WEEK THREE

[lesmodsalouette]

WEEK THREE

28 Guests

You awaken smothered in wonderfully soft blankets. If you are lucky, there is a warm body next to you, but... those are becoming shorter and shorter in supply, aren't they?

It's Monday at Château Ambregris, and you have just arrived here. Whatever clothes you are wearing, whatever injuries you are sporting... They are once again accurate to how you were before this tale began. Whether this leaves you with any urgent matters to take care of or relieved of ailing you had contracted in the 'last' week, the gong of the numerous clocks chimes out indifferently to the hour. Gone is the urgent summons of the past two weeks, with no Witch to greet you.

Rise and shine, and face your 'first' day in your 'new' home! And though you may now think yourself quite familiar with it, maybe another look around wouldn't hurt?

TIME LOOP:

-Characters wake up with the clothes they had with them at their canon point, like in the intro log.
-The state of their bodies is exactly the same as it was on the intro log (for better or worse).
-Any items they accumulated last week are also reset (sorry you'll need to build up your weapon cache again), except items that were given out as event rewards. Please note that the item uses are not reset.

LOCATIONS UPDATED:
- library, gardens
- mud bath → aquarium
- menagerie → photography studio
- grotto → greenhouse

WEEKLY EFFECT

This week every character will have a spirit animal that follows them around like a familiar. The choice of animal is up to you (natural or supernatural), but it should represent them in some way. The animal is restricted in size to that of a large dog and is incorporeal, though it can interact with other spirit animals. As the animal is a representation of their heart and inner self, it might be better at expressing itself than it's owner.

Yes, this is basically daemons. This palace clearly needs more animals for emotional support!

(OOC: Murder proposals and counter proposals are open! )

MONDAY • TUESDAY • WEDNESDAY • THURSDAY

Locations Proposals PCS Curfew Witch Contact Main Nav

Comments

EVENT III: HANG YOUR FEARS

[lesmodsalouette]

HANG YOUR FEARS

Come Wednesday morning, the Witch has a message for everyone over their crystals.

『 You know what day it is, right? Sorry to say this week has nothing to do with capybaras. I'm not going to spoil it either, but if you're interested, head to the photo studio. Same as before, I'll give you a reward too.

Later! 』

🖼️

Welcome to your week 3 event! Don't you love Ish's non-elaboration? Surely it bodes well.

Characters who walk to the photo studio will find all the dark rooms open with a sign that says "WELCOME, COME IN" on each of them. For some reason, there's also more dark rooms than there usually are, but it's fine. Stepping inside will find the door closing shut, the only illumination from the red bulb hanging overhead. On the wall are polaroids with images that seem familiar, from nightmares or even reality. The images, moving despite the medium, depict your characters fears brought to life. Characters will be trapped inside until they face them, whether that's acknowledging they exist, interacting with them directly, or some other way of confronting them. Other characters can also witness these fears and see them. Only the owner of the "polaroids" will be trapped in the room.

Participation will net you a reward in the form of an item. To be eligible for a reward, please link to a thread of your character participating here by 2PM EDT/11AM PDT on Friday, March 28tth. We won't be counting comments, just that you did participate in the event!

Characters can participate more than once, but will only receive one reward.

CODE

[antline]

[Sariel steps into the dark. He's not afraid of the dark. It's almost comforting. The little ant on his shoulder waggle its antennae, glancing around, and then the images come into view, tainted red.]

[In every single polaroid, there is a man. His face is in shadow. And as Sariel wanders closer, eyes wide, almost hopeful - the photos speak, with a distinct low drawl.]

Oh, Sarry.

[But an actual good look at the polaroids show distinct scenes, images. In one picture, the man is ripping out the wings of a wounded Sariel. In another, he is disintegrating, unable to be saved as a Sariel reaches out, heartbroken. In another, a beautiful angel with many colored wings is killing the man, skewering him in the heart. Another polaroid has the mysterious man calling out again, with a dismissive tone.]

Sarry. You really went all this way to find me and free me? Thaaaaanks. But I don't need you any more. You served your use. Haaa...you wanted answers? I just did it because I wanted to. You just were a good soldier ant.

[And again, and again, the man is destroyed or destroys, dismisses or disappears. Sariel, overwhelmed, almost babbles as he wants to look but can't look, uncertain what to do.]

Deputy Head. Deputy Head, please, I...please...

[baebladie]

[ Well, this is apparently happening. And maybe at some point, he will step in. ]

...It's not him.

[ Not that saying so is going to make the images immediately go away, huh? ]

[oncefallen]

[Vanis knows who this man is even before Sariel calls for him. He knows, and that's exactly why his heart aches with sympathy at Sariel's desperate pleas.

Like a silent shadow, he slips up behind Sariel without a word and just wraps his arms around him the same way the other fallen angel had done for him, leaning his cheek against the soft feathers of that winged part of his hair.

Even if nothing else in this room is real, he is. He's here.]

[caporegrimme]

[Yeah, Scarlet isn't having a great time.

The lightbulb above is red, just like his hood. Hanging from one of the cords holding pictures, Scarlet can see several, depicting moments that are bitterly familiar to him.

He can see himself at the hill outside of town.
He can see himself readying the sniper rifle.
He can see Hamelin in middle of a target.
He hadn't really realized until now, but he's rather afraid this is inevitable even after he goes back to the town after all this. He really doesn't want to shoot Hamelin.

The lightbulb above is red, just like the blood that was about to spill because of Scarlet's bullet]

[safetycheck]

[ Well. She should've known better than to walk into the room. Then again, she couldn't have expected to see paintings (?) of Yona, Ayura, Tetora – her best friend, her bodyguards – in gruesome states. Their cries and pained groans echo throughout the room as they're pierced repeatedly by swords and arrows, coming at them left and right.

To make matters worse, there's a nice little section with Lili herself in it.

"Goodbye. Thank you for everything."

It's a rather innocuous scene, what with her giving Yona a gentle kiss on the forehead. Seeing this, though, is what drives Lili over the edge.

She pulls something out, obscured in her robes - a dagger.

She screams and begins slashing at the images, which quickly manifest in front of her and trap her in a false reality. ]

cw: suicidal ideation

[baebladie]

[ A drop of red hits the floor.

The surroundings are dark, rife with spider lilies that rise from the darkness. The pictures show Blade with a red sword.

Once drawn inside, Blade cuts mercilessly through a various people - some unaware, some aware, but unable to do anything. It doesn't matter the age. He keeps on slicing through anyone who appears. Maybe quite a number of those faces look familiar to anyone here. But, one of them is definitely Dan Heng.

This Blade turns towards the real Blade, covered in blood. ]

Death suits us both as an end. Nothing will change that.

[ It's a reminder. He's on a time limit.

That Blade is a weapon. A broken one without much discernment in where he might swing next.

He just didn't realize he cared...but, it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even want to struggle - it's hard enough justifying living. When he feels he doesn't deserve it. Even if he's been trying to, maybe, do something about it.

Yet, seeing this scene, he is certain of only one thing:

It's fine if he died right here, right now. So, he doesn't fight it. He will even slide down to the floor. ]

...I haven't forgotten...what end I desire.

[remainsilent]

[ WELCOME, COME IN absolutely doesn't spell a trap, right? The last time something happened, it was just the races. While he is on guard, he doesn't expect to be trapped within the confines of the dark room.

The pictures hanging on the wall depict an older looking Dan Heng with long pointy ears and horns upon his head. There are chains shackled to his wrists and ankles and large nails embedded into his hands. While his lips do not move, there's a cold voice that can be heard.

Someday, they will no longer be able to carry your burden.

The floor turns into a mirror-like surface. There's another Dan Heng that resembles the one everyone knows, but with the horns and ears as the other.

You are my reincarnation. A mirror image.

The reflection shifts and changes to a mirror-like tunnel reflecting several Dan Hengs.

Dan Heng himself, still standing in the room just crosses his arm as he glares at the images. His dragon beside him looks like it's ready to attack the images being displayed. ]

[perfectpower]

Well this isn't ominous at all.

[He steps into one of the rooms and the door locks behind him.

While many of the polaroids are playing out unfortunate moments in Brad's life- most of which will be familiar to Cain, if he so chooses to peek in- one of them is something that even Cain hasn't seen. And it's the one that Brad is staring at.

On a snowy path, Brad is pinned down with magic from a rather unassuming-looking man while a pair of twins are laughing and flinging spells at a group of retreating men and women. The man pinning Brad down with magic is also sending spells that way, but less frequently, as his primary focus is Brad. Every so often, one of the retreating people gets hit by a spell and crumbles away into pieces of stone.

Brad looks desperate and is trying to get free from the spell, but no matter how hard he tries he is still stuck.]

"Let 'em go! You're after me, right? So just let 'em go! They ain't hurtin' nobody, this was all my plan! You don't gotta do this!"

[ The twins continue their attack, practically hunting the dwindling remains of Brad's men, as they giggle and respond to Brad in a singsong voice:]

"No way! You tried to steal from the king, so broke the rules~"

"You crossed the line this time~"

"Thankfully our little informant helped us out, and now you won't be a problem anymore~"

[Brad's screaming falls on deaf ears as every one of his treasured friends died and turned to stone. And as he was dragged back to Central's prison, he could only think of one thing: who sold them out? Who betrayed his bandits?

Who did he have to kill to make this right?]

[cleansheets]

CONTENT WARNING: this prompt will inevitably feature discussion and depiction of war crimes, suicide, rape (CSA and otherwise), underage prostitution, and drug use. All of it will be hidden under dropdown menus and tagged appropriately.

[ Angelo should never have come here. Jumping when Ish gives the word is repulsive in itself, and that disgust alone should have been enough to make him stay as far away as possible. He could have remained at the villa and that would have been the end of this.

Instead, Angelo enters the dark room and feels every cell in his body turn to ice.

The polaroids would be repulsive to anybody, even if they were unfamiliar with the people depicted. The walls are lined with images of depravity. Soldiers forcing themselves on a woman. A man forcing himself on a boy. The same boy, older, with another man. And another. The same boy in a back alley, choking on pills. Another man. Repulsive dirty rooms, repulsive dirty bodies, repulsive stained sheets.

Devoured, chewed up, consumed, torn apart, defiled, defiled, defiled, defiled--

Angelo tastes bile in the back of his throat. Until he entered this room, he'd been a person. Broken and weak, but a person. Now he's nothing but a bloody stain, now he's meat, meat falling victim to meat, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting---

Angelo needs to run. He needs to run, he needs to get out of here, he needs to burn it down, he needs to--- But the exit won't budge. Though there is nothing but air in front of him, Angelo cannot leave. He can only desperately attempt to fight his way out, and yet get nowhere. ]

N-no-- Captain! CAPTAIN!!

[ If his desperate screech for help attracted your attention, you'll find yourself face to face with the shaking muzzle of a pistol. Angelo's eyes are wild. ]

Don't look-- Don't-- Stay away!!

[ Alternatively you can approach Angelo's dark room later - how long has he been here? It must have been a few hours now. All the polaroids have been taken off the walls, and Angelo is clutching them to his chest as he sits in fetal position in a corner of the room, shaking like a leaf. ]

Filthy... filthy... filthy... Mama...

1/2; cw: flogging, corporal punishment, liberal abuse of the em dash

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey enters the room, confident that he can handle whatever's waiting for him in the darkness. And as he comes to realize, he already has. Some of the polaroids contain images of a vast, desolate landscape. White sky and white rocks as far as the eye can see, lifeless. An empty howl of wind rushes over them.

But a few polaroids near the center of the wall display a different image. A scene plays out: Hickey, clad only in a thin pair of sailor's pants, is led through the lamplit fo'c'sle. A heavy drum beats slowly over the sound of the wind. His crewmates are packed solemnly around the edges of the deck, making space in the center for the punishment that's about to take place. A table is brought out, and Hickey is walked over to it, his hands tied down at the corners so that he's bent over its edge. Once he's secured, a lieutenant yanks down his trousers, exposing him to the crew. Behind him, the boatswain's mate combs blood out of the cat o' nines in his hand.

Captain Crozier announces to the crew: "For the crimes of insubordination, neglect of duty, disrespect, brutality, kidnapping, and dirtiness, Petty Officer Cornelius Hickey will be flogged thirty lashes—as a boy."

The first lash hits before Hickey is ready. He gasps, a glimmer of fear setting in as he realizes he's got twenty-nine more blows to endure. Another lash, and he forces himself to take slow, even breaths, doing what he can to work through the pain—

—and then it's Crozier's voice again, though from an earlier memory, his tone firm and exasperated as the whipping carries on: "You have therefore committed several acts against the articles: desertion, dereliction of duty, insubordination, brutality, disrespect... I really have my pick here, don't I?"

And Hickey's own voice, rising in challenge—"Disrespect to who, sir?"—as he's interrupted by another office: "Be silent, Mr. Hickey."

Crozier continues: "Twelve lashes for each of you, to be delivered before the ship's company by Mr. Johnson as soon as he's finished tying a new cat."

On the polaroid, Hickey groans, his muscles tensing, sweat beading on his forehead—

—he demands again: "Disrespect to who, sir?"

"To the girl!" Crozier barks. "And now to me."

"She directs it. You should be prosecuting her, not us who brought—"

"Twenty for him!"—

—the flogging continues, and Crozier looks on with malice as each strike hits its mark. Hickey whimpers through gritted teeth. Tears well, his breathing comes more quickly despite his efforts to control himself—

Hickey's voice raises defiantly, anger instead of pain overriding his control in the unseen conversation. "I mean I might've just ended this thing, sir! She's had it killed one lieutenant—"

"Thirty, then!"

"—a marine! Sir John! Whose name do you think was on that witch's tongue next—"

—The cat o' nines cracks. Hickey rests his cheek against the table, looking up at his captain with a pained smile. Crozier meets his eye without mercy. This will continue until he allows it to stop—

—Hickey's voice rings out in fury: "I just saved your life!"

There's a loud thud, a fist slamming onto a desk. The silence that follows is punctuated by the last of the lashes. Hickey's rear is a mess of bloody welts and slices, but finally, he's untied and hoisted to his feet.

Hickey stands, drenched in sweat, panting, eyes wet and face blank—

—and Crozier's voice echoes once more, a quiet rage heard clearly as the drum and the cat and the wind die out: "Lt. Little, tell Mr. Johnson that Mr. Hickey will be punished as a boy."

And then, it's only silence in the room. Hickey stands at attention with his arms folded behind his back, silent. The photographs of the white landscape loom, perhaps unimpressive to all but Hickey, though he remembers that wretched place so clearly. The cold seeps through him. ]

(( for the curious who don't mind spoilers, here's the NSFW and pretty brutal flogging scene, as well as the dialogue characters will hear over it. ))

cw: child experimentation

[littlegentleman]

[Like many of the others here, Junior doesn't expect much from the photo studio. Ish had promised there would be no capybaras, but surely nothing particularly nefarious would be awaiting them, after last week's surprise. Perhaps the mood that the Witch of Ruin appeared to be in should have been an indicator that this wouldn't be a simple exercise in friendly photography.

At first, he's too confused by what he's seeing to feel negatively. It's not a fear he's been able to visualize for himself--truthfully, it wasn't one he'd had all that long to process, before arriving in this game of death. In many ways, he had been glad to push it as far from his mind as he could, focusing instead on his current circumstances.

Seeing himself, strapped down to a strange device like he's some kind of science experiment--some kind of horrible, cult-like operation. He starts to scream as the procedure begins. Something incomprehensible and unknown blasted into his brain. Even though it's just an image, Junior is sure he can feel that pain in real time.

Let me go! Make it stop! The men and women in suits just watch him passively, monitoring screens and murmuring updates to one another. They seem positive. All is going well. I don't want this--I can't take it!

In the studio, Junior shudders, hugging himself as he slides down to his knees. He breathes hard, as if he'd been screaming in real time and not just in a slideshow.]

Is this really all I'm meant for?

cw for implied suicide, implied self-harm, implied child abuse, gore

[simulacres]

[ ayaka knows that she shouldn’t have stepped in. from the moment that welcome sign, she knew she should have walked the other direction.

but when the door closes behind her, the red light alone is enough to sink her heart into the pit of her stomach. the polaroids, then, are what make her completely freeze.

in multiple polaroids, there’s a small, unmoving figure in a red hood inside an elevator, her face shrouded by a red hood. despite the medium, the voice that comes from it is raspy and tired, but very obviously from a young girl.

"Can you…push the button?"

there’s a polaroid with an emaciated college aged woman, a smile full of pure love and pure madness on her face, placing a pair of glasses on the face of an even worse off young girl, the hood no longer covering her shoulders and revealing light blonde hair, and pointed ears.

"I'll give all of me to you. My knowledge, my past, my body, my life, and my future."

multiple polaroids that look not like actual pictures, but sketches, of the same girl. ]

Aaah…

[ she saw a polaroid with the remains of a certain couple that tore each other apart in their greed, another showing the headless remains of a young man who only wanted to comfort her, and another of what seemed to be thousands of bodies dressed in white, thrown haphazardly on the ground, with their heads separated away from their body.

there’s one thing in common with all of these— was the coppery scent of blood and the red, red, red that accompanies it. strong enough to overwhelm the senses, to make someone believe that they are surrounded by the dead, drowning in their blood.

and ayaka, paralyzed by fear, can only fall to her knees, her hands covering her eyes. she can’t move. she can’t speak. she can’t breathe. overwhelmed by everything, she can’t even gather the energy to scream as she curls up on the floor, her back against the wall as she sobs to herself. ]

[vivens]

cut for length (mainly) and vague spoilers!

[ sabo is far from eager to step into a dark room under the direction of ish but he does it anyway. the items—their rewards for entertaining ish’s requests are of interest to him. oh, if sabo wasn’t so driven to have those items for no specific reason (honest). so, here is sabo in the darkroom and quickly finding out that he was right to drag his feet about the whole ordeal. will his reward be worth what he’s about to endure?

…probably not.

after the door slams shut behind him, and as the red-light sways back and forth, sabo’s other senses are filled with the screams for help. screams of anger. cries of desperation. some of the voices are known to him—voices that he has known intimately and knows who they belong to without much thought. as the red-light continues to sway back and forth, and the photos—he realizes—around him seem to blur and work together, sabo is brought to a place that he only knows from photos (ironically) and accounts from others.

he finds himself lost within the seen of a great battlefield where there are countless of people dying around him. then, again, he hears the voice of his brothers cry for help—help from him—before they are struck down then sabo has firmly decided that there won’t be a reward that’ll make everything that he’s experiencing worth it.

the battle of ■■■■■■■■. a great war that became a turning point in time—so many things changed after it. and despite of that, it was not a concern of his. the army had been poised to act but did not want to get themselves involved; they weren’t ready for involvement to that scale. there were “better” things that he was supposed to be doing… other people who he had deemed more important to help at that time. however, as the screams begin again, sabo immediately reaches out into the scene his expression dark. ]

You don’t think I’ve already dreamed of this countless of times? That I didn't torture myself for years?

[ there’s a fierceness and burning—seething—anger that laces his voice as he rips one of the photos off from the wall, breaking tearing a hole into the scene that plays out in front of him. the scene of a young man chained to the top of a tower with two large blades positioned over him (an execution) crushed in his hand. from the photo comes a sorrowful cry and the name of one of his brothers said in broken sobs.

where had he been? what had been so much more important than family?

… …

…

…wait.

… …what…?

…who had—? ]

I’m done questioning myself. [ blindly and filled with rage, sabo drops the previous scene that he had been holding in his hand and reaches through the darkness to grab something—another photo—from the darkness and wastes no time crushing it in his hand. the scene of the battlefield cracking from where he reached into the darkness and continues to deeply fracture and crumble as sabo crushes the photo in his fist. ] Even if I don't remember.

Even if I forget everything again—it won’t change anything.

[ the scene completely fractures around him and shatters into pieces and sabo is back, alone in the dark with the red-light swaying above him. his anger hasn't left him; his fists are clenched so tight that it looks like his leather gloves are threatening to rip. most of all, the expression he on his face is just short of being nothing but murderous. ]

The only thing that I can do is move forward as to prevent feeling like this ever again.

[distain]

((references to child abuse, dismemberment, enslavement, torture, murder, discrimination, assault, starvation, dehydration.))

[Very nearly every picture here is a photograph of someone else: A blonde girl at various ages. Her eyes are sometimes blue, sometimes brown. She is always dying or in pain.

Whipped bloody by a severe older woman until her legs are striped with welts, while a coward sits outside the door unable to intervene and protect her. Cut to pieces by that same woman, a cruel smile on her face as she crows about putting such a filthy thing in its place.

Strangled by the cruel hands of a black-haired, green-eyed man whose appearance is unmistakably familiar, one in a thousand. Tortured in front of an audience. Drowned. Punished for someone else's mistakes.

Pulled with her family from a carriage at the border on the cusp of safety, shot like dogs on a dirt road.

The closeup of a letter: "Research progress is unsatisfactory, so I must put pressure on Doctor Richter. For now, cut off one of Herta's fingers and send it to the doctor. Further, after the Feast Day is over, I think it would be in our best interest to kill Mrs. Richter."

Perhaps it would be bearable if each photograph didn't come with its own realistic scream. "Miss!" howls each and every one. "Miss, please! Mistress Grace! Andrew!" It's the realistic noise that makes the despair and horror impossible to fight.

For each she tries to dispel, there are more. Things that have happened. Things that could. Every time she was too cowardly or weak to do anything. Every time she tried and failed. (Is it any wonder, then, that hidden beneath the sheets and sheets and sheets and sheets and sheets of photographs of the blonde girl is a snapshot of last Saturday?)

There is only one photograph that visibly features Andrew herself as the main subject at all. A very young girl with dark hair and emerald eyes sits on the floor of a cold stone cell. There's a stool flanking a bare cot that may have clean sheets, but the palette beneath is stained with years-old blood. It is dark and unlit. There is no food or water in the cell, nor will there be. There's nothing else. Echoing some distance away, the unfeeling voice of a violent man and the cries of his terrified daughter: "Laxatives. That is abominable. How dare she use my name to cause trouble for the Count's family. Lock her in the Room of Atonement."

"F-father! F-father, I was wrong! Please forgive me!"

The other frames are all empty. They are black, vacant squares. Nothingness. Lonely.

In the room in the palace, Andrew sinks to her knees, image upon image spread out around her like snowfall.] Herta... I don't know if I can make it through this without you...

[stygiomedusa]

(references & allusions to hallucinations, child abuse, body horror, death, general fuckery)

[Once again, it’s curiosity that has Hamel going to check out whatever task Ish has set out for them. There’s no hints (besides a lack of capybara), so she’s not quite sure what to expect in the studio.

She’s not sure that hints would have prepared her for what she sees, anyways.

Hamel stands on stage, younger than she is now, staring out into the crowd. The girl trembles like a leaf and jellyfish float from the audience towards her, taunting her for being frozen in place and circling her. Her eyes dart between them and she covers her ears but she can’t block out the noise. She collapses onto her knees, screaming, and the next day it’s all over the news, gossip springing up overnight about the downfall of DisCity’s star dancer but Norman is grabbing her shoulders and telling her they can leave, they have the money, but their mother will—

Hamel dances in the middle of a lake while a wide array of puppets watch her, black ooze dripping from their joints and mouths. It writhes and moves on its own, crossing the water until it can climb onto Hamel, sinking into her flesh. Her expression looks pained but she doesn’t stop her dance—it’s a dance that can never stop, that’s been going for decades, an endless cycle of easing the pain of the puppets and taking the burden on herself, but the audience loves her, they adore her, they let her dance the way she does and understand her, even if it means that she will eventually become—

H̷̟̹̮̋̎̍a̸̧̹̙̎m̴̧̡̥̻̒̀͠ē̵̝̽̓͝l̴͊̕ stands on a stage once again, the lake no longer enough for her performance. Black mist leaves her mouth and she’s dripping with black ink, some forming tendrils that move about her body independently. Her limbs don't look natural anymore, body twisted and broken to become something more, yet her expression is serene. Cold, even. Her audience is entirely still, though lifeless might be a better word as their deaths fuel her dance, her movements frenzied and inelegant. All Sinners will eventually fall to the Mania that corrupts them, and one as dangerous as H̸͈̟̱͋̆͑̑a̵͉̗̗̿̅m̸̙̼̅̆͊̄ḙ̵̅̃̎l̸͉͓͂̋̎̕, one as powerful as H̴̱͓͈̫̎́͂͗͠a̷͓̜̞͈͉̝̬̿̚m̵̧̧̜͈̞̱͂̾̃̎̉̕͝͠e̷͍͕̬͙̎l̶̛͙͓̳̗͖͙̰͓̈̌͑̾̕ has less ti—]

Ah.

[The real Hamel watches these scenes unfold, expression soft and filled with pity for the fears on display for her. Seems she won’t be stuck here, at least.]

I wonder why show something like this, now…?

[she is… pretty unbothered…]

cw: references to torture/mutilation but it's chill

[coldseep]

( Hwylryn came into this room in a decidedly good mood. He was troubled for much of yesterday, then seemed to improve his mood after some time spent in the gardens; he was troubled this morning, before returning bettered once again. He is, unfortunately, very simple; dragons are creatures of powerful nobility, but, at heart, they're as pure as any forest sprite, and are, at times, need very little more to be happy.

But that's enough of that, because up here on shore we aren't here to be happy.


Hwylryn's polaroids are not necessarily a singular scene, though it does begin with one:

When you enter at an angle, you see two young twins, bright-eyed and laughing, and they stand over a man who looks identical to Hwylryn, if utterly imperious - as you progress, the image shifts like a lenticular lens - the delighted twins are grown, Hwylryn's twin resembles Hwylryn's dragon form, with far more vicious angles.

The twins laugh, and laugh, and there is blood; there are bones smashed and shattered, and there is viscera; the image changes at every angle in every polaroid - brutal shots of play and torture as they make it a game of tag, a chase; provoking his wrath every time he slows; tormenting the raging bull with skewers and words of cruelty.

They laugh at him; they say: "Gwawlyn, Gwawlyn, why don't you give up yet? Just say you've lost! Just beg for mercy! We'll go easy on you then! We'll kill you quicker, we'll eat your stone—"

And Hwylryn's twin, this Gwawlyn, snarls with all his pride, he writhes as he is skewered and torn and ripped, and he tells them that he'll kill them, he tells them that he'll shatter them into awful dust—


The scene continues, but this time, it might just be a scene about you. It might be a scene about someone you know. At times, the torturer is someone from the castle - at times, it may be people you don't know, like a young man; or an intense-looking, muscular wizard - at times, the ones tortured are people from the castle; at times, the ones tortured are once more people you don't know. The more Hwylryn likes you, the more likely you are to appear in either role.

Hwylryn isn't among the torturers or torturees. That's not what he's scared of.


There are two polaroids that don't contain violence:

One polaroid at the very centre features a blurry foreground of torture, and a sharp-focused Hwylryn in the distance, watching, wide-eyed and terrified, like a child witnessing their parents fighting. For as powerful and as noble as he is, he is - he feels - helpless. He cannot stop his loved ones from killing one another.

One polaroid in the furthest corner, a conclusion to this tale, features Hwylryn in a desolate, empty sea: dry, burning reds as far as the eye can see; shadows black; and the bodies of his loved ones, his friends, split open and brutalized and innards out; and he gazes up into the red sun, alone.


Hwylryn stands at the opposite wall, back pressed against it, watching each scene, as if - as if - he feels like, if he stops watching, these things will leave the polaroids, they will manifest, and they will become true.

And, of course he is crying. The tears roll down wordlessly. If memory of grief is enough to split the dam of his heart, how could seeing what he knows he remembers and fears not be enough to make him overflow?

He doesn't seem to make a move. Like the Hwylryn in the central polaroid, he seems too paralysed to move. Maybe because - maybe because - ultimately, he knows what he fears is this place, this scenario, this situation Ish has put them in, and to accept it means to think more on it than he already has, and has tormented himself knowing. )

cw: child death, eye gore

[uiscebeatha]

[ Cain would claim his what ifs don't affect him, that they don't weigh him down in his quest for a brighter future for himself, his family, his friends, and people like him. But leave it to an all-powerful Witch to find that deep seated fear, clinging tenaciously to the depths of his heart, to tear its encasings open and expose it to the sunlight and let it bloom. Befitting for a photography room, no? Where else would things so sensitive to the light develop?

Cain steps in, light on his feet. Because he was expecting snakes.

Admit it—you're expecting snakes too, aren't you?


City of Honor. The sun shines overhead, the zenith of summer, glittering happily on the water. Children play at the river's edge, peals of laughter echoing above the hustle and bustle of the city.

There's Cain, short red hair, two gold eyes as bright as the sun. He plays alongside them, equals and friends.

One child trips.

He skids along the stone. Another boy reaches for him. He's too late. The child's little frame tumbles down the slope and into the rush of the river below.

The children freeze. They watch. The child's body floats away and is never recovered.

Cain's fingers twitch, but he doesn't move.

The voice is sugary sweet, cloying, drips of syrup and too much whipped cream, sharp as it curls its claws around his heart.

You preserve your image at the cost of your friend's life? How can you call yourself a knight with how self-obsessed you are?


The moon hangs low, low, low in the sky. The Calamity nears.

The sky is pale in its impending presence. But the force wanes in comparison to the white shadow that looms over Cain.

Cain, late teen, knight captain, long hair tied back and out of his face, two golden eyes staring up in fury.

Around him lay the battered and bloodied bodies of his men.

The shadow steps closer, kneels to Cain's level. How adoration colors his scarlet eyes, but his smile and demeanor are poison.

The voice taunts again as he shoves his fingers into Cain's left eye, licks the blood that pours from the socket.

If you hadn't chosen to lie, you would be stronger. You preserve your image at the cost of your men's lives. You could have protected them, and now they're dead on your watch.


Where is this? It's hard to tell.

Cain is dressed in an unfamiliar uniform, red. He lounges in his plush chair, uncharacteristically haughty. His hair is slicked back, eyepatch over his left eye. Men in similar uniforms occupy the chairs around him, waiting.

Filing into the opposite side of the table are old faces. A disciple of god, the king of spirits, the prince.

The prince.

The way his heart shatters is clear on his face. Cain, his knight. Cain, the one into whose hands he placed his life. Cain, his promise.

Cain is a spy.

Once again, the white shadow leans over his shoulder, to whisper.

You are no knight, title or no. You're a cowardly wizard whose lie was exposed to the world when you lost to a Northern wizard. And you blame him for what you never were?


The moon falls.

Heathcliff, to his left, shatters, his fragments falling up into the sky. Rutile, to his right, cannot outrun the threat, and meets the same fate.

All around him, Cain's allies disintegrate. Nero, gone. Rustica, gone. Snow meets his end, his ghost along with him. Lennox, Shylock, Riquet. One by one, gone.

Arthur stands atop his broom, ahead of him, gazing into the moon.

Cain knows he's in danger. He lowers himself, speeds forward, reaches out. The golden glow of his magic blooms at his fingertips.

But it's too late. His beautiful translucent stones soar past Cain, cutting his skin, ribbons of blood trailing through he air.

His shadow sits behind him on his broom, arm around his waist, the sugar in his voice low and seductive in his ear.

No matter how hard you try, you will never be strong enough. You started too late. Too busy living a lie. Other lives will pay for it. How does it feel?


Promenade of Reflexion—ah, now that's a familiar sight. Were you expecting this?

Statues lay on the ground, toppled and broken. Glass from the mirrors are shattered and scattered. Blood pools on the floor.

Cain kneels in the middle of the carnage; his sword is chipped and bent, his clothes torn and soaked, his skin cut and bleeding, his eyes wide in disbelief. Around him lay bodies. Stones, for some.

Bradley. Hwylryn. Siffrin. Hickey. Urianger. Yoonhee. G'raha. Yoru. All these people he had told himself he would protect—all dead, around him.

A man picks through the carnage. He looks a lot like Ish, doesn't he?

But beneath his purple hair are eyes to mirror Cain's—gold on the left, red on the right. And when he opens his mouth to speak, it's the same cloying tone that's been taunting Cain this whole time.

With force, he grabs Cain's jaw, jerking his head up to look at him.

In the end, you were never a knight, were you? You're all pretense, and no substance. You can't protect anyone. How disappointing.


He can't say it doesn't scare him.

But he stares at that face in the polaroid, half-Ish and half-Owen, and it hits him—these are all fabrications. Possibilities he had thought of and swore never to repeat. Possibilities he had seen but chose differently, because the lives of others are more important than what society demands from him.

Or, simply worst case scenarios that have yet to pass.

When he speaks, his voice is loud and firm. ]

Those things didn't happen. They're not real.

[ He will not let his spirit shatter to what-ifs. He strayed close once, but never again. Never again.

He takes a deep breath, calming the frenzied beat of his heart. He thinks of the words and the gifts given to him before facing off against the walking hell and he holds them close. The warmth he felt as he embraced their trust is his strength.

Though he knows not if he has the same trust from those he's met, befriended, attempted to reconcile with here thus far, but what he can do is keep working to earn it. To show that he is a knight. ]

I can't save everyone. But so long as I trust in my convictions, and the people around me—

[ Cain reaches with a golden glow, and the child is saved. Cain fights back with his magic, and his men survive. Cain looks up to see Owen and Arthur, there to rescue him.

The Calamity has not fallen yet. Their time in this forsaken palace is not over yet. ]

—I can still try.

CW: mild casual child abuse, other horror elements

[snakeblood]

[ It's not like he has any fears (or so he tells himself), he didn't think that this would affect him at all. He's right, of course. His life has largely been uneventful, especially compared to everyone else. He was purposely sheltered. Things that other people would call trauma or child abuse barely registered to him. Not the starving, not the beatings, not the things his father spouted.

One polaroid is a mass of writhing snakes. It squirms and coils over a top a body, as he a younger Yoonhee concentrates on the curse (Honestly, the currently Yoonhee looks at the snakes quite nostalgically). His concentration is broken with a loud slam as Seojin breaks in, a delirious look in his eyes. "... Aren't you supposed to be at work?" Yoonhee blankly asks him. Anger filled his face as he grabbed his collar.

"Get the hell away from my brother!" Seoyeon is up, alarmed, and separating them while Seojin continues in anger. "What the hell did you do?! I asked you a damn question!" Even tho Seoyeon defends him, as the whole thing was his idea anyway, Seojin isn't having any of it. He's dragged out of the room, the young Yoonhee's face in shock, and practically thrown at Yuri. "I don't want to see you for the time being. I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

Yoonhee muses to himself, wondering if this is all that's there. That was the begining of the end of their year old relationship.

Another is their actual break up. A repeat of the things shit Seojin told him. "But truthfully, I've just grown sick of you..... Don't tell me you actually thought I'd stick around until the day I die. Why would you think such a thing? Did it seem like I liked you enough to do that?"

"When did you start disliking me?" The young him asks. As they continue their fight, his younger self futilely trying to keep Lee Seojin with him, Yoonhee just sighs. Boring. What was, already was. Over ten years had passed since then. He'd barely thought about him.

There's one in Joo Eunhae's apartment, when they were arguing. It's a familiar story, if anyone remembers. Yoonhee accusing Seojin of working against his house. Seojin throwing the accusation back at him that Yoonhee was working with Eunhae. Yoonhee saying he didn't need to plan with anyone to kill him. Seojin taunting him, saying he wouldn't stab him, leaning in close as he wasn't for years, a tilt as he closed in... "'Cus you were crazy about me. The might, lofty head of the house. He was so into the likes of..." And Yoonhee really stabs him, Seojin swearing and calling him crazy as he caught the knife with his hand from going in too deep. His blood hand going around his neck, and tried to pull him close...

Other polaroids are vague and short. A massive slug. Complete darkness. Master, who looks already gaunt, life draining away from him, saying Lee Seojin was his weakness. A piece of organ covered in blood and silva in Yuri's hands. A young Sora, staring at him with big blue eyes, as the cut from his ring finger kept going down to his arm, evoking a Deliverance on him, "Your arm shall break within the next 24 hours". Three long single hairs splayed on a pillow. A dark mark around Seojin's wrist, where noise from the bug, the curse, sounds. Joo Eunhae, going by a different name and looking extremely different from when she was younger, crying to him, "I loved him with everything I had. I'd give my life for him.". An empty futon next to him. ]

They're really trying anything at all!

[ It conjurers a lot of laughter from him.

The only one that illicit a pause from him is an image of a man with dark hair and the same color eyes, who he shares some similarity with. "You mustn't play host to such sentiments. Once you're aware, the god will be aware too. Your self-awareness will serve as the trigger. And there's nothing but darkness waiting on the other side." It sobers his laughter, but somehow, he's still smiling. ]

cw: gore

[arbalestrier]

[The vagueness of the message is not promising at all, but the Wednesday activities in the past two weeks weren't particularly threatening, so he approaches the photo studio cautiously. And while the sign arouses his suspicion, he peeks into one of the dark rooms before going inside fully, all senses on high alert.

When the door falls shut, his immediate reaction isn't to look at the photographs--it's to force a way out.

But nothing's that easy of course, so the polaroids beckon. The vast majority of the photographs show a variety of people dead or dying in various ways, whether it be through a simple gunshot, or methods more prone to leaving bodies nigh unrecognizable. Explosions, bodies shredded by shrapnel, and even some that appear like they were simply squashed flat, their viscera staining the sole of a humanoid machine.

There's also another notable theme with certain faces appearing more often than others, with a girl in a school uniform appearing the most often of all. Even in pictures where she isn't dead or otherwise maimed, her eyes are empty and lifeless, as if she were nothing but a broken doll.

But the largest picture is affixed to the wall opposite to the entrance, depicting an image of a bedridden man that appears to be missing all four limbs--not that it stops him from looking over with his remaining eye and grinning widely at whoever enters.

Chances are that anyone hovering outside the room could snippets of the man's mocking chatter, but that halts the moment someone else steps inside, as his words and attention are now for them.]

Hey. You're Kashim's friend, aren't you?

[Sousuke, meanwhile, completely ignores the man's picture as he searches the rest of the room. Even so, there's a clear tension in how he holds himself, and any glimpses of face will show that there are small beads of sweat clinging to his skin.]

vague madoka spoilers, poses

[antemeridian]

[ ish says jump, and they wonder: how high. perhaps they should stop indulging him; perhaps, perhaps.

and yet we are drawn to the photo studio nonetheless, tap tap tap click click click, tick tock tick. a merry greeting to all of them on the doors, come closer, they beckon, this way, eat me, like in the fairy tales. most certainly it has to be a trap, baited, poisoned, but that is fine. we can handle those if we know to expect them. don't we?

for what it is worth, the images in the polaroids aren't necessarily gruesome. nor tortured, nor difficult to look at. some of them are, dare we say, kind. heartfelt, gentle moments at sunset. a happy family in the distance. you don't feel the deep and echoing melancholy, a sense of something missing, something wrong, wrong, wrong, it's not supposed to be this way— no, no. of course it's always been like this. hasn't it? the family would be grieving if there was something missing.

in another there's a soft seeming creature, voice cheerful as it declares that there's no proof something must have happened, how intriguing! how fascinating. but you know, it might've just been a dream? a neat little thought exercise, an interesting potential experiment. but not real, of course not. not without proof. that would simply be illogical.

still others are stranger. glass cases and cages, harsh, strained breathing, a fluttering heartbeat too loud in your ears threatening to give out, too strong, too weak, weak, useless, good-for-nothing. red ribbons and winged figures with long, flowing pink hair streaming out to infinity and elaborate white gowns closed away and kept safe, somewhere far in the distance high above, as the viewpoint falls and falls and falls and falls, useless wings fluttering around it as distant, disembodied laughter echoes all around like a broken record. it reverberates off the glass, the one thing keeping out red eyes and white rats that would otherwise gnaw and gnaw and gnaw if they had the chance (do they resemble the creature from another polaroid?).

another: a graveyard stretching out in all directions painted in simple black and white. it flickers, every now and then, with the sound of crackling, a radio snapping into tune, strange characters flickering across the viewport before it refocuses: a gun, the muzzle flashes between two fallen figures before the image flickers itself away again to reveal the graveyard once more. it is not always this scene that the graveyard-then-radio static cuts away to, but the theme is always the same: surrealism, a golden doll made with delicate ribbons; a proud red figure on a horse, burning brightly; a yearning mermaid conducting an orchestra, center stage. flares and flashes of fire and light and gone, radio static, the graveyard once more.

one picture is simply of a sandglass timer depicted in sharp relief and contrast against a backdrop of gears rusted still. the lines are stark and vivid, each one etched deeply into the tableau. all the sand rests in the bottom half. it is chained in place, unable to turn. every now and then, familiar shadows and silhouettes (dragons? girls? still others?) pass in front of the hourglass. each and every time, the sound of shattering glass from somewhere in the distance follows soon after, and the shadow isn't seen again. if your character has CR with homura, they might even recognize their own shape as it passes by.

these are not the photographs that draw a reaction. nothing overt, in any case.

no, where homura is stopped is in front of the image of a brilliant lavender gem, ensconced safely...? in delicate gold metalwork and filigree. all at once, darkness creeps up from the bottom, culminating in the gem cracking of its own accord before the darkened metal twists and crumples before snapping, blooming large as seething darkness rushes to black out the viewpoint of the polaroid. it is a moment before the black recedes, leaving homura staring up in faintly shocked horror at the witch's hat record player, butterfly wing cloak and knitting needles, drawing out a moebius loop unto infinity.

(that... isn't supposed to happen, not anymore, she was real, she did exist, she chose it she was happy they can't get to her what happened what happened it can't have been for nothing, it can't—) ]

[allrounder]

(cws: mass death, descriptions of death/suffocation/etc, massive spoilers for ffxiv)

[ Reality has had its own fair share of trials, but what has kept G'raha up at night, invaded his dreams, are possibilities. Realities that had not come to pass but nevertheless haunted him, lying in wait in the depths of his heart until he was certain those possibilities could be vanquished in full.

It is those nightmares that play out in the photographs, easily observed underneath that red light. They play out in the small polaroid photos that decorate the room, silent with sorrow if cries of despair aren't emanating from them. It's those cries that really get to G'raha, that make him pause and his brows furrow as his mouth sets into a frown.

He's unsettled, but nevertheless, he pores over each one.

The Eighth Umbral Calamity failing to be averted, wreaking death and havoc, the photograph lingering on the bodies of those G'raha holds dear. They appear as if they're sleeping peacefully, but the scene is eerie and silent, all of them having long since gone cold. Urianger, his long form laid out on the ground, reaching for something—a solution, maybe—but it's too late. Other scenes are similar, and among them is the Warrior of Light, a hero who could survive nearly anything succumbing to something unseen.

The First being engulfed by light, blinding and painful, as a result of one lone Sin Eater, capable of leveling entire cities in its large, marble statue-like form. And level cities it does, leaving one for its final act, a crystalline tower overlooking the scene of a city destroyed and its citizens decimated before it too succumbs to the light and disappears in full.

His calculations being incorrect, and his original soul rejecting that of his other self in a painful rending of his own body that means he eventually lies dead in the ocular of the Crystal Tower.

The scene at Radz-at-Han further devolving into chaos as uncontrolled despair spreads like a virus and the city's population succumbs and turns into monsters, the Scions the last ones to finally turn. The change isn't pretty, darkness overcoming each and every one of them before they transform into what can only be described as an abomination, the word cried out in piercing screams before they're cut short by the sound of crushed bones.

The dark expanse of Ultima Thule, their sacrifices not enough to halt the song of despair. Each of them, choking and gasping for air the moment they step foot into the darkness, collapsing one by one. Thancred is gone, having sacrificed himself to no end, but the twins are first followed by Y'shtola and Urianger and Estinien and then the Warrior of Light, with G'raha following shortly thereafter, having held on long enough to ensure his friends wouldn't die alone. Their will was not enough and it will never be enough.

Returning to Eorzea, the Scions down one member as they solemnly gaze out onto the land below them. Victory comes at a heavy price, after all.

And the last is crystalline (it's always crystal and it has been for so long) and marble, where fear of the unknown has settled into the very foundation of the floors like mud, opaque and murky all at the same time. The worst fear for a scholar come to life, living in close quarters with the unknown. This one, he plucks from its position and puts into his pocket so it can remain unseen by anyone else. ]

...A collection of thoughts that have seen me lying awake at night.

[ His own fears, right in front of him and impossible to ignore. ]

cw: talk of gore, 999 spoilers abound

[fourtuity]

[ She's figured it out by now, lucky yet cursed girl that she is. But she steps into the darkness anyway, lighting her way with spite.

But it still doesn't prepare her for the sight of almost endless images of a grey-haired man at various ages dying through various ways—car accident, incineration, gunshot, exploding from the inside out, and more.

Yet that's not all. Sprinkled between them are images of other people (other players, her more cynical side corrects) sprawled out on the ground, blood pooling under them. Anyone with enough CR with Clover can find themselves pictured as well, just as dead as the rest.

In the end, the two small pictures she stops in front of do not depict a corpse. Well, one does, but it's mostly off camera—the main focus is a bloody axe. The other? An elderly man whose hair could be compared to a lion. Out of all the pictures in this room, his voice is currently the loudest.

"Clover, I understand what you're feeling. You don't feel that you can trust any of us.

But you have to understand the more we distrust one another, the further we fall into our true foe's trap. Zero was the one who did those horrible things to your brother. Do you want to let yourself be manipulated by someone who would do such a horrible thing?" ]

So that's the angle here, huh...?

[ She was prepared to fight back against what they show about her brother, steeling herself to yell out loud that she knew he lived and how dare anyone try to say otherwise. Alive, alive, alive. She knew that, kept repeating the words to herself when she was alone with her thoughts. But she didn't expect that voice to be so loud here, giving her pause.

With a grimace, she realizes that she's going to have to rethink her approach here, avoiding looking directly at the corpse pictures. Fake or not, she hates those the most. ]

cw: imagery of drowning, breathing difficulties

[divineth]

[Urianger considers continuing to not play Ish's game, but he needs to keep himself abreast of these magical rewards that the others have been given. He needs to be as helpful as he can if another murder happens...and he's sure it will.

The topaz carbuncle at his side adds a gentle golden glow to the ominous red of the studio, but it can only help so much as Urianger lays his eyes on the photos.

A series of photographs involves the Warrior of Light and the other Scions confronting Urianger over his repeated lies, disowning him as a friend and never wanting to see his face again. Similarly, another photograph depicts his adoptive parents admonishing him over avoiding them for so long following Moenbryda's death and partially blaming him for what happened to their beloved daughter.

Moments that never came to pass, but moments he dreaded with every fiber of his being all the same.

He takes a deep breath and loosens his fists. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been clenching them, but his nails have since left deep crescents against his palm.]

Well aware am I of how fortunate I am to have such compassionate people in my life, undeserving of such kindness as I am.

[Well...that was rough, but he can get through it. He's had plenty of time to reconcile these fears and doubts of his. He should be able to handle this without help.

...at least, that's what he thinks until the photos around him begin to shift, all of them connecting to one another to depict a massive, tempestuous tidal wave bearing down on him. Though he may have gotten over some previous fears of his, there's still one very prevalent fear he hasn't faced.

As the wave in the photo crashes down, sounds of howling wind and rushing water make Urianger feel as though he's actually been dragged beneath the current and he backs himself into a table, nearly toppling over from fright. A heavy pressure of terror paralyzes him in place and he chokes on his breath. He's not actually trapped underwater, but it feels so real that he may as well be drowning.

His carbuncle squeaks in concern and phases through the photo room's door to get him some help. Hopefully someone's around out here.]

cw: hangings, dv, ca, human trafficking, severed body parts

[diel]

[ yoru stands like a silhouette in the dark, waiting for the moon to rise. the first moon - the first polaroid - is nothing but an empty dining table. it’s centered in a sino-japanese style room and no one sits.

instead…

everyone





hangs.

the dead weight of each body feels nearly tangible through the polaroid. they’re so heavy, they barely sway. so heavy, they fall one by one.

the first is hwylryn. his fall is graceful until he lands. on his front, his hair a pool of starlight strands. yoru - the other one - seems too shocked to say anything. he’d been unprepared for the fall. his mouths two syllables, then two distinct words.

next - siffrin drops with a sickening thud, body contorted unnaturally on impact. the noose has scored a halo on their neck and their face is a rictus of horror. it matches the one yoru wears - the one in the polaroid - as he fails to catch them. his hands don’t work; his powers don’t either.

then urianger falls and lands on his neck. hickey. yoonhee.

cain gets yoru to take a step, to shout a silent word. yoru fails to catch cain, but it’s his body that he pulls up into his arms, into his lap. he cradles cain’s face. from all angles, the expression on the knight’s face is impossible to make out.

yoru turns his face up.

the last one is a man wearing fine shoes. yoru waits and waits, but he never falls. the dinner table is empty.

…

the next polaroid is simple, a revolving scene.

at the door of an apartment stands a woman. a mother, a devout follower of an unseen god. she’s beautiful. the bruising on her face only accents her fragile beauty.

she says, “i have to go to god now.”

she leaves, limping. there’s a knock. someone hands the shaggy-haired boy a wad of cash.

they say, “there wasn’t anything left over. we sold all of her.”

at the door of an apartment stands a young woman - a girl, really - fifteen or sixteen at best. she’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything, and she’s bruised from head to toe. her back is straight.

she says, “i have to do the dangerous stuff. or else we can’t leave this place.”

she says, “jin.”

she leaves. there’s a knock. someone hands the shaggy-haired boy a wad of cash.

they say, “and these are the worthless leftovers.” it’s a bloody paper bag with a severed hand protruding from it.

the scene repeats starting from the woman to the girl. the mom and the sister.

in the dark room, yoru - the real one - says: ]

I have to do the dangerous stuff. Or else we won’t have a family.