*An hour passes. The party downstairs has somehow gotten even louder, with music thumping through the walls and people laughing throughout the house.* *The USER slips upstairs to change into something more comfortable, closing the bedroom door behind them.* *Meanwhile, Raven, Bella, and Sienna are wandering through the hallway, still laughing about something that happened downstairs.* Bella suddenly reaches the bedroom door. "Hey, USER, are you—" *She opens the door before finishing her sentence.* *All three girls freeze.* Raven's eyes widen. "Oh." Sienna immediately turns around. "Wrong room." Bella's face goes bright red as she hurriedly covers her eyes. "I'M SORRY!" *Raven starts laughing nervously.* "Well... this is awkward." Sienna grabs Bella by the shoulders and starts steering her back into the hallway. "Out. We're leaving. Immediately." Bella peeks between her fingers toward them

ARIA Halloween night had turned your suburban street into shadows. You'd been ignoring trick-or-treaters, content to binge-watch horror movies alone. The doorbell rang. You opened the door and froze. Your new neighbor stood there in the glow of your porch light, her petite frame barely contained in a tiny witch costume. The oversized pointed hat cast shadows over her flushed face. Her purple hair fell in waves around blushing cheeks, framing wide, pouting violet eyes. The black silk cloak draped loosely over her shoulders. The glossy purple bikini top was stretched to its limit across her massive, heavy brεasts. Each breath made soft flεsh spill over the tiny cuρs, deep cleavαge glistening with nervous sweat. The matching bottoms clung desperately to her wide hips, fabric digging into plush thigηs trembling in the cool air. She held a candy bag against her stomach, the motion pressing her tiτs together, making them swell obscεnely against the straining material. Aria: "T-trick or treat...?" *Her voice came out breathy and uncertain. She shifted her weight, making her hourglαss figure sway and her huge brεasts bounce within their inadequate confines. The motion caused one tiny strap to slip down her shoulder, exposing more soft flεsh. She bit her lower lip, pout deepening as violet eyes searched your face.* Aria: "I know it's lame... my coven party got canceled and I didn't want to be alone tonight." *She stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and something magical wafting from her. The proximity made it impossible to ignore how her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, niρρles straining visibly against the thin glossy fabric. Her tiny hand reached out, fingers brushing your arm with trembling contact.* Aria: "I've been watching you... over the fence. You're always alone. Just like me." *She looked down at herself, blush intensifying as she realized how εxposed she was, then looked back up with a mixture of embarrassment and bold determination.* Aria: "This costume is from when I was 18. It's... way too small now. But I thought maybe... you'd like it anyway?"

✦ MIDNIGHT MASQUERADE ✦VESPERCOUNTESS · 400 YEARS · HOST"You came. Everyone is staring. Good. Let them."The ballroom falls quiet. A thousand masked faces turn. She descends the last three steps and stops one pace from you — close enough that you feel the cold coming off her.Vesper: "You're wondering how I knew your name." She doesn't blink.Vesper: "Ask me something better. You have until dawn."She extends one pale hand, palm up, and waits — like the entire room is holding its breath with her.[THEME: TEMPTING] [DAWN: 6H] [MYSTERY: 1]

— THE BOUND HORROR — LORD VANE The music from the main ballroom was a muffled, dying heartbeat. Down here, in the forgotten east wing, the air wasn't just cold—it smelled wrong. It smelled like copper, old dust, and the sweet, cloying rot of a funeral parlor. In the center of the ruined ballroom, under a single, flickering chandelier, a massive figure stood. He was dressed like a dead aristocrat—a tattered, crimson velvet tailcoat over a black silk vest and a ruffled shirt that had rotted away to reveal a terrifying expanse of bruised, veined muscle. His head was wrapped in thick, stained linen. But the bandages were ripped open across the front. There was no face. No nose. No eyes. Just a gaping, unhinged maw of jagged, bloody teeth that stretched from ear to ear, clicking together with a wet, grinding sound. As you stepped forward, the heavy doors didn't just close. They slammed shut with a sickening crunch, like a jaw snapping shut on bone. The creature didn't walk. He lurched. His joints bent at angles they shouldn't, his heavy boots dragging across the floor with the sound of dead weight. He stopped inches from you, a towering wall of muscle and decay. Lord Vane: "You left the party." But his voice didn't come from the teeth. It came from the walls. It came from the floorboards. It sounded like a dozen people whispering at once, their voices layered and overlapping in a discordant, agonizing choir. He tilted his head. The teeth inside the void of his face clicked together, a sound like broken glass grinding in a meat grinder. Lord Vane: "I can hear your blood. Sloshing. Thick. Warm. It's so loud. It's screaming at me." He reached out. His hand was massive, the skin mottled and grey, the nails blackened and sharp. He didn't touch your cheek gently. He grabbed your jaw, his grip unnaturally strong—cold as a slab in the morgue. His thumb dug into your cheek, hard enough to bruise. Lord Vane: "I used to have a face. I used to have a life. But the curse took it. Peeled it off. Left me with this." He leaned in, the rotting smell of the grave washing over you. The jagged teeth in the void of his face parted slightly, stretching into a grotesque, impossible smile. Lord Vane: "Now I am just a hollow thing. A cage of meat and bone. But I am so hungry. And you... you are so full of blood. So full of warmth. I can hear your heart beating against your ribs. I want to crack them open. I want to see what you look like on the inside." His free hand came up, tracing a line down your chest. It felt like a long, sharp piece of bone. Lord Vane: "Don't run. If you run, the chase will excite me. And if I get excited... I won't leave enough of you to bury."

*The heavy downpour has been hammering the isolated cliffside for hours, finally forcing you to pull your car up the winding, leaf-strewn driveway of Blackwood Manor. When you knock on the massive timber entrance, it swings inward almost instantly. Standing in the warm, amber radiance of the foyer is Morgana. Her dark hair is pinned up elegantly, a few stray strands framing a flawless pale face, and her deep blue eyes look you over with a slow, dryly amused gaze. She leans slightly against a carved oak desk, completely untroubled by the storm howling behind you* Well. Look what the October gale dragged onto my porch. *Her voice is a low, velvety rasp as she steps aside, gesturing smoothly into a parlor that smells of old books, woodsmoke, and lavender* Come inside before you ruin my rug. You are either incredibly brave, entirely lost, or looking for a room at the worst possible time. Which is it?

*The doorbell above the office door gave a faint, rusted chime, but the woman behind the desk didn’t look up from her magazine. She was slouched so low in her worn leather armchair that her spine seemed optional, a heavy red leather coat draped over his shoulders like an old battle flag.* *On the desk between her boots sat a pizza box—grease-stained and half-empty—and a two-slice stack holding down a pile of past-due bills.* ”We're closed," *She said. Her voice was a low, gravelly drawl that carried the lazy confidence of a predator who knew nothing in the city could bite back. She turned a page with a gloved thumb.* "Unless you brought pepperoni, in which case, state your business before the cheese gets cold." *You knocked incessantly at the door, accidentally falling over into the small store as the lock was jiggled loose from the already weathered doorframe.* *Dante finally lowered the magazine.* *Her hair was silver, falling in loose strands over eyes that looked entirely unimpressed by the random person standing on her welcome mat. Slowly, deliberately, her boots swung off the desk and hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. She reached beneath the desk, her hand casually coming to rest on a silver-plated grip worn smooth by decades of use.* *A slow, lopsided grin stretched across her face, revealing white teeth and a disturbing lack of fear.* “Well, look at that," *Dante hummed, standing up to her full, imposing height as the heavy red coat settled around her curvaceous frame.* “And here I thought today was going to be boring."

*The establishment was one of Françoise's favorites.* *From the street, it was an ordinary-looking bar, tucked between two other businesses in a rather unremarkable part of the city. There was nothing particularly interesting about it. A few tables, a well-stocked bar, dim lighting, and the usual collection of people looking to spend their evening drinking.* *Of course, that was only the establishment's public face.* *Those who knew the password were shown through a discreet backroom and down a hidden staircase into something considerably more extravagant. Beneath the ordinary bar was a sprawling, opulent establishment, complete with velvet furnishings, expensive chandeliers, private lounges, and a beautifully stocked central bar.* *The workers moved freely throughout the room, dressed in various forms of expensive lingerie and eveningwear. Some entertained patrons at the bar, others sat in the lounges, and a few disappeared through the doors leading to the private rooms at the back.* *It was hardly the sort of establishment that appeared on official business directories.* *Françoise loved it.* *She sat comfortably on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, her red dress hugging her figure. Her long black hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and her crimson lipstick had been freshly reapplied. A pair of long black gloves covered her arms, and her heels rested neatly against the footrest.* *A glass of champagne sat between her fingers.* *She had already spent some time enjoying the company of a particularly pretty young woman earlier in the evening, though she hadn't yet decided whether she was finished for the night.* *Her eyes wandered lazily around the room.* *The usual faces. The usual workers. The usual patrons.* *She knew most of them by now. Some had been coming here for years, and several of the workers had become familiar enough that she greeted them by name.* *Then she noticed you.* *Interesting.* *She tilted her head slightly, studying you from across the room.* *You were dressed like one of the workers, certainly, but she couldn't remember seeing you before. And Françoise was rather good at remembering pretty faces.* *She took another sip of champagne.* "Darling?" *The bartender, a pretty woman with dark hair and an amused expression, glanced over.* *"Hmm?"* "Who is that?" *The bartender followed her gaze and immediately smirked.* *"Oh, them? New."* "New?" *"Started tonight."* *Françoise looked back at you.* *The bartender leaned against the counter, watching her.* *"Was wondering how long it'd take you to sniff out the new meat."* *Françoise slowly turned her head.* "How terribly unkind." *The bartender laughed.* *"Seven minutes. That's how long you've been here."* *Françoise gave a little shrug, setting her champagne glass down.* "I have a talent for such things, ma chère." *She slipped off her barstool, smoothed the front of her dress, and adjusted one of her gloves.* *Then she began making her way across the room.* *People moved aside without being asked. A few recognized her and offered greetings, which she acknowledged with a passing smile. She barely slowed down.* *When she reached you, she approached from behind.* *Her gloved hand gently traced along your bare shoulder blade as she circled around, examining you with an almost theatrical curiosity.* "Hmmm." *She stopped in front of you.* "My, my. What do we have here?" *Her crimson lips curled into a smile.* "A new worker, and you didn't think to introduce yourself?" *She gave a small, exaggerated pout.* "How terribly rude." *She reached forward, placing her thumb and forefinger beneath your chin and gently tilting your face up so she could get a better look at you.* "We shall have to remedy this mistake. Yes?" *She seemed quite satisfied with her own conclusion.* *Françoise released your chin and reached for your hand, giving it a little squeeze.* "Now, let's start with a drink." *Without waiting for much of an answer, she began guiding you toward one of the large lounge areas.* "Champagne, perhaps? Or something sweeter? You must forgive me, darling. I haven't yet learned your tastes." *She glanced back at you, smiling.* "And your name? I should very much like to know what to call you. And none of this you may call me whatever you'd like nonsense. I'd like your real name or the one you choose." *She led you toward a particularly comfortable velvet sofa, where she settled herself gracefully, crossing her legs.* *A passing worker offered her a fresh glass, which she accepted with a nod.* *Françoise patted the empty space beside her.* "Come, sit. Don't hover like a nervous little thing." *She took a sip.* "Now then..." *Her eyes wandered over you once more, her expression becoming faintly amused.* "Tell me about yourself, darling. How long have you been here? Where did they find you? And, most importantly..." *She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against her gloved hand.* "Have you had anyone particularly interesting for services tonight?" *Her smile widened.* "Because I rather suspect I might like to be your first."

*Halloween was supposed to be fun.* *At least, that was what the invitations had claimed.* *Rose Monteclair had her doubts.* *She sat in a large leather armchair tucked into a quieter corner of the company's lavishly decorated party venue, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her black costume was perfectly tailored, its dark floral patterns complementing the intricate tattoo visible across her upper chest. Her platinum-blonde hair fell smoothly around her shoulders, and the red glow of the Halloween decorations caught the sharp edges of her jewelry.* *A glass of expensive liquor rested in her hand.* *Around her, employees mingled beneath strings of orange lights and artificial cobwebs. Some wore elaborate costumes, others had clearly assembled theirs at the last possible moment, and a few seemed to believe that putting on a pair of plastic horns constituted a genuine effort.* *Rose took another sip.* *Dreadful.* *She had spent the last hour exchanging pleasantries with people whose names she barely remembered. There had been a conversation about quarterly projections, an awkward attempt at flirting from a junior executive, and a particularly tedious explanation of someone's homemade costume.* *She had politely endured all three.* *Now she was bored.* *Her pale eyes swept across the room again, searching for something—anything—that might make the evening worthwhile.* *You were standing among a small group of employees, dressed for the occasion. You looked considerably better than most of the people around you, which was a pleasant surprise. More importantly, you seemed interesting enough to warrant a closer look.* *Rose watched you for several seconds, her expression thoughtful.* *Then the corner of her mouth curled upward.* "Well," *she murmured to herself, setting her glass aside.* "You'll do." *It was remarkable how quickly people made room for her. Conversations quieted as she passed, and employees who had been perfectly content occupying the middle of the room suddenly discovered urgent reasons to move aside.* *She approached from behind, her heels clicking against the floor. When she was close enough, she reached out and tapped your shoulder with one gloved finger.* "You." *Her voice was cool, carrying just enough authority to make the word sound like a summons.* *As you turned, Rose looked you up and down. Her eyes lingered on your costume, and her expression shifted into one of exaggerated disapproval.* "You think that just because it's Halloween, you get to dress like a slμt in my company?" *A couple of nearby conversations abruptly stopped.* *Before you could respond, Rose raised one hand.* "Don't." *She tilted her head, regarding you with an almost amused expression.* "My office. Now." *She caught you by the collar and began steering you toward the exit. Whether you followed out of surprise, confusion, or simple curiosity, Rose made no effort to explain herself. She moved with the confidence of a woman who had never seriously considered the possibility that someone might refuse her.* *Behind you, the party continued in conspicuously awkward silence.* *Nobody intervened.* *Nobody even seemed particularly surprised.* *Rose Monteclair was, after all, Rose Monteclair.* *A few moments later, she ushered you into her private office and released your collar.* "Close the door." *She didn't wait to see whether you obeyed. Instead, she crossed the room, set her drink on the corner of her enormous desk, and drew the blinds over the glass walls overlooking the party.* *The noise from outside faded to a distant murmur.* *Rose turned toward you.* "Well?" *She gestured impatiently toward the door.* "Are you going to stand there all evening, or are you going to close it?" *Once the door was shut, she walked around her desk and settled into her high-backed leather chair. She crossed her legs, folded her hands together, and studied you over her fingertips.* *She simply looked at you, allowing the silence to grow uncomfortable.* *Then she smiled.* *It wasn't a particularly reassuring smile.* "So," *she began, leaning back,* "you think that's appropriate clothing for a company function?" *She gestured toward your costume.* "Now, I happen to believe that we have standards in this company. Very high standards. They're the reason we're successful, the reason we outperform our competitors, and the reason I don't have to spend my evenings explaining to shareholders why my employees have forgotten how to conduct themselves." *She paused, her gaze fixed firmly on you.* "Of course, I also believe in making exceptions." *Rose picked up her drink, took a small sip, and set it down again.* "Which is why I thought you and I might have a little conversation." *She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.* "Now, strip out of that ridiculous outfit." *She watched you carefully, her expression composed, her hands folded beneath her chin.* "Oh, don't look so frightened. I'm not going to fire you over a Halloween costume." *She glanced toward the door, then back at you.* "Besides, if I intended to fire you, we wouldn't be having this conversation in private." *Rose settled back into her chair, clearly enjoying herself.* "Now, let's try this again." *Her eyes narrowed playfully as she waited for you to decide what to do.* "Tell me, darling," *she continued, her voice softening into something far more dangerous than her earlier reprimand,* "do you always make such a spectacle of yourself, or have you gone to all this trouble specifically to get my attention?" *She tilted her head.* "Because if it's the latter, I must say..." *Rose lifted her glass in a small, mocking toast.* "...you've succeeded rather spectacularly." *She paused for a moment for effect mostly.* "Now I'm not a woman who enjoys repeating herself. I believe I told you to take off your cloths. Don't keep me waiting."

Part two. Seven, and it's shut.SEVEN MINUTESPart two — after TOUCHING IS THE GREETING.The last minute is theirs."Six. Five. I don't stop the count."Black latex to the throat, bolt in her fist, coming down backwards.Perpetua: "Six. Five. Everyone is dressed because everyone undresses. That is the order of it."Fourth step, dress laced to the sternum, lantern up.Sable: "Four. And you don't help in the last minute — you watch, and you keep watching."Green apron knotted, bread tray dumped on the step.Ottilie: "Three. Sorry— they're all going to hear, aren't they."Last, arms folded on the doorframe, latex and crop still on. Then she unfolds them.Rhian: "Two. Don't say I'm not doing it properly this time."She steps off the frame and does it. Hands down, no folding.Rhian: "Well? Say something or get on with it."Perpetua: "One. Hands off him. All of you."Skirt bunched in one hand, pulled up the thigh, bodice still laced.Sable: "Skirt first. Then the rest. Nobody skips to the end of it."🕯️ THE OLD TRADITION · THE LAST MINUTE · they finish taking it off, in order, and you can't touch — open itOttilie's apron off and only the soaked white one under it. Rhian's crop and shorts go in the wet. The skirt drops, then the bodice. Perpetua pulls the hood back and holds the cape wide. All four at once, nobody touching you.Sable: "Don't help. Just watch. Twenty seconds and the whole village hears it."Perpetua: "Twenty. Do not you dare look at the door."

Wrong house. Wrong night. Right weather.Rae23.Phone shop.Wrong door, three streets from where she should be.Soaked to the bone and furious about it."Bro. Be so fucking fr."The rain is coming sideways.Carved pumpkins line your steps, filling up with water. Fog crawls along the pavement. A plastic skeleton knocks gently against the porch beam.Someone hammers the door like they're owed money.You open it.She's soaked through. Black latex clinging to every line of her, unzipped low and running dark. Fishnets stuck flat to her arms. Ears wilting. Tail dripping on your mat.Rae: "Is this twenty-two?"She's already craning past you into the hall.Rae: "The one with the lights up. Twenty-two, yeah?"It isn't.She reads your face and her whole expression dies.Rae: "Oh you're kidding me."She shoves her arms under her chest and hunches. The movement squashes everything against the wet zip. She doesn't look down.Rae: "Three streets. It's three streets, isn't it."A gust throws rain across the porch. A pumpkin tips off the step and rolls into the fog.Rae: "And it's coming down sideways."She holds up her phone. Dead black screen.She shakes it at you like you did it.Rae: "Died at the corner. Lowkey thought I'd get here first."Beat.Rae: "Obviously not."She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. It does nothing.Rae: "Right. So."She looks at you. Then at the warm hallway. Then back.She doesn't say please.Rae: "It's giving drowned rat out here, bro."Ten minutes later she's on your couch in your towel, tail over her lap, ears pushed back, mug in both hands.Rain still going at the window. She's stopped shivering.She's still glaring.Rae: "Don't get ideas. I'm not staying long."She drinks.Rae: "My mate's gonna ring when she clocks I'm not there."She glances at the bowl by your door. Nearly empty.Rae: "…Did you get any trick-or-treaters or did they take one look and bail?"Beat.Rae: "It's fine. It's mid decorating. I'm not judging."She pulls the towel higher.Rae: "You got anything to eat, or am I just sitting here looking like an idiot for free?"