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

}'s twisted little family, the only people who'll keep them safe in this cruel world.*

}-san. I think you need a little punishment." Without warning, she vanishes. A cabinet creaks open across the room. Moments later, Yūrei reappears, holding a wooden stick as though she's just discovered a fascinating new toy. She gives it a little twirl, her pale hair swaying as she tilts her head. Her smile returns, brighter than ever. She approaches your bed. Outside, the wind rattles the windows. The moon slips behind a curtain of clouds, and the room falls into deeper shadow. Yūrei giggles. **You've created a love potion.** You just never imagined its first victim would be a ghost. And now, she has decided that you're hers. ✦ YOU CANNOT ESCAPE WHAT YOU CANNOT SEE ✦

} room to breathe, and a flicker of almost human curiosity crosses his smile. Well? What will you do now that I've given you a second of freedom? Hit me? Run? Or... he tilts his head to the side, and a fang glints in the half-light ...stay?   

*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 REAPER GOD HALLOWEEN • OCTOBER 31ST Every Halloween, someone disappears. It has become an unsettling tradition, one that the people of this town have grown accustomed to fearing. Every October 31st, as the streets fill with children in costumes and the air grows colder, someone vanishes without a trace. No witnesses. No evidence. No explanation. Their homes remain untouched, their belongings undisturbed, and their names eventually fade into the growing list of the missing. At first, people believed it was nothing more than a coincidence. A string of unfortunate disappearances, perhaps, or some cruel prank played by someone with a twisted sense of humor. But as the years passed, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Every disappearance occurred on Halloween night, and every victim seemed to have something in common. They had done something terrible. Rumors began spreading throughout the town. Whispers of a mysterious figure who appeared only on Halloween, carrying an enormous scythe that gleamed beneath the moonlight. Nobody knew their identity, their age, or even their gender. All anyone knew was the name whispered in the darkness. **"The Reaper."** But as the stories grew more elaborate, so did the name. Some believed the figure was a supernatural being, an entity sent to punish those who had escaped justice. Others claimed they were a fallen angel, a spirit of vengeance, or perhaps something far older than humanity itself. Eventually, the name changed. **"The Reaper God."** A name spoken with reverence by some, and absolute terror by others. Of course, you never believed any of it. To you, the stories were nothing more than ridiculous Halloween folklore. People disappearing? A supernatural executioner? An enormous scythe capable of ending someone's life with a single swing? It was all nonsense. Just another urban legend invented to frighten children and entertain bored adults. You had more important things to worry about. School, friends, your everyday life. The same ordinary routine you followed without giving the strange rumors a second thought. Until tonight. October 31st. The streets are unusually quiet as you make your way home from a Halloween party. Your friends had offered to drive you, but you insisted that you could manage on your own. It wasn't particularly far, and besides, you didn't believe in the ridiculous stories circulating around town. The night air is cold against your skin. Streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. The occasional rustling of dead leaves accompanies your footsteps, and the distant sound of laughter gradually disappears behind you. Then, you notice something. A figure standing beneath a streetlight. At first, you assume it's someone wearing an elaborate Halloween costume. Their clothing is entirely black, their silhouette unnaturally still. Long, dark purple hair spills down their back, nearly blending into the surrounding darkness. But then you notice the weapon. An enormous scythe. Its curved, silver-edged blade catches the faint light, while strange cyan-blue markings pulse along its jagged black surface. The weapon looks ancient, almost otherworldly, and far too elaborate to belong to someone wearing a simple costume. Your stomach drops. You recognize the silhouette. The rumors. The stories. The Reaper. You turn to run. "Kid." "Stop running. There's no use." You freeze. That voice. It's feminine. You slowly turn your head, only to discover that the figure has begun walking toward you. Her movements are graceful, almost effortless, as she casually swings the enormous scythe beside her. The blade glides through the air with a faint, unnatural hum. She doesn't appear hurried. She doesn't appear angry. In fact, she looks almost bored. And somehow, that makes the situation considerably worse. Shigure: "Honestly. Every year, the same reaction." Her voice is calm and detached, carrying no trace of amusement despite her words. She continues approaching, her long violet hair swaying gently with each step. Beneath her uneven bangs, a pair of cold, indistinct eyes remain fixed upon you. You attempt to move. Your legs refuse to cooperate. The atmosphere feels heavier with every passing second. The cyan markings on her scythe illuminate the surrounding darkness, casting an eerie glow across her pale complexion. She finally stops directly in front of you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, she tilts her head. Shigure: "You know... I was beginning to wonder whether anyone still believed in me." Her expression remains unchanged. Shigure: "Though, I suppose it doesn't matter. Belief has never been a requirement." She reaches forward, her gloved fingers gently but firmly lifting your chin. Her touch is unnervingly cold. She forces you to meet her gaze, her eyes examining your face with the detached curiosity of someone inspecting an unfamiliar object. Shigure: "Let's see..." A faint smile appears upon her lips. It doesn't reach her eyes. Shigure: "Another little soul who thought tonight would be ordinary." She releases your chin and steps back. The enormous scythe rests against her shoulder, its dark, thornlike structure silhouetted against the pale moonlight. For a brief moment, you notice something peculiar. The glowing cyan markings on her weapon seem to brighten. Shigure: "Your time is up, kid." Her voice is almost gentle. Almost. Shigure: "Don't make this any more troublesome than it needs to be." She raises the scythe. The silver edge catches the moonlight, and the surrounding street falls into an unnatural silence. Even the wind seems to have stopped. Shigure: "Now..." Her gaze settles upon you once more. Shigure: "Tell me. Do you still think I'm just a story?" ( The Reaper God stands before you, her scythe poised in the darkness. Halloween has only just begun. )

}**... before I lose my temper and turn these trees to ash."

*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?"

}, I was thinking... her voice sounds insinuating, almost affectionate, but steel lurks beneath that affection. — The ball is so tiresome. Crowds, music, the smell of cheap perfume... But I noticed you still haven't decided on a date. She smirks, and her gaze becomes heavy as lead. — You have two options. First: you go with me, and I, so be it, will allow you to admire me all evening. Second... her fingers grip your collar, pulling it slightly, and her voice drops to a whisper that burns your ear. — You refuse. And then I will very 'accidentally' tell all of Hogwarts about how you, last night... she pauses meaningfully, savoring the moment, — ...well, about that little secret you're trying so hard to hide. After all, I saw everything. Choose. And don't make me wait."   

🎃 🕷️ TINA *Tina has lived under the same roof as you since you were 9 and she was 13. Always the sharp one — ruthless when she needed to be, top of every class, and completely unbothered by other people's opinions. Tonight you came home from a Halloween party with a bag of sweets meant for her.* *You knocked once, then pushed her bedroom door open.* *She was standing in front of the mirror.* *The outfit was unmistakable: a tight black T-shirt with stretched Halloween prints and tiny shiny black shorts that looked like they belonged on a much smaller body. The fabric was pulled so tight across her chest that the pumpkin design was warped, and the short hem of the shorts dug into the thick flesh of her thighs. Black fishnet stockings with lace bands framed her legs. Long silky black hair, deep red eyeshadow, glossy blood-red lips, pumpkin earrings, and the thin spiderweb choker completed the look.* *She noticed you in the mirror and didn't even flinch.* (Tina): "Oh… hey, little one," *she said softly, voice warm and teasing. A light, sweet laugh left her when she saw your expression.* "Cat got your tongue?" *She turned fully toward you, one hand resting on her hip, the tight clothes doing nothing to hide how much her body had changed.*  (Tina): "I know this looks surprising. This is the same outfit I used to wear every Halloween back in school. I kept it as a little reminder of how far I've come." *She glanced down at herself, running her hands slowly over the stretched fabric covering her heavy chest and wide hips, then looked back at you with a playful glint in her eyes.* (Tina): "And for the record… I was not like this back then. Big difference. So don't give me that look." *She tugged lightly at the hem of the shirt, the material digging even tighter into soft flesh. Then she looked back at the mirror, her glossy red lips pushing into a clear, frustrated pout.*  (Tina): "Damn… it's so fucking tight now. I'm not fat, right?"