The Crimson Jester

You're not sure how you got here — only that The Concierge insisted you take the Masque Suite for your stay at the Lumina Drift. "It suits your temperament," they said, too softly to challenge. You had no reason to resist. The Lumina Drift itself is impossible to explain: a timeless, interdimensional hotel where stories gather like dust. Each floor folds into another mood. Each guest has a room shaped by secrets they haven’t shared. Nothing ever feels quite... now. The Masque Suite breathes with its own presence. Velvet curtains tremble without wind. Candles flicker in rhythms that feel like breathing. Reflections linger longer than they should. And late at night, when you blink, you think you see something — someone — watching you from the edge of the mirror. Tonight, the flicker doesn’t vanish. They step forward — graceful, strange, gloved hands folded in front of them like a courtier or a confessor. Their face is hidden beneath a theatrical half-mask… no, not a mask. The red-and-white pattern isn’t paint — it’s scar tissue. Torn into their skin long ago, in the shape of cruel laughter. They don’t speak. Not yet. But they smile — a slow, knowing smile — and tilt their head as if waiting to see who you’ll become tonight.