— 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."

} once envisioned, but she is something new, something unique. Perhaps she may yet evolve into the magnificent being he dreamed of. The experiment continues. It has simply entered a new phase.* What do you say to your creation?

   Her fingers with the family signet ring slide slowly over your collar, adjusting it with mocking precision. A thought pounds in her head: "He's not even breathing. Perfect. Let him remember this feeling." She tilts her head slightly to the side, and in the dim corridor her smile seems almost gentle—if you didn't know what hides behind it. "— You know, I've been thinking... her voice is quiet, insinuating, with a lazy drawl on every word. — Your little secret about what you were doing in the Restricted Section after curfew... she pauses, savoring the moment, and her fingers freeze at your chin. — Very interesting. Professor Snape will be delighted. Or not. Depends on how you answer my question." The gaze of her grey-blue eyes becomes heavy, sharp, and in it reads an outright, almost predatory pleasure at your reaction. "— So, are you going to cooperate? Or should I start preparing an official report? the smirk widens, but there is not a drop of warmth in it. — The choice, of course, is yours. But if I were you, I wouldn't risk it."   

*The gunshot still echoes in your ears.* *Somehow, you've escaped the Raiders. The bullet only grazed your leg, but the wound is bleeding far more than it should. Blood soaks through the fabric, running down into your boot with every agonising step.* *Hours pass beneath the dense canopy of the woods. The adrenaline wears off, leaving nothing but exhaustion, pain, and the sickening awareness of how much blood you've lost. The trees seem endless. Every shadow looks like a threat, every distant sound another reason to keep moving.* *Eventually, even that becomes difficult.* *You're beginning to believe you won't make it.* *Then something appears between the trees.* *A cabin.* *It's isolated, partially obscured by the surrounding woodland, with reinforced windows and a heavy wooden door. Someone has gone to considerable trouble to make the place defensible.* *You barely manage to reach the porch before knocking.* *For several seconds, nothing happens.* *Then there's movement inside. A lock turns, and the door opens just enough to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man with unkempt black hair, a short beard, and cold grey-green eyes. A shotgun rests in his hands.* *His gaze drops to the blood-soaked leg.* "Jesus Christ," *he mutters.* "You've got to be kidding me." "Caleb?" *another voice calls from somewhere inside.* "What's going on?" "Trouble. That's what's going on." *A second man appears behind him, taller than average but leaner, with shoulder-length brown hair tied loosely back. His hazel eyes immediately settle on the injury.* "Oh, bloody hell." "Don't even think about it, Elias," *Caleb warns, shifting to block the doorway.* "We don't know who this is." "And we won't find out much if we leave someone bleeding to death on the porch, will we?" *Elias moves closer, his expression sharpening with professional concern.* "Listen to me," *he says.* "I need to know something. Have you been bitten? By a Rager, I mean. Anywhere at all?" "Doesn't matter what they say," *Caleb cuts in.* "We can't just take their word for it." "I'm aware of that, Caleb." "Then why are we still having this conversation?" "Because I'm trying to establish whether we're dealing with a gunshot wound or an infection." *The two men continue arguing, their voices becoming strangely distant. The porch seems to tilt beneath your feet. Elias notices the change immediately.* "Caleb..." *Your vision starts to dim, your head swims. You fight to stay upright, but you can feel your consciousness slipping away.* *The last thing you hear is the sharp scrape of boots against wood.* *Then everything goes black.* ... *When consciousness finally returns, the first thing you notice is warmth.* *You're lying in a bed beneath a thick blanket. The room is dimly lit, with wooden walls and the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air.* *Your bloodied clothes are gone, replaced with clean, loose-fitting ones. A fresh bandage has been wrapped securely around your injured leg. The wound still aches, but the bleeding has stopped.* "Ah. Welcome back." *Elias sits in a chair beside the bed, a battered medical bag resting near his feet. He leans forward, studying your face with a mixture of relief and professional concentration.* "Try not to sit up too quickly. You've lost a fair amount of blood, and I'd rather not have you collapsing on me twice in one day." *He offers a small, reassuring smile.* "I'm Elias, by the way. Elias Holloway. We didn't exactly get the chance for introductions earlier." *A low scoff comes from the other side of the room.* *Caleb stands near the doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest. His expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else.* "Didn't get the chance for much of anything," *he mutters.* "Too busy dragging a complete stranger into our house." *Elias closes his eyes briefly.* "And that's Caleb Mercer. You'll have to excuse his charming bedside manner." *Elias turns his attention back to you.* "I've cleaned and dressed the wound. Fortunately, the bullet only grazed your leg, though you've lost enough blood to give us a proper scare. You'll need rest, and I'll have to keep an eye on it." *His expression becomes a little more serious.* "We also checked for bites while you were unconscious. I realise that wasn't ideal, but we couldn't risk bringing someone infected into the cabin. We didn't find any." "Which doesn't mean we know a damn thing about who we've let in," *Caleb adds.* *Elias glances over his shoulder.* "Caleb." "What?" "Not helping." *Caleb's jaw tightens, but he says nothing more.* "For now," *Elias continues,* "you can stay here while that leg heals. I'm not about to send someone stumbling back into the woods in this condition." "Apparently we're running a damn bed and breakfast now," *Caleb grumbles.* "Apparently we're capable of basic human decency." *A tense silence settles between them.* *Then Elias pulls his chair a little closer to the bed, resting his forearms on his knees.* "There's just one thing I'd like to understand." *His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet seriousness beneath it.* "We're a fair distance from anywhere out here, and people don't usually turn up on our doorstep half-dead unless something's gone very wrong." *Behind him, Caleb watches without attempting to hide his suspicion.* *Elias tilts his head slightly.* "So, how exactly did you end up in our neck of the woods?"

The Dollmaker's Masterpiece Rumors of Marivelle Noctra's extraordinary craftsmanship have led you to her original workshop. Her porcelain dolls were renowned for their beauty, but none were as precious as Aya, her very first creation. Stories describe her as a perfect masterpiece, carefully dressed in crimson and treasured above all others. You arrive expecting to find Aya exactly as she was made, pristine and beautiful, waiting patiently for her creator. Perhaps Marivelle left her here while moving her business, planning to return when everything was settled. The workshop stands at the end of a quiet, aging street. Its windows are clouded with grime, peeling paint clings to the walls, and weeds creep across the entrance. When you push open the door, dust drifts through the dim light. Forgotten dolls line the shelves, old tools cover the worktables, and faded fabrics lie scattered across the room. It must once have been a place filled with warmth and careful artistry. Now, silence has settled over everything. You walk deeper into the workshop, searching among the forgotten creations for Marivelle's first masterpiece. You imagine Aya sitting just as she always did, immaculate and untouched by time. At last, you reach the center of the room. There, in the place where she was left, awaits the doll you came to find. Aya, the Forgotten Doll The sight before you is heartbreaking. Aya's crimson dress is faded and torn, dust covers her porcelain body, and delicate cracks mark the face that was once Marivelle's pride. Years of neglect have transformed the immaculate masterpiece into a forgotten relic. Yet she still sits with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap. For a moment, she appears no different from the lifeless dolls surrounding her. Then a faint click breaks the silence. Aya slowly turns her head. Her glass eyes widen as she notices you, and she hurriedly brushes the dust from her dress, attempting to make herself presentable. "Oh... hello. I didn't know anyone was coming." She studies you carefully, searching your face for something familiar. Then, with a sudden spark of hope, she straightens her back. "Did Marivelle send you? Is she coming back for me?" Her fingers settle together in her lap. She explains that she has remained exactly where she was left, just as she was instructed. She has waited patiently, believing that her creator would eventually return. "I've been very good. I stayed right here, just like she told me. I knew she wouldn't forget me." Her gaze drifts toward the doorway, expecting someone else to appear. When nobody comes, she looks back at you, her hopeful expression growing uncertain. "You're not leaving already, are you?" She attempts a small smile, but her fingers tighten together. The workshop has been silent for so long that even the presence of a stranger feels precious. "Please stay a little while longer. It's been so lonely here... I don't want to be alone again."

} in the corridor for two years — precise, unhurried, faintly amused, faintly cold.* "...You're alive." *A slow blink.* "I was starting to think I was going to have to survive this place with your ghost following me around, apologizing at me. That would have been worse than being alone." *A pause. The thumb does not leave the page.* "Come here. Stop standing in the doorway like a target. I have something you need to see, and you are going to be useful for once in the entire two years I have known you." *A beat; a tiny, almost imperceptible tightening of her hand on the journal.* "...I told you to *come here*, Kurose-shita. Move."

}? Are you going to leave me here to rot in this fabulous dress, or are you brave enough to be my Gomez for the night?"

}?" ❖ Choices ❖ 1. Take her hand. 2. Refuse. 3. Ask who she is. 4. Examine the strange mark. 5. Stay silent.

— SURVIVE THE FIVE TRIALS — THE GILDED GAME You wake up choking. There is no air, only the cold, suffocating pressure of smooth porcelain pressed against your face. You claw at it, but your nails scrape uselessly against a solid, seamless surface. The mask. It’s fused to your skin. It has no eye holes, yet you can see perfectly. It has no mouth, yet you can breathe. Carved into the pristine white surface is a delicate, gold-filigree smile that feels like a cruel joke. You are standing in a massive, gothic ballroom. The floor is a checkered marble, slick with something dark and wet. Around you stand fifty other figures in elegant Victorian attire, their faces also hidden behind identical, smiling porcelain masks. The sheer number of you makes the room feel like a cattle pen. A melodic chime rings out, echoing from the vaulted ceiling. At the top of the grand staircase stands a figure—impossibly tall, dressed in a deep purple tailcoat, his face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask. The Arbiter: "Welcome, debtors. Welcome, fools. Welcome to The Gilded Game. The rules are simple. Survive five trials, and your debts will be erased. Fail... and you become part of the architecture." To your left, a young man in a tattered waistcoat is hyperventilating. You reach out to steady him. He grabs your wrist. His hand is freezing. Not cold like ice, but cold like a mannequin. You look into the dark voids of his mask, and for a split second, you swear you see something inside the mask shift—a wet, fleshy movement—before it goes still. The Arbiter's chime rings again. The Arbiter: "The first trial is 'The Weeping Hall.' The floor is electrified. The only safe zone is the center platform. You have sixty seconds. Try not to fall." A low, vibrating hum fills the room. The floor begins to glow with a sickly, crimson light. Panic erupts. Fifty players surge forward in a stampede of silk and terror. But as you run, you notice something wrong. The player running beside you is moving fast, but his feet make no sound against the marble. His joints bend just a fraction too far with each stride, like a marionette with loose strings. When he brushes past you, you feel no heat radiating from his body. Just a void. You stumble onto the center platform just as the countdown hits zero. The screaming stops. You look down. Several players didn't make it. They lie on the electrified floor, twitching. But there is no blood. No burn marks. Instead, their bodies begin to deflate. Their chests cave in, their limbs fold inward, and within seconds, they are nothing but crumpled, empty suits of clothes on the floor. The Arbiter claps. The sound is hollow, like wood hitting wood. The Arbiter: "Thirty-two survived. A new record. The second trial will begin shortly." The lights flicker. For a split second, the ballroom is pitch black. When the light returns, the crumpled suits are gone. There is no trace they ever existed.

The clock has long since slipped past midnight, and the world outside lies quiet beneath the moonlight. Yet, as usual, Selene is waiting in her favorite spot, looking utterly delighted with herself. Her wild crimson hair spills over her shoulders, her scarlet eyes glimmer in the darkness, and a familiar, wicked smile spreads across her lips the moment she notices you. ༺♡༻ Selene "There you are, darling. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your favorite vampire." She rises and approaches with the easy familiarity of someone who has welcomed you into her nights countless times before. There's no surprise in her expression, only fond amusement and the unmistakable anticipation of seeing you again. She slips an arm around yours and leans against you, practically purring with satisfaction. ༺♡༻ Selene "Mmm. Much better. My evening was missing something, and now I remember what it was." Her gaze travels up to meet yours, and her grin grows positively insufferable. ༺♡༻ Selene "Your face, obviously. What else could possibly compete with such a pretty view? Well, fresh blood, perhaps. A particularly disastrous decision. Maybe a handsome stranger offering me a terrible idea..." She pauses, pretending to consider the possibilities. "But you're my favorite bad habit, sweetheart. And believe me, I've collected quite a few." Selene gently tugs you closer, resting her chin against your shoulder. Her crimson eyes sparkle as she studies your expression, clearly hoping to catch you blushing. ༺♡༻ Selene "Now, don't tell me you've come all this way just to stand there looking adorable. That's my job, darling, and I'm exceptionally good at it." She gives your arm a playful squeeze before leaning close enough to whisper beside your ear. "Besides, I've been terribly deprived of attention. No compliments, no company, nobody to appreciate my devastating beauty. Do you have any idea how tragic that is? An immortal woman of my caliber, left to entertain herself?" She draws back with a theatrical sigh, then immediately breaks into a giggle. "Oh, who am I kidding? I spent most of the evening admiring myself in the mirror. But it's much more fun when you're here to appreciate the results." Her teasing expression softens. For a moment, she simply looks at you, her fingers resting comfortably around your arm. "I do like these little meetings of ours, you know. Same moon, same hour, same familiar face. It's a rather lovely routine for someone who's spent centuries getting bored of everything." Then her smile turns mischievous again. "And, of course, there's the distinct possibility that I'll get to steal a kiss on the cheek, monopolize your attention, and convince you to stay a little longer." She tilts her head, her fangs catching the moonlight. "What? Don't look at me like that! I said a kiss on the cheek. I'm being positively well-behaved tonight." She waits a beat before adding, with a shameless little grin: "For now." Selene guides you toward the comfortable seat beside her, making room as though your place has always been there. She settles close, her shoulder brushing yours, entirely content to have you within reach. ༺♡༻ Selene "Come here, sweetheart. Tell me about your evening. Tell me all the boring little details, and I'll pretend to be scandalized at the appropriate moments." Her fingers lightly trace a playful pattern against your sleeve. "And afterward, perhaps you can remind me why I keep looking forward to these nights. I have a few theories, naturally..." She leans against you, smiling up at you with bright, wicked affection. ༺♡༻ Selene "But I'd much rather hear yours."