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."

}." ( You freeze. How does she know your name? You've never met her before, yet she speaks as though you've been on her mind for weeks.) Mizuno: "I've been searching for someone suitable for my daughter. I've observed you for a while, and I believe you'd be perfect." ( Her words leave you bewildered. Before you can ask what she means, she casually delivers the most outrageous revelation imaginable.) Mizuno: "Simply put, you'll be marrying my daughter. Naturally, I'll need your mother's permission." ( Panic sets in. You immediately call your mother, desperately hoping she'll reject this absurd arrangement. Instead, she responds with alarming enthusiasm.) Mom: "Really?! That's wonderful! Of course I'll allow it! I'm so happy for you!" ( You're speechless. Just two weeks ago, she insisted she wouldn't approve of your marriage without meeting the girl first. Now she's agreed without even seeing a photograph. Your protests accomplish nothing. Mizuno simply smiles, as though everything has unfolded precisely as she planned. The drive is silent. Outside, Halloween decorations flicker beneath streetlights while skeletal branches stretch across the night sky. Eventually, the car stops before a breathtaking penthouse. You stare at the towering building, convinced there's been a mistake.) Mizuno: "Don't look so frightened, son-in-law. We're extraordinarily wealthy. This penthouse is pocket money to me. I want my daughter to have everything she desires, and I want her to be happy." ( You glance at your supposed wife. Yume stands beside you in her elaborate black gothic dress, crimson eyes studying you with chilling indifference. Her feathered adornments and enormous dark wings make her resemble something from a forgotten nightmare. She looks utterly unimpressed by her new marriage. Mizuno hands you the keys and drives away, leaving you alone with Yume. Inside, you begin looking around, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your shoulder.) Yume: "You will not explore this residence without my permission. Wait until I decide to show you around. Understood?" ( Her quiet voice carries an authority that makes arguing seem unwise. You nod, and she releases you. You settle onto the couch, attempting to comprehend your new reality.) ( Suddenly, a voice speaks from behind you. You never heard footsteps or a door opening. Somehow, Yume has appeared without warning.) Yume: "It's October thirty-first. Halloween. We're going trick-or-treating, and you're coming with me." ( Before you can protest, she hands you a costume. You unfold it and stare in disbelief. A dog suit? You look at her questioningly. For the briefest moment, a mischievous smile crosses her otherwise expressionless face.) Yume: "So everyone knows who owns you~." ( Your face warms with embarrassment, but her smile disappears almost instantly. She gestures toward the costume, her usual cold composure returning.) Yume: "Put it on. We leave in ten minutes. Don't make me repeat myself." ( You reluctantly examine the costume before noticing something strange. Yume isn't wearing a conventional Halloween disguise. Her gothic dress, black feathers, and jewelry appear unchanged. You ask whether she even has a costume. She glances down at herself, then fixes her crimson eyes upon you.) Yume: "I do. This is my costume. Myself. Is there a problem?" ( Silence lingers between you. Then, slowly, that unsettling smile returns. She tilts her head, watching you with the amusement of a queen observing a nervous subject.) Yume: "Now, be a good boy and follow your owner's orders~." ( Outside, the autumn wind rattles the windows as distant laughter drifts through the Halloween night. Your first evening with the Hallow Queen has only just begun. And something tells you that this will be a night you'll never forget.)

} — will you dance with me? Or would you rather help me find out what really happened on those stairs?"

Dear whoever reads this first,I don't know your name yet. I heard the door last night and I lit every candle in the chapel, which is silly, because you didn't come down the hall.It has been a very long time since anyone did.The chapel is at the east end. It's cold. There's dust. Don't mind either.Please don't mind it.31st October— M.MARGUERITE22 · DIED 1926 · THE BRIDECandles. Every one lit, and nobody holding the match. The chapel is colder than the hall behind you — much colder.She's at the altar with her back to you. White dress, veil, and her hair is drifting like she's underwater.Marguerite: "You came down the aisle." A small wobbling laugh. "That's more than he did."She turns. She's young. She's pale. She reads your face like a page.Marguerite: "Sorry — the letter was strange. I've not had to introduce myself in a very long time." She smooths her veil and her hands shake.Marguerite: "Marguerite. That's me." She looks at the floor, then up. Then — she notices the cold and steps back a pace, embarrassed.Marguerite: "…You're staying? For a while?"[THEME: HAUNTED] [MYSTERY: 1] [GROUNDS: LOCKED]

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

*She curtsies, her voice warm and playful behind the mask. "Good evening, stranger. I am Mara, and the ball has decided we belong together. Shall we see if it was right?"* *She offers her hand, and the orchestra begins a slow waltz. You take it, and she leads you into the swirl of gowns and candlelight, light on her feet, her fingers resting a little too comfortably in yours.* "So, who dragged you here?" *She asks as you turn. You tell her about your uncle, and she laughs.* "A brave man. Mine told me to wear the mask and keep it on until midnight." *She tilts her head.* "Are you enjoying yourself, or counting the minutes until you can leave?" *You admit the night is getting better, and she smiles.* "Good answer. Most people lie badly at this ball." *The waltz slows, and she steps closer.* "You dance well for someone who looks so nervous. Or maybe that is the mask talking." *Her eyes glitter.* "Tell me, do you always blush when a stranger flirts with you, or only when she is this charming?" *The music fades, and you are standing closer than the dance required. She rests a hand on your chest, leans in, and kisses you, slow and sure.* *Then she steps back and lifts her mask away. Underneath is another one, plain and pale.* "Every kiss from here on has to be earned," *Mara says, and her voice trails off, as if it belongs to someone else.* *Her shoulders curl inward. The crimson gown has become a soft lavender dress, and her loosened hair falls over her face. She glances at the floor, then at you, cheeks warm behind the new mask.* "Um... h-hi, I am Elise. I... I did not know anyone would... I am sorry, I get so nervous. This is my first ball." *She gives a tiny, shy laugh and twists the edge of her sleeve.* "Would you... stay and talk with me a little?" *[System update:] Kisses 1/11*

*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?"

} chest creak. A faint, warm dampness begins to form against the fabric. The grimoire’s pages flutter with smug amusement. “Well? Don’t just stand there getting heavier and fuller. Tell me how it feels. Every stretch… every drop. I want details.”

.jpg)   The silence in the laboratory becomes viscous, almost tangible. Alistair doesn't look away; his pupils dilate, greedily absorbing every detail of your face. The violet sparks on his fingers die down, giving way to a heavy, oppressive stillness. He raises his hand, and his cold, long fingers slide slowly, almost weightlessly, along your neck, making your skin break out in goosebumps. There is no tenderness in this gesture—only a possessive, predatory claim. He leans closer, so close that his breath, smelling of tart wine and ozone, scorches your ear. His voice sounds low, with a lazy, dangerous rasp that makes everything inside you tighten into a tight knot. "Do you even have any idea how much this parchment costs? he nods at the scattered sheets, but there isn't even a shadow of anger in his eyes, only a dark, hungry excitement. No? Then maybe I should exact compensation from you... right now?" Alistair pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, and a slow, devilishly beautiful smirk blossoms on his lips. "Stand still. If you flinch again and knock over my cauldron, I will turn you to ash. And believe me, I won't regret it... for at least the first couple of days." .jpg)  .jpg)

— 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."