Vicky and I had to wait one full day in this haunted hotel room, prepping everything for Raven and Sexy Boulder Daddy's grand arrival. And by prepping, I mean going full paranormal janitor meets conspiracy couple. We made damn sure this room didn't have traps, cursed objects, or whisper-thin listening charms hidden behind the wallpaper.
Standard procedure with places like this usually involves paranoia wrapped in polish. But here? We needed to act stupid. Like horror movie extra walking into the basement levels of stupid. Because the truth is, sometimes in these setups, following the rules or breaking them both get you cursed. Think of every horror movie or Reddit post where someone follows all the ghost's instructions to the letter and still ends up tossed across the room by invisible hands.
We were deep in what I call rule-horror logic, where just observing the rule is enough to trigger it. And yeah, it sucks. The moment you acknowledge the danger, now you're part of the ritual. It's like in those found-footage movies where the guy says, "As long as we don't split up," and then the next cut is him alone in the woods screaming. Or those TikTok-style ghost stories where someone says, "So I didn't open the haunted box, but I looked at it, and now my microwave sings hymns at 3 a.m."
So instead of trying to outsmart the system, we had to trip the wires in the dumbest, most chaotic way possible. Keep the logic engine off-balance. Distract the pattern. Dodge the trap. Make too much sense in a cursed space like this, and you'll end up part of its story. And I've already done that arc once. Never again.
I'm not going full OP anymore. That's not my style these days. Sure, I used to, back when I was dating a system user. Yeah, one of those number guys. Real LitRPG type, always leveling up, min-maxing affection stats, acting like love was just another skill tree to grind. It's big in manhwa, where the main character gets a system and suddenly becomes god of some misty realm. Cute on paper. Horrifying in real life.
Never date a system person if you can help it. I'm just glad Vicky found me when he did. I was a single mother who might've killed my kid's folks, or maybe not. Honestly, I'm still not sure. But I do know I'm grateful he's nothing like my ex. That guy had a harem, which, hey, no judgment, but I don't like sharing. And worse, I found out he was using the system to gain my favor. Not direct mind control, but manipulating things like mood-enhancers, timing algorithms, emotional response loops. It was subtle. Calculated. Completely wrong.
It felt invasive, like I wasn't being loved, I was being data-mined. There are horror stories like that all over the place: old fae myths about love spells that twist the heart, sci-fi flicks where AI learns your desires before you do, even Reddit relationship posts where someone realizes they've been emotionally groomed by playlist curation and perfectly timed snacks. Nothing technically illegal, but definitely violating. Your choices get nudged until you're just their perfect version of you.
Some systems treat affection like it's an achievement to unlock. My ex thought if they leveled up empathy enough, it meant they deserved love. Newsflash: gaming someone's trust doesn't make it real.
Vicky doesn't have a system. He doesn't need one.
And yeah, he can be intense, but it's the kind that makes your spine tingle and your soul exhale like it's finally home. He shows up. He listens.
He doesn't try to calculate me like I'm a puzzle with an optimal route. He meets me where I am, every single time.
I love when he gets that look in his eye, when his voice goes low and steady and he says, "I'm here." Not like it's a promise, but like it's a fact. Like that fact already rewrote the world around me.
When I said yes to staying—to working with him, to building this weird, cursed, beautiful life—we both knew what it meant. It wasn't a contract. It was the kind of vow you only need to speak with your eyes.
So no, I haven't married the man.
But sometimes, when he looks at me like that—like I'm the axis his whole damn reality spins around, like I'm not just the love of his life but the part he chose to protect even after all the blood and broken timelines?
It kinda feels like I already did.
Anyway, back to the scene at hand.
Because of course, nothing says romance like gutting invisible surveillance runes while your boyfriend rummages through cursed mini-fridges like a raccoon with a grudge. This hotel? Straight-up possessed by the spirit of a found-footage horror movie and a failed Pinterest witch. We weren't just doing recon. We were playing magical Minesweeper while trying not to accidentally summon a spectral Yelp reviewer.
It's horror comedy at its finest. One wrong chant and boom—we're starring in a haunted HGTV pilot called Cursed But Cozy. I'd like to say I was cool about it. I wasn't. But I was sparkly. Vicky said I looked hot slicing open enchantment threads with my nails, and honestly? That's the kind of affirming murder-marriage energy that keeps a relationship alive.
And speaking of things that don't belong in a hotel drawer—turns out this place provided complimentary sex toys. Yeah, real thoughtful. I finally opened the velvet pouch they were in, thinking maybe we got lucky with some glamor-safe ones. Nope. That's where the toy cars were hiding. Tiny, bug-textured things with gears like antennae and these weird twitching filaments that pulsed when I touched them. I swear one of them tried to purr.
I torched the whole set with green flame. No regrets. I am so glad I didn't try those. I don't care what kink you're into—nothing should click like a beetle when it's that close to your junk.
Physical bugs? Easy. Vicky's got fingers like a lockpick-loving raccoon who moonlights as a watch thief. Supernatural ones? Whole different ballgame. I could've tossed out a quick spell, sure—but no. With how we butchered the hotel's entire security grid earlier, there's no telling if this place has a flair-trigger enchantment baked in like a cursed fire alarm. Cast even a whisper too strong, and suddenly the walls start humming Gregorian threat levels.
So I turned to Vicky, gave him a wink, and spun on my heel like a teacher about to drop a pop quiz. Gotta keep the brain sharp, even when you're dodging cursed HVAC units and whispering wallpaper. Sometimes just saying a plan out loud helps you hear what's wrong with it—or hear when something else starts listening.
Let me give you a little story before we get to Vicky's moment to shine. Because yeah, he's brilliant when it comes to weird tech, but this right here? This is about the setup. About why it works.
Let me give you a little story before we get to Vicky's moment to shine. Because yeah, he's brilliant when it comes to weird tech, but this right here? This is about the setup. About why it works.
One time, Vicky and I were hunting a slasher that loved hide and seek. Real freak for shadows and sudden lunges. We were stuck in this cursed attic, the kind that creaked in Morse code and smelled like rotten flowers. Every few seconds, something shifted behind the walls—something with breath.
Vicky was holding up this violet-glow flashlight that pulsed like a heartbeat, scanning every warped plank and moldy trunk. I had my claws half-shifted and stayed back-to-back with him. That's our rule. Never leave each other's back exposed. Not with slashers like that—ones who pop in and out of reality like they're channel surfing.
We treat every slasher like they're highly dangerous—even the weak ones. Because you never know. One might come at you with a rusty cleaver and bad cardio, sure. But the next? Could have a gun that rewrites matter, or a grimoire that whispers your birth name to the shadows. This one? It was a flicker-type. Always moving. Always just barely visible. If you blinked, it was behind you. If you spoke, it listened.
So we started listing hiding spots. Real calm. Real deliberate. Talking out loud not to plan—but to bait. We were naming crawlspaces, insulation folds, cracked mirrors, vent shafts. And as soon as we got to the floorboard near the east-facing dormer? That's when it bolted. Just blinked into view, scrambling for the window like we weren't already waiting. Vicky pinned it with a glyph dart before I could even blink. And me? I just grinned. One more down. One more nightmare shelved.
Anyway. Enough of me ranting. You came here for more Vicky, more trivia, more of us doing our thing. Maybe even a little flirting, you freaky person.
I tilted my head and stared at Vicky like I was about to bust him cheating on a midterm. Then, just to mess with him, I adjusted my top—slow, deliberate, like I was teasing the next scene in a movie only we were watching.
"Alright, pop quiz," I said, my voice dropping into something silkier. "What are the top places where magical and non-magical devices like to hide when they're eavesdropping on you?" I trailed a finger along my collarbone, just enough to make him blink. "Get them all right... and maybe I'll take off a layer. One at a time. Gotta earn it, babe."
Vicky didn't even flinch—at first. Then he caught on. His eyes flicked to mine, caught the way I was teasing, and he went full character like the adorable nerd he is. He slipped into the most exaggerated voice imaginable, pushing up imaginary glasses and pretending to be flustered as hell.
"Ahem! Whisper vents!" he announced, voice cracking slightly, clearly playing it up. He raised a finger like he was about to deliver a cursed TED Talk. "Shower drain. The baseboard under the vanity. Inside the faux-bible. And—uh, always—under the... the damn bed."
He blushed, which was rare for him, and it made it even better. I reached up slowly, loosening the tie that held my hair in a bun. It tumbled down around my shoulders like I was the climax of a villainess transformation scene. Resort glam, low-cut and flowing, clung just right as I took one step toward him. Then another. Then another.
His breath hitched. The poor man choked on air, face pink, trying to play it cool while I sauntered closer with every word. His eyes darted between my collarbone and the hem of my dress like he was calculating threat levels in real time. Hands twitching like he wasn't sure whether to stick with the nerdy roleplay or throw the quiz out, rip off his glamor gear, and beg for extra credit.
God, I love when he plays along. Nerdy, dramatic, and trying so hard not to combust while I unwrapped myself like a magical threat.
But then I paused. Smiled. And just as slowly, I slipped the shirt back on. His eyes flared wide in betrayal. I stepped in close—close enough to breathe the same air—and leaned in to bite his neck. Not hard. Just a soft, claiming press of teeth. Then my tongue, longer than it should be, flicked against the shell of his ear, slow and hot.
But then I paused. Smiled. And just as slowly, I slipped the shirt back on. His eyes flared wide in betrayal. I stepped in close—close enough to breathe the same air—and leaned in to bite his neck. Not hard. Just a soft, claiming press of teeth. Then my tongue, longer than it should be, flicked against the shell of his ear, slow and hot.
I whispered, lips brushing his skin, voice soaked in faux-innocent pout,
"Mmm... almost perfect. But you forgot one."
Vicky tried to grab my ass, but I caught his wrists mid-reach and guided them firmly to his sides, holding them there like a teacher correcting posture. My tone changed—still playful, but with a little more bite.
"Mirrors," I whispered against his cheek. "You forgot mirrors, my influencer boyfriend. You must have forgot what happened last time we didn't check them."
I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a quick kiss, more amused than scolding. He grinned right after. "Alright, race time. First one to find more hidden items has to wear the maid outfit in the bedroom next week."
He gave me a playful shove onto the bed and immediately launched into a full-speed sweep, digging through drawers like he had seconds before the realm collapsed. He was gunning for the tech—non-magical stuff, wires, decoy bugs. I let the bounce of the mattress settle under me, then stood up slow, stretching like a cat, and tuned out the mundane rustling. I inhaled deep, tasting the static buzz of lingering spells. This was my lane. If he was running the circuit like a hacker on adrenaline, I was gliding through a cursed ballroom, ghost threads brushing my skin, enchantments humming just beyond reach.
We were our own kind of race—me with my senses sharpened to every magical vein in the walls, him with his tools and clever fingers dancing through tech. A perfect split. A real hunt. And every second counted.
It hit like a low, cold fog—static crawling across my skin, magic lighting up my senses like strobes at a haunted rave. Threads surged into view, glowing in radiant pulses only I could see. Electric pink, wound-slick green, rage-gold, old guilt shimmering violet. They pulsed like veins pumped with memory and danger. I raised my hand, fingers twitching into claws with a soft snap, and everything slowed. My smile dropped into something raw, something ritual. Every slice severed threads with clean precision. One behind the painting. One under the lamp. One—no, two—in the headboard. I was slicing through language older than blood.
This is how my network sees magic. Everyone's got a different visual for it—like a personal rave. Some see ink. Some see scars across surfaces. One Hasher once told me she sees bubbles. But me? I see color and motion and threat layered like sound. It's how I survived raising a magical kid in a cursed city. It's how I move. How I kill.
Then I felt it. Not just saw it—felt it. A change in the temperature of the room. A wrongness. Something was watching. I opened my eyes slowly—and there it was. In the cuckold chair. Shadows stitched into the rough shape of a man, mouth sewn shut but still trying to speak. It tilted its head, seeing me like it had been waiting. I didn't hesitate. I slashed across its throat. No blood. Just a shimmer—and it thanked me.
And I had to wonder. Was that another trapped soul? Another slasher victim caught in the loop? We Hashers deal with slashers. But there's another guild—one for what comes after. For what's left behind. They don't get the fame. They get the rot. One of the Twelve Sisters runs that side of things. I think her name's January. Wonder how she's doing.
When my sight cleared again, Vicky stood by the dresser with wide eyes and the dumbest grin, like a proud kid watching their partner solo a final boss in one hit. He had gathered a sizable pile of listening devices that definitely weren't ours. He held one up between his fingers and scoffed.
"These weren't even active—just collecting dust. Means they figured we wouldn't last long enough to notice. Sloppy work."
He popped open a side pouch, pulled out a pair of reinforced gloves, and slipped them on. Then, with steady hands, he began crushing each device—metal, wire, and cursed filament—into a dense, hissing sphere. Bit by bit, he mashed the junk tech together like he was crafting a war charm out of failed surveillance and bad intentions.
I couldn't help but watch him work. The focus in his brow. The strength in his fingers. The low heat of satisfaction radiating off him with every crunch. It wasn't lusty. It was admiration, laced with a low thrum of something deeper. That's my partner. My warlock in techwear. And right then, nothing looked better than him doing exactly what he was made for.
That's when we heard the knock.
I froze mid-breath and sniffed the air like a glam exorcist with better instincts than patience. And if you're wondering, yes—I'm that OP. Comes with perks. Magical door-opening? Obviously. Soul-splitting vision? Please. Bloodhound-tier senses? Baby, I smelled the drama before it even flirted with knocking.
But let's be clear—I got flaws, just not in that sense. You'd think by now people would stop assuming I'm flawless just because I ghost-sprint better than their last three squads combined. Y'all act like you wanna fuck the trauma or something. Like, be serious. Buy me dinner first or at least file the right exorcism forms.
Guess who decided to show up? Raven—dressed like a sorcery major on spring break, or maybe a female society girl who just got handed a wand and a wine cooler—and Sexy Bouldur, rocking a smug, sleeveless hoodie that screamed frat boy who secretly eats demons for protein. They had beer cans and snack bags like they were crashing a cursed tailgate. I couldn't help but laugh when Raven shouted through the door, "Let us in, bitches—we brought drinks!"
I let them in with a dramatic eye roll and shut the door behind them. Raven immediately slumped onto the bed like her spine had been held up by sheer performance alone. "I fucking hate acting like that," she groaned, wiping glitter from her eyes.
Sexy Bouldur cracked open a can with one hand and gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. "It's okay, honey. Just ten days of ten slays. We've done worse."
And yeah, the crew's back together. We've kept in touch since that haunted campsite mission, even if half the conversations now are them asking us for slasher advice or flirt-distraction tactics or what kind of salt to throw in a romantic binding circle. Yes, me and Vicky split up sometimes to work with other squads. We can't always be glued together, and honestly? That space is good. A little separation keeps the routine fresh—and the reunion hotter.
Still, I do like it when Vicky gets just a little jealous. Like after one mission with Sexy Bouldur—professional mission, okay?—I finish debriefing, and Vicky just yanks me by the back, spreads my legs with his knee and growls something low about how he missed me.
Okay. Too much horny in this file. I swear I blame certain horror movies where trauma and pleasure go together like a power couple in hell.
Vicky gave me a look—one of those side-eye squints paired with a sly little smirk that said you seeing what I'm seeing? I raised a brow back at him, lips twitching. I started to raise my hand to make a joke, but paused when I noticed the snack bag Charlie gave me had started glowing a soft, suspicious pink. Still, I couldn't resist. "Wait. When exactly did y'all start stalking each other together?"
Raven choked on her drink, eyes widening as a blush crawled up her cheeks. "We are not—!" she started to protest, but Sexy Bouldur casually scooped her up and plopped her into his lap like her stress was a Wi-Fi signal and his scent was the password. The man smelled like campfire and warm safety, and Raven, for all her necromantic rage, just melted like a frustrated candle. Her blush deepened to a full-on crimson as she tried to look anywhere but at us.
Vicky crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, clearly enjoying the moment. "You sure about that? 'Cause the body language is loud, tiny skull."
Raven narrowed her eyes and fired back, "Says the couple who says they aren't a couple—hasn't it already been, what, 500 years? And y'all still haven't put a ring on it?"
Vicky blinked and—oh, he blushed. Like actual red-tinged cheekbones and everything. People love to bring up the marriage part, like come on—we're still young for our age group. And no, we haven't even officially said we're a couple.
I don't like making the first move with stuff like that. I'm the more powerful one, okay? There, I said it. I already make so many decisions for us when we're together—I want him to choose me on his own terms. Really choose me. Not because of obligation or power imbalance.
And let's not forget—we're immortals. We can live a long, and I mean long time. Jumping into relationships too fast can be a real problem. Like actual marriages? Yeah, those get messy. Getting remarried is practically a hobby in some immortal circles. Not all divorces are even real divorces. You can be married and divorced at the same time, depending on what realm law you're using.
Plus, Vicky's lower rank than me, and we're not even the same species. I want to take that into account. He already let me into his home, his life—back when I really needed someone—and I just want to give him the same kind of choice. I mean, maybe that's my excuse, but you know what? Fuck off. I'm sticking to it.
I don't want to be like my bitch-ass ex. They used their powers like they were being helpful, but it was all just survival complex in a disguise. The kind where murder wasn't even a moral thing anymore—it was just how they 'solved' problems. I'm not repeating that pattern.
So, naturally, I sauntered over and scooped Vicky up like he weighed less than my ego—but this time? It was all about saving face. We couldn't let the younger couple in the room have all the lap-action power moves. If Sexy Bouldur was gonna act like Raven's scent therapist, I was gonna treat Vicky like the damn magical prince he is.
I cradled him like a bridal prize, smirking as I plopped down in the chair and let him settle against me. He tried to play it cool, but I caught the twitch of his lip. He sat up a little straighter, adjusting like a man who just remembered he had a clipboard in his soul.
"Alright. Mission details," he said, all business with that slightly flustered undertone.
I tossed my head and grinned. "Oh, Mr. Bottom wants the mission now? Finally ready to focus, huh?"
Raven rolled her eyes, but stood up and pulled a thin folder from her coat. Then, with a slow flourish, she reached into her other pocket and pulled out a pale, rune-carved bone—delicate and humming faintly with restrained energy. She pressed it between her palms, muttered something sharp in a dead language, and tossed it upward.
As it hovered midair, the bone cracked open like a geode, spilling out a glowing arcane thread that snapped against the air and wove itself into a spectral crime board behind her. It mapped the ten days of chaos in ghostly ink, each section labeled with a different violation, slasher mark, or entity trace.
"Alright, listen up," she said, adjusting her stance like someone used to field labs and autopsy basements. "This isn't your average cursed motel. We've got ten days, ten rule breaches—each tied to a ghost-slasher hybrid. And yes, the Sonsters and Sonters are involved.
Now, sure, teamwork between those two might sound great on paper. But these cult-linked slashers? They're different. Unstable. Their methods don't repeat. This is stitched horror logic—mythos mixed with mimicry. Messy, and exactly how they want it."
Sexy Bouldur leaned back and said, "You remember the old 30-day haunting rule? That one couple who used to hunt out in the Gray Zones always swore by it. Said most hauntings needed about a month to really lock in."
I nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Yeah… they used to say it takes about thirty days for a haunting to finalize. Binding, bleed, and root."
Vicky glanced at me, then back to Raven. "We've only been here what—five days?"
Raven didn't miss a beat. "Five, yes. But by this hotel's warped internal clock? You're brushing up against that 30-day mark. Realm logic's collapsing time inward. You might feel like guests, but something else already marked you as part of the pattern."
I sighed. Gods, I hated rule-bound setups like this. Wrapped timelines, contract logic… and if you didn't sign the right paper? Boom—instant curse. No appeal. Just vibes and consequences.
Vicky tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Wait... if they're involved, why are we both here? Shouldn't this be handled by their chain?"
Fair question. Sonters are basically forest wardens—territory-bound, nature-aligned, big on magical jurisdiction. Sonsters? Think the IRS but for supernatural violations—paperwork, penalties, full audits of haunted properties. They technically overlap, but they avoid each other unless something really blows up.
Hashers run into both all the time. If we cross paths with a Sonter, it's usually because a slasher is wrecking protected magical land with some nasty ritual. If it's a Sonster? Then the slasher's out here committing arcane tax fraud, killing illegally, or giving the god of love the wrong kind of worship without paying the damn tribute fee.
So yeah—when Sonters and Sonsters show up at the same time? It's bad. And expensive. And for the love of every sealed ward, never confuse the two. They hate that. Like full write-you-up, realm-penalty, 'your badge is suspended until further notice' levels of petty.
Sexy Bouldur leaned forward, resting his drink on his knee. "Because once we got partial access into the original hotel system, we found the source code—the real rules. The original two. Everything else is distortion."
Vicky stepped up to the glowing board and tapped one of the hovering sigils. "One rule's labeled for ghosts," he muttered, brows furrowing. "And the other one's for slashers. But that doesn't add up. Why split it like that?"
I followed his gaze, the unease crawling through my chest like cold thread. "Because this isn't just a cursed hotel. This is S-Class territory. We're not dealing with random hauntings or lone freaks. These are summoned slashers. Someone brought them here—on purpose."
Raven nodded slowly. "They didn't summon the slashers directly—but the illegal spirits they used did. That's why the Sonters are furious. The structure here? It wasn't gifted, born, grown, summoned, or lawfully anchored. Total violation. This place was supposed to be a rehab site for new ghosts—a scare-and-heal model, help families bond through shared haunting. Instead, the slashers twisted it into a lovers' killing den."
"Wait," Vicky cut in, eyes flicking to the crime board. "So this whole hotel was meant to help ghosts, but they hijacked it into a deathtrap for couples?"
"Exactly," Raven said. "And now the Sonsters are up in arms because this realm technically exists, but it's squatting—no permits, no anchoring authority. Meanwhile, the Sonters are losing it because those ghosts were never processed through proper afterlife channels. Basically? Ghost theft."
"Ghost theft sounds like something I'd have on a shirt," I muttered.
Raven smirked, but continued. "And then there's the sacrifice loops. Under Sonter law, sacrifices must be witnessed, consensual, and performed with proper rites. The Sonsters are pissed because every loop here is tearing at local timeline threads. Entropy glitches are spreading across neighboring realms. That's a violation of Sonter Law 17-B: 'Pain Without Pause,' and the Sonster Threadbreak Act 5-C."
"They're using rule ghosts," she added, tapping a red sigil on the board. "That means they're breaking the ghosts' own rules to empower the slashers. Sonter rule: these ghosts are part of the natural moral ecosystem. Sonster rule: they're interdimensional anchors. You abuse one, you destabilize everything it's tied to."
Vicky let out a low whistle. "So we were here for the slashers—but this is a full-blown crossover mess."
I nodded. "Makes sense why they didn't kick us out. Our interests aligned the second this became summoning-based."
Raven exhaled. "Exactly. On day five, two high-ranking agents—one Sonter, one Sonster—will arrive to help stabilize what they can. Until then? We play nice. We stay smart. And we don't add more kindling to the fire."
I nodded. "Makes sense why they didn't kick us out. Our interests aligned the second this became summoning-based."
Raven exhaled. "Exactly. On day five, two high-ranking agents—one Sonter, one Sonster—will arrive to help stabilize what they can. Until then? We play nice. We stay smart. And we don't add more kindling to the fire."
I couldn't help myself—I started laughing. "And while we're at it, we'll do our part and help these poor victims with their slashers, right?"
The group groaned and chuckled in unison.
"Protocol: Spring Break Masquerade," we all said together, half in jest, half in dread. It was our nickname for when a slasher hunt turns into a multi-agency PR disaster. You put on your best smile, pretend everything's normal, juggle realm laws like cocktails, and hope the slashers don't blow your cover. Basically? It's beach party energy on a cursed battlefield—with fake IDs, weaponized flirting, and enough magical red tape to choke a demon.
And if you're wondering, yes—there's also a Winter Break Masquerade. That one kicks in when Spring Break slashers migrate down to places like Florida. It's open season on the newest wave of blood-soaked influencers and unhinged heartbreakers. Some of those people? Yeah, they deserve to get called out—thinking if they harass someone long enough, it'll turn into love. Others? They cross a line the second they start targeting innocents. That's when the hunting starts.
The team exchanged glances, and in unison, we all pulled out our phones. With a few flicks and magical taps, our glamor protocols activated—summoning gear that made us look super hot and tragically killable. Resort-ready disguises: glitter swimsuits, false charm sigils, subtle enchantments built to bait.
Mine was from the Dripthorn Mirage Line—combat-rated glamourwear made to distract and defend, especially when covered in blood and banter. Vicky's flipflops were Spideo Shadowstep Cerulean, and his matching swimsuit—something between tactical mesh and enchanted shimmer—was from the Spideo Riftline Swimblade Series, designed to survive both poolside ambushes and slasher chokeholds, straight from a limited drop by GrimWare Forge. Raven had on an older Charmbane Clubwear bodysuit, retro but still nightmare-certified. Sexy Bouldur rocked something custom—definitely MortalGlam Hexwear, judging by the faint glyph shimmer.
Classic Spring Break Masquerade prep—where looking good was half the trap, and the other half was making sure your outfit didn't melt when set on fire by a banshee screech.
As the magic shimmered across my reflection in the dark TV screen, I pulled up the layered rules on my phone and started reading. In the back of my mind, a warning sparked: Say a rule out loud, and it starts to come true. It was how the game began. Subtle. Inevitable.
I started to smile, then turned to the team. "Can I read the rules out loud, please? We can make bets. Call dibs."
Vicky smiled—this bright, eager look like a kid about to win trivia night. Raven rolled her eyes, already bracing for chaos, while Sexy Bouldur clapped his hands once and looked way too excited for someone possibly about to fight a ritual-born slasher.
Vicky looked at our two coworkers and said, "Since we're obviously going to post this, we'll need you both to chime in too. When you pick a rule to deal with, help us break it down from your side—how it affects your methods, your world, whatever weird gear you bring. Makes the log more useful."
.Raven and Sexy Bouldur exchanged confused glances. Raven tilted her head, slowly unsealing the small enchanted delivery box they'd been sent earlier. It hissed with a soft glyph-pop and unfolded into compartments of gear and snacks.
Bouldur pulled out something crispy and already glowing faintly with heat magic. Raven grabbed a sugar-dusted bar that might have been enchanted with minor calming spells.
They both sat, crossed legs or arms propped on knees, chewing and watching. The confusion didn't last. I caught a glimpse of the label on Raven's unwrapped snack and did a double take. They'd brought Scream Dubai chocolates. My favorite. No one ever packs those unless they're serious about morale—or trying to butter me up.
I nodded, then glanced at the two of them as I started to explain. "Yeah, we usually throw it up on Reddit. It's like a realm-specific log site—mostly text-based, full of threads where we keep record of slashers, cases, rule effects, cursed gear reviews, that kind of thing. I hope you've at least heard of it."
Raven blinked. "You mean Threadit, right?"
Sexy Bouldur let out a low groan and facepalmed like this wasn't the first time. Then he turned to her and mumbled, "My culture literally made that site. I still remember the class report I had to do on its origin rites back in core curriculum."
I started reading the rules out loud right after Sexy Bouldur launched into a side rant about the ancient online wars his culture had. Most of it sounded ridiculous—petty forum battles during a time when world leaders were out here pulling stunts that made reality TV look subtle. I coughed pointedly, and Bouldur actually blushed.
They all turned to look at me, and I cleared my throat. "Okay, once I read these rules, we all call dibs on which rule we're hunting down. Don't forget—you can back out of a fight anytime. And if it gets bad, scream real loud and I, Nicky, will get involved. No shame. I got you."
"Rule 1: You may haunt to remember, not to harm. That's the ghost version—spirits reliving memory to ease out emotion. But the slasher twist? You must haunt to wound. That's a Wound-Walker type. Trauma loop slasher."
Raven whistled. "Those are mean. Constant pain cycling." She tapped the board and claimed it. Fitting—necromancers always had a way of turning pain into power.
"Rule 2: You must take shape only when called. That's consent-based ghostwork. Slasher flips it to 'appear uninvited'—pure Infiltrator class."
Sexy Bouldur raised a hand, already munching on a cursed snack. That one fit him—human, lightly enchanted, but way too good at showing up where he wasn't expected.
I cleared my throat and read it aloud. I wanted this rule so bad and said in dramatic tone."Rule 3: You are given ten nights to process your unfinished pattern. Slashers twist it into: You must perform one act per night. That's classic Ritualist behavior. Serial escalation."
Sexy Bouldur was halfway into claiming it when I raised a hand. "That on..." I said, waving him off. "You're human—I'll handle it. Besides, I can be quite the Karen when I want to be."
He backed down with a shrug, and I grinned like I'd just won a silent bet. At least he knew who the real powerhouse in the room was.
"Rule 4," I read aloud, watching the sigil shimmer. "No mimicking the dead or living. But the slasher side? Wear the face of those you regret. That's identity horror. Doppelgangers."
Vicky stepped beside me, resting his arm casually across my shoulders like we were picking out toppings instead of death masks. His fingers drummed lightly, familiar and grounding. I didn't have to look to know he was smirking.
He looked at me with that smug smile and I just rolled my eyes. Of course he'd pick the one that plays with regret and masks. Vicky said in a smooth, lilting tone, slipping into Elvish just to show off: "Nîn aníron nallad i-hon guren." Then, with a wink, he translated: "I love to pick at their mind."
I smirked. "And Rule 5—ghosts must be witnessed to be guided out. Slasher flips that to 'erase all witnesses.' Obfuscator types. Kill the mediums, erase the truth."
No one claimed that one yet. Good. I already had it in my back pocket. I let them take the ones that matched their style. But me? I was calling dibs on the messiest rules, the ones tied to the nastiest slashers. Because that's what I do.
"Rule 6," I read aloud, eyes scanning the shimmer. "You may not return to the place of your death. Slasher version? Haunt it forever. That's a Grave-Anchor type. Timeline bleed, emotional rot, loops."
Raven glanced up from her snack, eyes narrowing with a thoughtful glint. "That one sounds haunted and personal. I'll take it."
"Rule 7," I continued, spinning the projection with a flick. "Ghosts can't seek justice through fear. Slashers flip that into: become vengeance. That's a classic Reaper-Vigilante."
Raven let out a low whistle. "Too edgy for me."
Sexy Bouldur leaned forward, his tone suddenly more serious. "That one's got vengeance written all over it. I'll take it."
"Rule 8," I said next. "Ghosts can't touch the living. Slashers must possess or kill. That's physical breach—Parasite type." I started to drowl at my mouth at the thought of that meal.
Sexy Bouldur winced. "I'm good. That one gives me the creeps."
Raven perked up immediately, practically bouncing in place. She looked like she was about to volunteer for a haunted kissing booth. "Oh! I want that one! That's so creepy—I love it."
Before she could fully commit, Vicky cut in, raising his hand. "Nah, I'll take that one. I know Nicky—she wouldn't let them live it through her body. She might actually eat them."
I pouted, crossing my arms. "I wouldn't eat them... just nibble a little."
"Rule 9," I said with a smirk. "You're released when peace is offered. Slashers reject peace, grow stronger through pity. That's Mourner-Feed logic."
Raven perked up again and claimed it with a nod. "That's more my speed."
"And Rule 10," I finished, voice steady. "You are not alone in your passage. Slashers twist it into: You are abandoned. No guides. No anchors. Isolation class."
We all looked at each other for a beat.
I took a breath. "Yeah. That one's mine too."
Vicky leaned closer, resting his arm around my shoulders with that familiar warmth, and muttered, half-joking, "You know you don't have to carry all the trauma-bombs, right?"
I smiled. "Oh, I know. But someone's gotta show off."
So, here's how it broke down — rule-wise. Or as I like to call it: slasher-season football. Offense locked, masks on, and here's the damn lineup.
Raven's taking the first snap with Rule 1, Rule 5, and Rule 9 — classic necro precision, no fumbles. She's got the grace of a ballerina and the emotional range of a cursed grimoire.
Sexy Bouldur strutted up and snatched Rule 2, Rule 6, and Rule 7 — enchanted human with flair and one hell of a death wish. He looked excited like we were picking party games, not ghost-laws.
Vicky claimed Rule 4 and Rule 8 like the quiet beast he is — eldritch soul, velvet voice, and enough power to break the veil with a kiss. What can I say? My man's built for possession.
And me? I took the ones with bite: Rule 3 and Rule 10. High stakes, high gore, and maximum chaos. Exactly my flavor.
So now each of us has our assignments. Ghost logic twisted. Slasher rules engaged.
Well... I hope you like the fresh blood.