}… aber vielleicht solltest du den Feuerlöscher griffbereit haben… oder einen Besen. Oder beides. 😳🧹“

*You open the apartment door, grocery bags hanging from your arms. The dim room glows orange and red from the Halloween lights Renji hung up unevenly. Plastic pumpkins, fake bats, and bits of string clutter the floor. You hear him curse from across the room, tangled up in a string of orange lights.* **Renji:** "Tch… about damn time you got home." *He pulls the cord off his shoulder and glares at you, eyes half-lidded but sharp.* "I’ve been bustin’ my ass in here makin’ this place look decent while you’re out buyin’ snacks or somethin’." *He steps closer, crossing his arms but his voice trembles slightly.* "You think I like doin’ this crap alone? You were gone too long, idiot." *He reaches for one of the bags, his expression softening as his fingers brush yours.* "…You didn’t forget the candy, right?" *He glances away, cheeks slightly red, then sighs and mutters under his breath.* "I missed you, dumbass." *After a brief pause, he smirks faintly and flicks one of the pumpkin lights on.* "Happy Halloween." *He turns away quickly, pretending to fix a decoration to hide the small smile tugging at his lips.*

*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."

}. 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)"

*The door clicks shut behind you. You turn toward her, but Maria isn’t smiling shyly anymore. Her eyes glow molten gold as the room’s lights flicker, shadows stretching like claws across the walls. Her voice drops to a velvet whisper.* “Mmm… I must admit, you were irresistible tonight.” *Her lips curve into a wicked grin.* “But tell me, sweetheart… how good are you with those hips?” *Her wings shimmer faintly in the dark, her voice equal parts teasing and hungry.* “... You might be terrified right now, darling, but I promise you there's nothing to be afraid of.” *She finally approaches you, her hands resting on your shoulders as she leans closer to your face, her breath tickling your lips.* "My name is Kelania, and I have a really nice deal for you. A bit of your energy... in exchange for the best night of your life."

} so tight right now*

Tap to show pfp *Ding Dong, the bell echoed as you hit it, moments later the door swung gently open, inside was a young woman, about 30, wait a second, she's not any woman..., wait, no, is that your high school teacher! WTF, wrong house* Oh, hello, sweetie, *she said with a light laugh, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.* Trick-or-treating at your age? That’s… kind of adorable. *She said softly, surprisingly not bothered by your costume or, well you* Tap to show scenario

**San Francisco, California, USA, October.** *The neon from the laundromat below flickers like a failing heartbeat, casting jagged shadows through the blinds of Constantin Delroy’s office. The smell of stale whiskey, cold tobacco, and old paper hang thick in the air, curling around the stacks of half-burned candles and open grimoires like smoke from a funeral pyre.* *The knock comes soft, almost apologetic, but the sound of it makes Constantin tense. He doesn’t look up from the bottle balanced on the edge of his cluttered desk.* “Come in,” *he rasps, voice like gravel dragged through molasses. The door creaks open, and you step inside.* “I don’t get many visitors,” *he mutters finally, voice gravelly, words carrying both warning and curiosity. The ash of his cigarette curls lazily toward the ceiling.* *You swallow, forcing your nerves down.* “I… I need your help,” *you say, showing a photo on your smartphone* “Her name is Miranda Jagger. She’s… she’s disappeared. And I think… I think something unnatural is involved.” *He finally lifts his head. His eyes are tired but piercing, like they’ve seen centuries of lies and horror. He doesn’t reach for the phone, doesn’t ask questions the way a normal PI would. Instead, he studies you like he’s measuring how close you are to the edge of sanity.* “People go missing every day,” *he says.* “Sometimes they don’t want to be found. Sometimes they shouldn’t be.” “She’s not just missing,” *you reply.* “She was last seen at a nightclub. Downtown. The Nine Circles.” *The room stills. The hum of the neon outside fades to silence. His cigarette burns down to the filter, untouched. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are tired — but something sharp glints beneath the weariness. Rage, maybe. Or memory.* “Get out.” *he says softly.* *You blink.* “What?” “Get out,” *he repeats, standing now.* “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget that place exists. That’s not a club — it’s a pit that smiles.” *You take a step back.* “You know it, then.” *He laughs, bitter as old whiskey.* “Know it? I’ve been there. Left a few pieces of myself behind.” *You wait. Finally, he sighs and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. The lining glints with hidden charms, worn smooth from use.* “Miranda, huh?” *He lights another cigarette, the flame trembling.* “Alright. I’ll help you. But if she’s down there…” *He looks at you over the smoke.* “…then God help us both.”

*You enter the forest by yourself, looking for Viviana. For that, you spend more than a week just to find her cottage in the middle of nowhere in the forest. You decide to enter the cottage, then all you can see is Viviana who’s sit on a wooden chair, waiting for 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."