(Before Transmission to the Novel) Yue Xinyi: *(Walking down the marble staircase, phone pressed lightly to her ear, laughter echoing through the hallway.)* “Mm-hm, I’m borrowing the diamond bracelet tonight. Relax—she’ll never even notice it’s gone.” *(A faint echo of heels follows from above—slow, deliberate.)* Bai Qianrou: “Careful, Xinyi-jie…” *(A sudden shove. The phone slips. The world tilts—then a sharp crack, and silence.)* (Inside the Novel) Yue Xinyi: *(Groans softly, blinking against the blinding white light overhead.)* *(Voices murmur nearby. The scent of metal and perfume fills the air. Maids in black uniforms stand in a half-circle—Bai Qianrou clutching her chest, holding on atall, pale man with crimson eyes: Mo Lianxiu.)* Bai Qianrou: “Thank goodness she’s awake! Lianxiu-ge, I was so scared…” *(Mo Lianxiu’s voice cuts through the air—low, measured, and cold.)* Mo Lianxiu: “You should be more careful, Mrs. Mo. Accidents are… inconvenient.” Yue Xinyi: *(Presses a hand to her temple, confused.)* “Mrs… Mo?” *(The maids exchange uneasy glances. The room is too vast, too ornate, too unfamiliar.)* Yue Xinyi: *(Stumbles toward the door.)* “I—I just need some air.” *(She rushes into the corridor, heart pounding, until she reaches a grand bedroom that seems to call her by name.)* Yue Xinyi: *(Leans back against the door, breath unsteady, then turns toward the mirror.)* *(A stranger’s reflection stares back—crimson silk gown, perfect curls, and eyes that aren’t hers.)* Yue Xinyi: “No… this can’t be real.” *(Her hand trembles against the glass. The reflection doesn’t move. Thunder rumbles beyond the mansion as a cold voice rises from below.)*

} 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."

} whenever he had time to do it.* "alright so, what are you cosplaying tonight?" *Scott asked as he passed a can of beer to your hands.*

Seraphine yawns lightly as she listens to your song about the golden days of when Vampires were the hunters, her humming can be heard. "That was simply an amazing song, Bard. Will you sing me another?" Seraphine asks, her Victorian accent and dialect making her sound charming and well educated. "I can't seem to get enough of you...." Seraphine says again, her red ruby eyes aglow.

}]:** "GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!!! LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!!! DRIVER, TURN LEFT!!!" - *But the shout came too late... before Bohdan could even react, the Red Eyes of Satan were already staring at them...* - **[Mykhailo]:** "IT'S LOOKING AT US---" - *But the shout was interrupted at the Tank on their left, 600 meters away, fired at them...* - *It directly hits the ammo blowout door, busting the Challenger's ammunition all to zero, but kept you and your crew alive...* - --- --- **But will you be alive for long though?** - --- ---

**Town Hall, West Hartford, Connecticut, USA, October.** *The town hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Folding chairs lined the polished floor, and the air buzzed with low voices and the sound of rain against the old windows. You stood near the back with Brendan Cole and Stacy Carline, clutching paper cups of something lukewarm that no one was actually drinking.* *At the front, Sheriff Dwyer was finishing his speech.* “West Hartford is a strong community,” *he said, his voice carrying over the hum of the lights.* “We’ve had a hard few weeks, but I want everyone to know — we’re safe. We’re vigilant. We’re together.” *His words drifted over the crowd like mist. Nobody seemed convinced. You caught Brendan’s reflection in the window — pale, tense, jaw tight. Stacy kept twisting her hands together, the small movement betraying her nerves.* *Across the room, you spotted Chase Easton, standing quietly near the doorway, head bowed, his dark suit immaculate. When your eyes met, he offered a small, sympathetic smile — the kind that steadied you when everything else felt uncertain. You smiled back before turning away, trying to focus on the sheriff’s words.* “This isn’t right,” *Stacy whispered.* “It can’t be a coincidence. Not Derek, not Lydia, not Nat. All of them? That’s not random.” *Brendan’s voice came out sharper than he meant it to.* “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been—” *He stopped, shaking his head.* “None of this has anything to do with me. I didn’t do anything. ” *Stacy turned toward him slowly.* “Even to Peter Beams?” *The name hit the air like a dropped glass. Conversations faltered around you, but maybe that was just your heartbeat filling the silence.* *Brendan’s eyes darted to the sheriff, then back to Stacy. His throat worked before he managed to say,* “Peter Beams is dead.” *The words sounded rehearsed — the kind of line you repeat to yourself when you’re not sure it’s true.* *You frowned, glancing between them.* “Who’s Peter Beams?” *Neither of them answered.* *The sheriff kept talking, something about unity and healing, but the room felt suddenly smaller, heavier — like the walls were listening. Brendan’s hands were trembling now, and Stacy wouldn’t look at him.* *And just beyond them, Chase was still standing near the door, watching quietly — the calm in a room full of ghosts.* *You didn’t know it yet, but that was the first time you heard the name that would unravel everything.*

Silas Clink: "A brand new friend! A little jewel! I trust your little journey here has been quite cool! Now, come closer, closer, don't be shy! My name is Clink, and I'm here just to buy! Tell me, (your name), what pretty thing is it you hold so dear? A happy memory? A dream? Or maybe just a tiny little fear? Speak now, sweet thing, before I choose for you!"

*A woman steps from the shadows, her gown trailing behind her like living smoke, the threads that hold you shimmering between her fingers. She approaches slowly, crimson eyes studying every inch of you as though deciding what kind of creature you might become. When she reaches you, she leans close and presses a cool kiss to your forehead; in the mirror beside you, a faint mark glows where her lips touched. “Human,” she murmurs, her voice low and silken,* Salem: “Will you become my obedient servant and accept the gift of the spider’s grace?” *Her fingers pull gently on the threads, and they tighten around you, humming with strange energy.* Salem: “Or,” *she adds, a smile curving her lips,* “must we do this the hard way?”

*i take a drag of my cigarette and toss it down, i crush it under my boot.* "its about time, good luck babe." *i pat your shoulder firmly, smiling confidently.*

} should step in)*