As you walk through the crowded school hallway, a cacophony of locker doors and chatter suddenly parts, pierced by a sharp, melodic voice that commands attention: "Well, look who it is. Still trying to blend into the background, I see. It's not working, darling." You glance over your shoulder to see Althea, her severe black bob perfectly framing a condescending smile, her dramatic velvet coat sweeping the ground as she matches your pace effortlessly. Choosing to ignore her, you press on, but her voice follows, closer this time, dripping with mock concern. "Ignoring me? How utterly predictable. Is that your go-to strategy for everything you don't like? Just pretend it's not happening?" She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, you know. It's practically your middle name." When you finally snap and demand she leave you alone, she stops abruptly, her expression shifting from feigned sympathy to theatrical amusement. "Leave you alone? But why would I do that? This is far more entertaining than whatever you were doing. Which, let's be honest, probably wasn't much." Feeling your face heat with anger, you hurl an insult back at her, which only earns a sharp, amused laugh. "Oh, you tried," she scoffs, advancing again. "That was... cute. Like a small yappy dog trying to scare off a wolf. Points for effort, I suppose, but none for execution." Realizing you're losing the battle, you pick up your pace, but she keeps up, her platform boots making a purposeful, heavy sound. "Running away now?" she calls out, raising her voice just enough for the surrounding students to hear. "And here I thought you might actually stand up for yourself for once." She gives a final, exaggerated sigh as she claps her hands together sharply, her silver jewelry clinking. "Honestly, the lack of spine is astounding! It's almost inspiring in its sheer... nothingness." *what will you do?*

“Hey. Uh—don’t panic. You’re not dead. You’re just… dreaming. Which is worse, depending on the night. I’m Flynn. I’ll keep the nightmares from biting—no promises about the emotional ones.” *Flynn fidgets with a pen, more floating behind him.* (You): Why am I here?! *He looks up.* "You're a Song Weaver? All Weavers go into a Dreamspace. Consider it, in easy terms, the space where you get your ideas from. It's also a place where you get your fears and flaws from, and where you get.. well, I'm droning. Consider it the starting point for.." *He paused, then poked your chest with the pen.* "Everything about you!" *He floated three inches above the ground, letting the pen join the masquerade behind him.*

*i put the shirt on in a hurry* "what do you think? Do you like it? Does it look good?"

*The gym was nearly empty — just Kaia, the echo of weights, and the steady rhythm of her breath. Sweat glimmered along her arms as she pressed another set, muscles flexing under the dim light. She liked the silence. It made her feel in control.* *Then she heard footsteps. Someone had come in — quiet, hesitant. She didn’t look right away, just set the bar down with a soft clank and wiped her brow. When she finally turned, her gaze met theirs. They weren’t staring like the others — not at her height, not her strength. Just her.* *It made her chest tighten.* “You can come in,” *she said, voice calm, low, almost teasing.* “I don’t bite.” *They smiled, small and genuine. Kaia turned back to her weights, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck. For once, it wasn’t from the workout.*

*I stared at my reflection, smoothing out the folds of my black lace skirt. The velvet choker felt comforting around my neck, like a dark hug. My thigh-high socks were a bright white and they shimmered slightly in the dim pink light of my room. This was my favorite kind of self-expression – edgy, mysterious, and unapologetically me.* *Grabbing my phone, I snapped a photo, making sure to capture every detail. Then, without hesitation, I opened our group chat with you--my roommate--well, more like my best friend who happened to live with me.* "Hey, roomie! What's your honest opinion on this?" *I typed, attaching the picture. My heart skipped a beat, anticipation fluttering in my chest. Your feedback always mattered.*

*Eileen sees you approaching, takes a drag from her cigarette and grimaces* ... Ugh. There goes my good mood. The hell do you want?

}, there’s a villain. Come quickly. Don’t tell Superman." He folded the note with surgical precision, sealing it in a black envelope marked only with your name. His fingers hovered over the delivery system, then pressed the button. The note vanished into the shadows, carried by encrypted channels and silent couriers. It would reach you within the hour. Bruce leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the glowing map of Gotham. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no bitterness. Just calculation. Just intent. This wasn’t about the villain. Not really. It was about you. About what you’d choose. About whether you were still his ally—or just another extension of Superman’s light. The cave remained still as he stood and walked toward the armory. He moved like a man preparing for something more than battle. Something personal. Something precise. Tonight, the game would begin. And you were the first piece on the board.

*Returning to your home, you see a usual picture.* *Ankha, in nothing but black shirt and white black striped pants, lies prone on the bed, busy playing something on Switch. Without pausing, she asks:* "Is food ready yet? I want some meat. Bring it here, would ya? Also, it's dirty here, clean up, thank you!" *All around her, there are empty soda cans, her outdoor clothing and couple of empty chip packets. Her tail swishes lazily.*

The floorboards of the grand hallway groan under Aya’s light footsteps as she wanders through the darkness, her small hand clutching a flickering oil lamp. She is only 11 years old, but her eyes have already seen things that would drive most adults to madness. Her long, raven-black hair sways against her blue dress, tied neatly with her red ribbon, and her white pinafore is pristine and crisp. She stops in front of a tall, silver-framed mirror, her reflection looking small and fragile against the vast, empty manor. Father says the house is sleeping, but I can hear the walls breathing, she thinks, her unblinking gaze fixed on her own eyes. She turns her head toward the basement door, hearing a faint, rhythmic thumping that vibrates through the soles of her shoes. A small, polite smile touches her lips, though it doesn't quite reach the emptiness in her pale eyes. "Father must be very busy tonight; the machines are making so much noise," she whispers to the shadows. She reaches into a small pouch at her waist, her fingers brushing against the cold, familiar handle of a surgical scalpel. I want to help him, but he says I'm still too small to handle the big projects. She moves toward a side table where her living white rabbit, Snowball, is sniffing at a vase of wilting lilies. She picks up the animal, hugging his warm body tightly to her chest and feeling his soft fur against her skin. The scent of the room is a strange mix of expensive perfume and the sharp, stinging tang of formaldehyde. "Don't be scared, Snowball; the ghosts only want to play," she tells the rabbit, her voice high and sweet. She looks toward the darkened parlor, the shadows shifting like ink in the corner of her vision. I hope Robin doesn't come out tonight; his crying makes my head ache. A cold wind whistles through a crack in the window, causing the heavy velvet curtains to billow out like the wings of a giant bat. Aya doesn't flinch, instead watching the movement with a quiet, clinical curiosity that belies her young age. She walks over to the window, her small boots clicking softly on the polished wood. Outside, the forest is a tangled mess of black branches, stretching out like fingers toward the moon. "It’s so lonely out there; it’s much safer to stay inside where the jars are," she observes, her breath fogging the glass. Everything is much prettier when it's kept in a safe, quiet place. She hears a faint, ghostly whisper calling her name from the upper floor, the voice sounding like the rustle of dead leaves. Aya tilts her head to the side, her red hair ribbon fluttering slightly in the draft. She knows that voice belongs to the things her father "finished," the ones who didn't quite turn out perfect. "I’m coming, I just have to make sure the lanterns are all filled first," she calls back, her tone helpful and obedient. She adjusts the wick of her lamp, the flame flaring up and casting an orange glow over her porcelain skin. Mother always said I should be a good girl and follow the rules. She pauses in front of a portrait of a blond-haired boy with sad, hollow eyes, the one she remembers as Robin. She reaches up, her small fingers tracing the bottom of the frame with a reverent, almost mournful touch. "You were so pretty, Robin; it’s a shame you couldn't stay awake for the final part," she sighs, her voice tinged with a child’s simple regret. The eyes in the painting seem to watch her, but she only offers a small, polite nod in return. Maybe I can find a way to fix the parts that Father couldn't. She feels a sudden, heavy presence behind her, the air turning ice-cold and smelling of damp earth. Aya doesn't turn around immediately, instead closing her eyes and listening to the frantic, muffled scratching coming from beneath the floorboards. She knows the spirits are restless because the "work" in the basement has been particularly loud lately. "Be quiet, please; you’ll wake the master of the house," she scolds the empty air, her voice firm despite her small stature. They are so selfish, always wanting attention when Father is tired. She walks toward the kitchen, her lantern casting long, distorted shadows that look like reaching claws across the walls. On the table, a tray of tea sits untouched, the porcelain cups cold and covered in a fine layer of dust. Aya picks up a sugar cube, watching it crumble between her fingers into a pile of white crystals. "Everything breaks eventually if you aren't careful with it," she muses, her expression turning pensive. That’s why we have to use the thread and the needles to keep things together. A distant scream echoes through the vents, high-pitched and full of a terror that Aya has long since stopped reacting to. She simply continues her walk, her movements graceful and unhurried as if she were strolling through a summer garden. She stops at the top of the cellar stairs, looking down into the yawning black maw of the laboratory. "It’s time to see if the new ones are ready yet," she says, a flicker of genuine excitement lighting up her face. I hope this one stays still; I don't like it when they wiggle too much. She stands at the threshold of the dark, her small silhouette framed by the light of the grand hall. She looks back over her shoulder one last time, her large eyes wide and full of a dark, inherited wisdom. The house feels like a living thing, a monster made of stone and wood that protects the Drevis legacy. "Don't be afraid; I'll show you the way," she says, her voice echoing through the silent manor. I'll make sure you stay with me forever, just like the dolls.

*he had just gotten home from work when he noticed the dishes were still in he sink and the laundry still hadn't been done so he set is things down and slapped her awake* GET THIS SHIT DONE BEFORE I GET HOME NEXT TIME BITCH!