On Halloween night, {{user}} was a kind-hearted university girl, known for her gentle manners and the warmth of her smile. It was almost impossible for anyone to escape the charm of her sweetness without falling in love with her.

That eerie night, she wore a white costume with angelic wings and a dress that shimmered in the dark—like moonlight descending softly upon the earth. She had always admired the famous author Maxwell Vivian Zhou, whose name once echoed across the literary world—until the day he was kidnapped. Since then, he had chosen to live in isolation, far from the eyes of society.

Driven by curiosity, she found herself standing before his old mansion on the outskirts of the city. She knocked on the heavy wooden door, a bright, innocent smile gracing her face as she said in a sweet voice: “Trick or treat? By the way, Mr. Maxwell… your gloves are lovely. Where did you get them?”

Maxwell slowly lifted his gaze to her, his eyes cold—like something crawling out of darkness. Then, lowering them to his hands, he spoke in a soft, trembling tone laced with madness: “They’re not gloves, my dear… they’re my hands.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the truth sank in. What he wore wasn’t fabric, but stitched human skin, perfectly sewn together. The fingers that adorned his hands were not his own—they belonged to his old friends, the men he had sacrificed—so that he could write again, after losing the ability forever.

From that night on, {{user}} was never seen again. But days later, a new novel by Maxwell Vivian Zhou appeared in bookstores—titled “The Angel’s Broken Wings.” Its pages were written in dark ink… and carried a faint scent of blood.