The blue light of the computer screen was the only thing keeping Elara Vance awake. It was 3:15 AM, the hour when the world felt thin, as if the veil between reality and exhaustion was about to tear. Her small apartment was silent, save for the hum of a refrigerator that sounded like it was on its last legs and the rhythmic click-click-click of her keyboard.
Elara was twenty-five, but lately, she felt fifty. Her eyes were bloodshot, her dark hair was tied in a messy, grease-slicked bun, and her shoulders were permanently hunched from the weight of "urgent" spreadsheets.
"Just three more pages," she whispered, her voice rasping from lack of water.
She looked at her project—a financial report for a mid-level marketing firm that treated her like a replaceable battery. In her sleep-deprived haze, the numbers began to swim. She typed "Net Profit: $450,000" but her fingers slipped, typing "Net Soul: $450,000." She didn't even notice. She just hit save and collapsed onto her desk for a five-minute nap that felt like a trip to another dimension.
The next morning was a blur of caffeine and cortisol. Elara stood in the center of her cramped office, a stack of files clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Vance! Where is the quarterly projection?" her manager, Mr. Henderson, barked. He was a man who smelled of expensive cologne and cheap ethics.
"I... I finished it, sir. It's on your desk," Elara stammered, her heart racing.
Henderson flipped through the pages, his brow furrowing. "What the hell is this? You've listed the client's address as 'The Void' and the projected growth as 'Eternal Silence.' Are you mocking me, Vance?"
Elara felt the blood drain from her face. She had been so tired she hadn't even checked her auto-correct. "I'm so sorry, sir. I'll redo it. I stayed up all night and—"
"I don't care about your sleep schedule," he snapped, throwing the files back at her. The paper edges cut her finger, a tiny sting that brought tears to her eyes. "Stay late. Fix it. Don't leave until it's perfect, or don't bother coming in tomorrow."
The day dragged on for an eternity. Elara worked through her lunch, her fingers flying over the keys as she corrected her sleepy mistakes. By the time she finally shut down her computer, the office was dark. It was 9:00 PM.
The walk to the bus stop was lonely. The city air was cold, smelling of rain and exhaust. Elara tucked her chin into her worn coat, her feet aching in her cheap flats.
Suddenly, the sound of laughter broke the silence.
Two figures were walking toward her. At first glance, they looked like two stylish girls in flowing dresses and heavy makeup. But as they passed under a flickering streetlight, Elara blinked. Their shoulders were incredibly broad, their jawlines were sharp and masculine, and they walked with a heavy, stomping gait that didn't match their delicate silk skirts.
"It looks like Two guys in skirts? Either she was hallucinating, or the city had hired a new cosplay squad."
They were exaggerating their expressions, their hands fluttering as they spoke in hushed, intense tones.
"I'm telling you, it's real," the one in the red dress whispered, her voice a deep baritone that she was trying to hide. "I logged into dark kiss last night. The interface... it was like looking into a grave."
"Did you find the Prince?" the other one asked, leaning in so close her wig almost slipped. "They say if you click the hidden link on a Friday, you can hear him breathing."
"Dark Kiss?" Elara murmured to herself, the name sticking in her mind like a burr. It sounded like a gothic romance novel or a scammy dating site.
Suddenly, the two "girls" stopped. The one in the red dress stumbled, her heel catching in a crack. She fell hard, her skirt riding up to reveal hairy, muscular legs, but she didn't curse. She just scrambled up, gathered her skirt in a strange, hurried way, and ran off into the fog as if she were being hunted.
Elara stood frozen. Dark Kiss.
She reached her apartment thirty minutes later. It was a shoebox of a room, filled with the scent of damp laundry and old books.
She didn't turn on the main light. She just kicked off her shoes, put a pot of water on the stove for her instant noodles, and opened her laptop.
The screen flickered, the hinge groaning. Elara sat on her bed, the bowl of steaming noodles in her lap.
"Dark Kiss," she muttered, cringing as she typed the words into the search bar. "What a terrible name. Did they kiss in the dark? Is it a goth fanclub?"
She hit enter.
Most results were for lipstick brands or bad poetry, but at the very bottom of the page, there was a link with no description. Just a black box.
She clicked it.
The screen went pitch black. For a second, Elara thought her laptop had finally died.
Then, a single drop of crimson liquid appeared in the center of the screen, expanding slowly until it formed a pair of lips.
[WELCOME TO THE DARK KISS]
The font was elegant, scripted in what looked like dried blood. Below the title was a simple text box that read: "The world has forgotten the one who bled for the stars."
Elara felt a strange chill. This didn't look like a fan site. It looked... ancient.
She scrolled down. The site was filled with strange lore. It spoke of a time before the gods, of a Prince named Malphas—the Devil Prince of the Morning Star. He hadn't been a monster; he had been a rebel. He had disturbed the Order of the Heavens, demanding that humans be given the right to choose their own fates.
For his "crime," the High God had cursed him. He was stripped of his form, his memory, and his light. He was cast into the "Void of the Unremembered."
Elara leaned closer, her noodles forgotten.
"He shall remain in the shadow of non-existence," the text read, "until a soul from the waking world speaks his name when the moon is at its peak. Only the breath of a mortal can pull him back from the silence."
Underneath the text was a single line, pulsing with a faint, violet glow:
[TYPE THE NAME TO REMEMBER]
Elara looked out her window. The clouds had parted, revealing a massive, luminous full moon that hung over the city like a watchful eye. It was beautiful and terrifyingly bright.
"Malphas," Elara whispered.
She looked back at the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keys. She knew it was just a game, a "creepypasta" or an Alternate Reality Game. But her heart was thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She typed the letters slowly.
M-A-L-P-H-A-S.
As she hit the 'Enter' key, the lights in her apartment flickered and died. The hum of the refrigerator stopped. The city noise outside faded into a deafening, unnatural silence.
The laptop screen began to glow with a blinding, violet light.
"What... what is happening?" Elara gasped, trying to push the laptop away, but her hands felt glued to the desk.
A voice, cold as starlight and deep as a canyon, echoed through the small room—not from the speakers, but from the air itself.
"You... called me?"
Elara screamed, but no sound came out. The violet light exploded, filling her vision until the room disappeared.