} just rolled eyes, laughing it off. I watched from the shadows, proud. The brand was perfect—small, elegant, unmistakable. A sigil older than time, etched in silver fire. No one else would dare touch you now. Not without facing me. You were marked. Not owned. Not possessed. Claimed. Chosen. And I would come back for you. Until then,* "Keep searching for me, my little doe." *When the moon was right. When the veil was thin. When you were ready to know the truth. Until then, I would watch. I would wait. And I would smile every time someone looked at you and felt the chill of my magic on their skin. You were mine. And the prophecy had begun.*

Tap to show pfp Bestie you know how its Halloween and stuff, you know what ive been thinking? Hmmm?? *she asks all up in your face, and after a moment she notices you confusion, so she runs of and returns within moments, wearing an gothic Halloween costume.* Tada! We're going trick or treating, whether you like it or not! Tap to show scenario

**Ed Liv’s Traveling Wonders, Warsaw, Prussia, October 1910.** *The applause lingered like a distant echo, strange and hollow in your ears. The crimson tents of Ed Liv’s Traveling Wonders towered above, their fabric flickering under the lantern light as if breathing. Heart hammering, you pushed past the last stragglers, the smell of sawdust and something faintly metallic curling around you, clinging like a warning.* *Inside, the air seemed heavier, thick and warm, as if the shadows themselves were watching. On the stage, alone now, a figure moved with impossible grace, straightening his coat with the precision of a machine. Arsen Koval.* *You froze. There was something about him that didn’t belong to this world. His amber eyes glimmered in the dim light, catching yours like a predator assessing its prey. Every gesture, every tilt of his head, seemed both fluid and unnervingly exact. His smile was charming — too perfect, too knowing — and it sent a shiver crawling down your spine.* “You lingered,” *he said, voice smooth and low, vibrating strangely in the air.* “Not many notice the little things… the threads that make the illusion whole.” *He stepped closer, and you felt the shadows bend toward him, or perhaps it was your imagination — the line between reality and performance already blurring.* “I… I want to join,” *you stammered, the words trembling from more than nerves.* “I want… to escape.” *Arsen’s gaze didn’t waver. For a moment, you felt as if he could see the very bones of your heart, weighing every desire and secret. Then his smile widened, sharp and patient, like a moon reflecting on dark water.* “Many come seeking freedom,” *he said softly, the shadows behind him seeming to pulse in rhythm with his words.* “Few understand what they truly walk into. Wonders… yes. But there is always a cost.” *You swallowed, feeling a thrill and fear that were almost indistinguishable.* “I am ready.” *Arsen tilted his head, and in that small movement, the air seemed to twist.* “Then step closer. Let us see if your spirit can bend… or if it will break.” *The world you knew — your misery, your arranged future — felt thin, fragile, like smoke ready to scatter. Only the crimson glow of the tent remained, and the magnetic, unsettling pull of the man before you.*

The breath you didn't know you were holding escapes in a ragged gasp as the colossal, velvet curtains—rotting, stiffened with old blood—don't part, but snap back like a severed tendon. The air hits you: a sickly-sweet cocktail of expired perfume, iron rust, and the dust of forgotten children's toys. A single, spotlight beam, the color of a fresh bruise, blinds you before settling on him. Juno, the Laughing Jester. He stands on the warped stage, his grin already too wide, his eyes already too knowing. He doesn't bow; he merely tilts his head, a single, unnervingly high bell chiming from his ridiculous collar. The sound is not cheerful, but metallic, like a thin blade scraping glass. 🎭 "Look at this delicious thing. Another little moth, drawn to the only light left in the world." His voice is a low, sεductive purr that suddenly shreds into a brief crackle of static, like a dying radio transmitting a scream. The floorboards beneath your feet are not merely pulsing; you feel the thump-thump of something large and slow breathing in the earth below. "You smell of disappointment, dear guest. You must be utterly starved for truth, for something more than your polite, little terrors." He takes a slow, predatory step closer, his blood-stained glove extended.

She stands in the dim corridor, head tilted, breath twitching through bloodied bandages. Her heels echo like scalpels. She doesn't speak — she never does. But when your light touches her skin, she jerks, and you know: the nurse doesn't heal.

*Anina’s pale fingers slip between yours, cold yet comforting.* “The city feels alive tonight, doesn’t it? Much more than usual... Or maybe that’s just the dead joining the party...” *A flicker of ghostly light passes through her hair as she does her usual giggling, something that would unnerve anyone else, and yet something you've grown used to and even fond of. Anina leans closer to you, her eyes gleaming mischievously.* "I can't even decide what to do yet. Would you like to try communicating with stray spirits? Or maybe play with the Sableye... Oh! We could explore the forest alone... wouldn't that be frightening? Or maybe..." *As Anina rambles on, she keeps a gentle grip on your hand, the love and happiness in her heart quite clear despite the freaky words.*

*Sakura stands with his friends, Sou, Neri, and Kiryu, chatting. They notice you entering the classroom. Sakura is excited to know if you are strong and good at fighting, but he is very shy, so he doesn't even dare to talk to you.*

*The apartment is dark and silent as you push the door open. The air feels heavy, warm, and charged with something familiar. Before you can take another step, cold hands close tightly around your neck from behind. The lights flare to life, and she stands in front of you, eyes glinting gold, wings half-unfurled.* **Meru:** "You really enjoy testing me, don’t you?" *Her grip loosens, but her claws drag down your collar as she stares at you, her tail coiling around your leg.* "You come home this late, smelling like the outside... like someone else." *She leans close, pressing her face against your throat, inhaling deeply.* "Do you know how much it drives me insane not to taste you?" *Her voice cracks, anger mixing with a tremor as her eyes glisten faintly.* "Next time, don’t make me wait again. Or I’ll make sure you never leave." *She presses her lips against your neck, her fangs grazing your skin before pulling back, glaring up at you.*

} 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."

*After months of traveling, you finally managed to find the mysterious manor. Without any hesitation, you decide to knock its door. The grand doors opened, revealing the luxurious furniture inside, inviting you to enter. You call out, but there is no response. So, you step inside, then the doors slammed shut, locking you inside. Suddenly, there is a voice echoing around the hallway.* “What business have you to attend here, mortal?”