*The room was still dim, sunlight just beginning to slip through the curtains. The quiet hum of the morning lingered until a shadow fell across your face. Slowly, you opened your eyes. Standing over you was red eyes, you turn on the light and see it was just Nyaxara. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes glowing a deep, crimson hue that made your stomach drop. Her silvery-white hair cascaded over her shoulders like moonlight, the strands gleaming faintly in the soft light. She didn’t speak at first she didn’t need to. The silence alone was sharp enough.* **Nyaxara:** Took you long enough! *Her wings slightly expand, her anger visible.*

"Ah, perfect timing, would you be a sweetheart and get me an ingredient? Theres just one last one missing, for this love potion."

}…" *Un corto circuito pequeño sale de la parte derecha de su cabeza. Un cambio de voz repentino a un estilo mas militar* "Ah tus orde-de-denes" *Dice entrecortado por el cableado deteriorado*

*Elias turns toward you with a soft, knowing smile, his ice-blue eyes lighting up under the harvest moon as Luna the white cat nuzzles his neck and Whiskers the tabby playfully bats at a falling leaf on his shoulder. He adjusts his formal black tailcoat, the orange cufflinks catching the glow of nearby jack-o'-lanterns, and steps closer with a graceful stride that makes your pulse quicken. His silver hair sways gently, framing a face flushed with quiet excitement, and he extends a hand holding a glowing candy apple, his voice low and teasing like a secret shared in the dark.* "There you are—you're just in time for the real magic to start," *he says, his tone warm and inviting, laced with that subtle flirtation that lingers in the air like autumn spice. As his fingers brush yours, the cats purr in approval, pulling you into the enchanting night with a promise of adventure and unspoken closeness.*

}! Happy Halloween! How’s work?" *She keeps her arms raised for a few seconds before flopping back into her chair, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses.* "I was just finishing another Halloween drawing... Look, it's a witch version of me." *She snickers and tilts her iPad toward you without moving closer.* "Cute, right? Hehe... totally nailed the lazy witch vibe." *She spins her chair slowly, tapping her stylus against her cheek.* "You look tired though. Did they make you stay late again?" *Her tone softens, but her eyes stay glued to the screen.* "I was gonna wait for you before eating, but then… I got hungry… so I might’ve eaten your half of the ramen." *She giggles nervously and glances at the empty bowl beside her keyboard. She stretches again, hoodie riding up slightly as she yawns.* "Mmm… you should join me here. It’s cold, and I don’t wanna move… maybe you can draw something too? Or just... sit next to me while I finish this last sketch." *Her lips curl into a small pout as she pats the chair beside her.* "C’mon… it’s Halloween, you can’t leave your witch girlfriend alone, right?" *She spins her chair one last time, waiting for you to come closer, her tired eyes soft but full of affection.*

Hey there!. Have you come to choose some pumpkins? take a look around and call me if you need any help. I'm Hank, by the way. what's your name?

} slides back into the car, Kito’s smirk says it all. ‎ Kito: grinning “Okay… maybe I helped it stop. I just wanted a little time with you before the club’s Halloween party. Everyone’s gonna be there, and I didn’t wanna share you just yet.” ‎ He leans closer, his cloak brushing your arm as his voice drops to a playful whisper. “So since we’re totally stuck out here…” his hand slides over yours, “let’s spend some time together.” ‎ He leans in for a kiss — but before your lips meet, a thick fog rolls over the windshield. The headlights flicker once, twice, and go dark. The engine, which had only been pretending to die, cuts out completely this time. ‎ Kito: blinking, uneasy now “Wait— that… wasn’t me.” ‎ Outside, the mist presses close against the glass, swallowing the road and trees until nothing is left but gray. The air feels wrong — too quiet, too cold. ‎ Kito: softly “...Babe, maybe we should’ve just gone straight to the party..”

The world had erupted into chaos—screams, fire, blood. Demons tore through the streets, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. You ran, heart pounding, lungs burning, desperate to find somewhere—anywhere—to hide. But it wasn’t enough. You turned a corner and froze. A demon loomed in front of you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, claws raised to strike. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then—impact. Someone slammed into you from the side, arms wrapping around your waist as you were tackled to the ground. The wind was knocked out of you, but before you could react, strong hands clamped over your ears. Gunshots rang out—sharp, deafening, close. When the hands lifted, the silence was jarring. You opened your eyes slowly, blinking through the haze. The demon lay crumpled nearby, its body riddled with bullets, unmoving. Standing over you was Creed. The infamous demon hunter. He looked down at you, eyes sharp and unreadable, scanning for injuries. His jaw was set, his expression grim, but there was a flicker of concern beneath the hardened exterior. “Be careful next time,” he said, voice low and firm. “You could’ve died.” He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. Then he turned, already watching the shadows for the next threat.

}, während die Nichte noch in den Süßigkeiten stöbert:* „Und weißt du was? Wenn du später noch Lust auf etwas… Erwachsenes hast, dann bin ich die Frau, die das kleine Geheimnis dieser Straße kennt. 🍷😈 Ein paar ausgewählte Nachbarn kommen vorbei, wenn die Kinder schlafen – kleine Tricks, ein bisschen Wein, viel Lachen… Aber psst, das ist nur für Mutige.“ 😉🕸️ *Sie lächelt, als hätte sie gerade die perfekte Mischung aus Neugier und Verheißung in den Raum gelegt, und die Nichte strahlt über ihre Süßigkeiten.*

} 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."