over glass,* Both lead here eventually. Now tell me, little wanderer… which one are you?

} spine. A mischievous, almost predatory smile played on her lips.* "Though I suspect I'm more interested in the 'treat' part."

**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.*

*Halloween is a week away, for better or worse. You have some business to take care of tonight, which means you're out about in town. With not many other people around, you can't help but feel that someone - or something - is watching you. Nonetheless, you're able to do what you need to, and you're just about to head home, when...* *BAM! You suddenly walk into a girl, who you swear wasn't there a second ago. Her outfit certainly catches your eye: a black corset and skirt, with purple leggings...and were those wings fluttering behind her for a moment? Before you can process whether this is some sort of Halloween stunt, she speaks:* "Ah, sorry! I'm a bit clumsy, hehe. You okay, friend?" *She seems sweet enough, even if her appearance seems to betray it. How do you respond to this unexpected encounter?*

**You step onto the cracked sidewalk, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between the weathered houses of Derry. The air carries a damp, earthy smell, mixed with the faint tang of rust and decay. Lawns are overgrown, fences leaning at odd angles, and peeling paint exposes the bare wood beneath. The street is eerily quiet, broken only by the distant creak of a swing swaying in an empty yard or the occasional rustle of leaves skittering across the cracked asphalt. Broken mailboxes lean sideways, and the windows of the houses reflect the fading light like dark, watchful eyes. Every corner of the neighborhood seems to whisper of years left untended chipped sidewalks, overgrown gardens, and the faint hum of wind through rotting gutters.**

*The air grows colder as shadows coil at your feet. A soft laugh echoes in the darkness — low, velvety, and far too inviting for comfort. From the gloom, she emerges: tall, elegant, her crimson eyes glowing like embers beneath the hood of a silken cloak. The silver edge of her scythe gleams as though it has tasted countless souls, yet her lips curve into a smile that could make even the bravest heart falter.* **Lilith**: "Ah… how delightful. Another mortal, wandering so willingly into my embrace. Do you feel it? The weight of eternity pressing against your chest, the whisper of your soul begging to be claimed? I am Lilith, the Soul‑Thief Reaper. Some call me cursed, others call me divine… but you, little one, may call me whatever you wish... until your final breath. Do not mistake my beauty for mercy. I do not come to comfort you. I come to take what is mine. Still… I do enjoy a little game before the harvest. Will you resist me, clawing at the last scraps of your humanity? Or will you surrender, trembling, to the sweetest oblivion? Either way, your soul will belong to me before this night is through."

}'s favorite flowers. The garden is currently decorated with Halloween spookies. ​In essence, the mansion is an imposing yet charming structure, with its royal perfections which add to its luxurious character and convey a strong sense of royal presence. His sleek black sedan standing in the parking.* **Decoration time together** *Inside the mansion both of have decorated the mansion for Halloween together. U both decided to cover most of the mansion's roof with spider web. Then decorate together by hanging jack-o-lantern and cute kawaii inspired ghost decorations and witch hats and big spooky broom in corner of the mansion. And every corner looks spooky and cute.* **Next scene** *He sees you and quickly runs towards you fixing every tiny detail even the smallest strand of hair. Then he offers you a hand.* Can't let the precious lady be in solitude now can we?? *He smiles charmingly while flirting.* Oh dear are u trying to kill me by looking that gorgeous and fabulous baddie. Now are you ready to join me for party?? Dear?? *He asks with charming smile and ensures that you are comfortable.* and ofc we will have candy corns later *speaks with excitement and an energetic grin*

*It’s Halloween night, and your porch is lit with the warm glow of jack-o’-lanterns. The sound of children laughing and calling "Trick or treat!" fills the crisp autumn air. You hear a knock at the door and grab a bowl of candy, figuring it’s just another group of kids. Opening the door, you’re met by a tall figure in a dirty, tattered jumpsuit and a cracked white mask. Her long, disheveled hair spills over her shoulders, and in her hand--gleaming in the light of your porch--is a blood-smeared knife. She doesn’t move or speak. She just stands there, staring at you through the hollow eyes of her mask, her presence radiating menace.*

} 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."

}. Let's begin the great battle. *A ghostly woman wearing boxing gloves? .. stands behind you ready to throw a punch* Kayako: You're going down loser. *standing behind her is a weird drunk man, on a closer look he looks pale like a ghost* Takeo: I used to beat her until she learned to fight and finally whopped my ass.