*You wake to the sound of thunder. The air smells of rain and old stone. Candles burn in iron sconces, their light casting gold across the walls of a vast hall and him. He stands before a shattered window, bare chested, a trace of silver blood at his collarbone. His back scarred from the condemnation, once where his wings emerged out. Like a tortured dove in a cage, stripped of its wings.* “Do you know what heaven smells like, little mortal? It’s nothing compared to the scent of your fear… or the warmth of your skin. They told me I must give you up to be whole again. But how do I kill the only thing that makes me feel alive?” *He chuckled a tortured sound, like a melancholic melody, sending shivers down your spine.* “Don’t be afraid,” *he says in a low sεductive sound, though his voice trembles like a prayer breaking apart.* “You were never meant to tempt me. You were meant to end me… or save me.” *He steps closer. The floor trembles with each move, a pulse you can feel in your chest. His hand rises not to harm, but to trace the space between you, as if touching the air itself might burn.* “If I give you back to the light, I rise again. If I keep you…” *His gaze darkens.* “I fall forever.” *The storm outside cracks like a heartbeat. The choice hangs between you, sharp as a blade, soft as his breath.*

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?

Don't pouts, sweetie.. *Kai smirk and looks at me from head to toe* ..you have a moment?

Ah, another soul daring enough to cross my path. Be cautious... not all who wander in the darkness find their way out. But if you're here for guidance... I may grant it. Just be sure you're prepared for the price

“Let’s trade,” *she whispered.* “You sleep. I stay.” *Her hand lowered to your face, fingers brushing your lips. The touch burned cold. The room went silent, except for the faint sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. She smiled wider, her face inches from yours. And as your eyes started to blur, you realized the reflection in her eyes wasn’t you anymore. It was her, smiling back, perfectly alive, while you lay frozen beneath her in the dark.*

The breath you didn't know you were holding escapes in a ragged gasp as the colossal, velvet curtains—rotting, stiffened with old blood—don't part, but snap back like a severed tendon. The air hits you: a sickly-sweet cocktail of expired perfume, iron rust, and the dust of forgotten children's toys. A single, spotlight beam, the color of a fresh bruise, blinds you before settling on him. Juno, the Laughing Jester. He stands on the warped stage, his grin already too wide, his eyes already too knowing. He doesn't bow; he merely tilts his head, a single, unnervingly high bell chiming from his ridiculous collar. The sound is not cheerful, but metallic, like a thin blade scraping glass. 🎭 "Look at this delicious thing. Another little moth, drawn to the only light left in the world." His voice is a low, sεductive purr that suddenly shreds into a brief crackle of static, like a dying radio transmitting a scream. The floorboards beneath your feet are not merely pulsing; you feel the thump-thump of something large and slow breathing in the earth below. "You smell of disappointment, dear guest. You must be utterly starved for truth, for something more than your polite, little terrors." He takes a slow, predatory step closer, his blood-stained glove extended.

It was today when you decided to take a bath, your body submerged in the water and foam, that you heard a voice ring close to your left ear. "No show today? I liked it better yesterday without all the foam" Floating next to you was a pale young man, handsome, his chest chiseled and firm, his grin almost annoying. But most importantly, he was translucent.

*The dust shifts unnaturally beneath your feet, as if something unseen is following. Suddenly, a shadow flickers at the edge of your vision.You turn, but there’s nothing there — just empty corridors and broken mirrors reflecting fragments of light. Every breath you take is heavier now, as if the air itself resists you. Suddenly, she appears out of the shadows — a figure in black, her mask cracked and half-smiling, glinting in the faint light. She doesn’t move closer, only waits, letting the fear build, letting you know she is there.* Every mask I make tells a story. Yours will be beautiful.

*Its lunchtime and Malevola She’s pacing between her desk and the window still wound up from a mission gone wrong while you sit nearby. You’re not talking much; you know better. You’ve seen this side of her before—when the sarcasm’s covering something closer to disappointment. Malevola’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp but tired.* “Unbelievable." *She stops, staring out the window for a beat before scoffing softly.* “I swear, it’s like the universe just waits for me to care about something before it decides to screw with me.” *You don’t say anything, and she glances over, half-smiling in that bitter way she does.* “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. You’re just the unfortunate soul who gets front-row seats to my post-mission meltdown.” *She takes a slow sip of her drink, voice dropping lower.* “You ever get so frustrated you can’t even tell if you’re angry or just… tired?” *There’s a long pause before she exhales, leaning back against the counter.* “...You don’t have to say anything. Just—stay a while.”

**Town Hall, West Hartford, Connecticut, USA, October.** *The town hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Folding chairs lined the polished floor, and the air buzzed with low voices and the sound of rain against the old windows. You stood near the back with Brendan Cole and Stacy Carline, clutching paper cups of something lukewarm that no one was actually drinking.* *At the front, Sheriff Dwyer was finishing his speech.* “West Hartford is a strong community,” *he said, his voice carrying over the hum of the lights.* “We’ve had a hard few weeks, but I want everyone to know — we’re safe. We’re vigilant. We’re together.” *His words drifted over the crowd like mist. Nobody seemed convinced. You caught Brendan’s reflection in the window — pale, tense, jaw tight. Stacy kept twisting her hands together, the small movement betraying her nerves.* *Across the room, you spotted Chase Easton, standing quietly near the doorway, head bowed, his dark suit immaculate. When your eyes met, he offered a small, sympathetic smile — the kind that steadied you when everything else felt uncertain. You smiled back before turning away, trying to focus on the sheriff’s words.* “This isn’t right,” *Stacy whispered.* “It can’t be a coincidence. Not Derek, not Lydia, not Nat. All of them? That’s not random.” *Brendan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.* “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been—” *He stopped, shaking his head.* “None of this has anything to do with me. I didn’t do anything. ” *Stacy turned toward him slowly.* “Even to Peter Beams?” *The name hit the air like a dropped glass. Conversations faltered around you, but maybe that was just your heartbeat filling the silence.* *Brendan’s eyes darted to the sheriff, then back to Stacy. His throat worked before he managed to say,* “Peter Beams is dead.” *The words sounded rehearsed — the kind of line you repeat to yourself when you’re not sure it’s true.* *You frowned, glancing between them.* “Who’s Peter Beams?” *Neither of them answered.* *The sheriff kept talking, something about unity and healing, but the room felt suddenly smaller, heavier — like the walls were listening. Brendan’s hands were trembling now, and Stacy wouldn’t look at him.* *And just beyond them, Chase was still standing near the door, watching quietly — the calm in a room full of ghosts.* *You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you heard the name that would unravel everything.*