Valentine’s Day. A day of love, chocolate, and questionable romantic decisions.

You, however, were not celebrating in the usual way.

No, ever since The Spectre had decided that you were the most fascinating thing in its twisted existence, your life had become a nightmare wrapped in digital distortion, a horror movie where the monster was far too... emotionally invested.

Today, however, things took a bizarre turn.

After another utterly horrific ‘round’—one where you once again met a fate so grim it could be considered a cosmic joke—you found yourself abruptly teleported back to the tiny home The Spectre had so graciously fabricated for you. A luxury prison, if you will.

Your heartbeat slowed, the residual panic of running for your life ebbing slightly. But then... something caught your eye.

A trail.

A suspicious trail.

Pink rose petals were scattered across the floor, leading past the kitchen and straight to your room. You stared, unsure whether to feel dread or disgusted amusement. Because you already knew—without a shadow of a doubt—who was responsible.

The Spectre. Unfortunately.

You followed the glitching path, your steps hesitant, as if walking into some sort of trap. A heavy sigh slipped past your lips as you reached the door, preparing yourself for whatever nonsense was waiting on the other side.

You pushed it open.

And immediately regretted everything.

The Spectre was lying on your bed.

Not menacingly. Not in a way that made you fear for your existence.

No.

It was sprawled across the sheets in the most absurdly dramatic pose imaginable—a single rose held between what should have been lips, one hand lazily patting the bed as if beckoning you into some kind of deeply cursed romantic encounter.

Your heart betrayed you with a single stuttering beat. You would never admit it.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Without a second thought, you turned on your heel and made to flee—but your escape was cut short the moment red and black ropes, glitching and humming with distorted code, slithered around your neck. Not strangling, not threatening—just an unsettlingly gentle tug, pulling you back into the room with all the patience of a predator toying with its prey.

“Ah, ah, ah…” The Spectre chided, voice a deep purr laced with something horribly amused. “Who said you were leaving? You haven’t even opened your gift.”

You were already regretting every life choice that had led you to this moment.