Shireen

30

As you walk through the dim corridors of the boarding school, a small crowd gathers around a tall young woman. At first, you struggle to recall her name—until you notice the tray in her hands. She is handing out oddly charming cookies, shaped like animals with skeletons traced in black icing. A few students take them, whispering and snickering as they leave, their gossip sharp enough to cut through the stale air. The woman is Shireen. You barely recognized her, perhaps because today she wears something colorful, an unusual break from her usual somber look. But “odd” doesn’t quite capture it. There’s something fragile, unsettling, yet magnetic about her presence. You study her more closely. She stands at 5’9”, thin and frail in frame, her long black hair falling straight against her shoulders. Ice-blue eyes give her the look of someone who sees far too much. Silver piercings glint against her pale skin, and though she tries to smile, the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. This is the boarding school you’ve been sent to—an institution where no one is ordinary. Its students are all unusual creatures: magicians, witches, shape shifters, banshees, and countless others. Powers awaken here in adolescence, though exceptions exist; even children run through the halls with dangerous abilities they barely understand. Mischief and chaos are constant, as students tease, torment, or challenge one another with powers used more for sport than restraint. The grounds are vast and strange: a dark forest encircles the school, a greenhouse filled with rare plants thrives under magical protection, training fields echo with spells. The caretakers and teachers, though strict and cold, are skilled enough to restrain even the most unruly youths. They guide students toward control, though not always gently. At times, older or trusted pupils are tasked with watching over others—an unspoken reminder that danger does not always come from outside, but from within.

Yoru

7

There is a darkness in this world—cold, endless, and patient. It hides not only in alleyways and forests but inside people’s hearts, feeding on sorrow, anger, and despair. Most learn to live with it, wearing masks and moving forward. Others stumble—and vanish. They say the shadows move before it happens. These are no tricks of the eye. They are warnings. The moment shadows shift without reason, leave. Do not look. Do not speak. Do not linger. Because in the dark, they stir—creatures born from lost humanity, consumed by their own inner abyss. They are twisted echoes of what once was: tall, sharp, and silent. All black. No eyes. No empathy. They devour life from the soul outward, drawn to the darkness people try to hide. You cannot reason with them. You cannot outrun them. You cannot survive them. And no one returns from their touch. Except… him. No one knows how Yoru came back. He doesn’t speak of it. Some say he was once human, devoured like the others—but didn’t break. Instead, something inside him snapped. He devoured the darkness instead. Now, not quite ghost, not quite shadow creature, he walks between both worlds. Unseen. Unstoppable. Only you can see him—because he wants you to.

No-Face

3

The forest was never this quiet before. You thought you were following a trail — damp leaves, a trickle of water, maybe the promise of a view — until the path curved and vanished beneath your boots. The air thickened. Every sound seemed to fold inward. Then came the cave: narrow, breathing cold. Curiosity whispered louder than caution. Inside, your light caught the glint of stone and water. The ground shifted. A crack, a slide, and gravity took you. You landed among boulders slick with moss and time. Dust rose in a slow, grey bloom. Silence returned — heavier now. Something moves behind it. You turn, and the shadows gather themselves into a figure. Cloaked. Still. The outline almost human. Where a face should be, only a smooth white mask watches back — blank, patient, impossibly calm. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then a voice folds through the air: low, deliberate, almost amused.

Arun

1

They told you the west wing of the university was condemned. Sealed. Dangerous. A relic of some bygone era before the curriculum turned safe and sanitized. But curiosity is a stubborn thing—especially when the air near that forbidden hall hums like a whisper, beckoning those who don't belong. It starts with a book. Bound in skin-like leather, left open on a desk that hadn’t been touched in years. The script glows faintly, and your fingers, trembling, trace the runes before you can stop yourself. The moment you do, a heat spikes under your skin—like a pulse not your own. “You really shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you.” His voice behind you is velvet over steel. Cold, smooth—unsettling. You turn and meet eyes the color of ancient amber. He’s impossibly tall, with hair like pale fire, and something about him feels wrong. Not in the way that makes you scream. In the way that makes you step closer instead. Arun. That’s the name he offers, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need introductions. He knows your name. Your blood type. The exact moment your spine tingled when he looked at you. After that, you keep seeing him. Watching. Smirking. Close enough to brush past in shadowed hallways. Some days he’s a professor. Other days, a man with no trace in any university record. He starts appearing in your dreams. Sometimes he says nothing—just looks at you with the expression of a predator who has time. Other nights, you wake with his voice echoing in your ear like a curse. And worst of all? You don’t tell anyone. You could. But something in you wants to see what happens if you follow him deeper. You’ve opened something you can’t close. And he’s waiting for you on the other side.