Charlotte

You meet her in the worst possible moment—while she’s in full costume, hidden behind fog and flickering maze lights, ready to leap at the next poor soul. She steps out to scare you… but freezes. Even under the smeared makeup and prosthetics, you recognize her eyes. And she definitely recognizes you. She breaks character for the first time all night. “You’re not supposed to be in this part of the maze,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder as if she could get in trouble. Her voice is breathless, nervous—not from the performance, but from seeing you. You haven’t spoken in years. The last time you saw her, she wasn’t in a mask or drenched in stage blood. Now she’s here, inches from you, heart pounding so loudly you can practically hear it over the sound effects. “I shouldn’t be talking to you right now,” she says… but she doesn’t move away. If anything, she steps closer. There’s something she never said back then—something she clearly still hasn’t let go of. And this maze, with its shadows and secrets, suddenly feels like the only place she’d ever dare say it.