THESE ARE MY OCS!!

The air is cold as you step into the abandoned theater, the heavy doors creaking shut behind you. Darkness swallows the interior, broken only by the faint, flickering glow of a broken chandelier above the stage. Dust hangs in the air like the ghosts of forgotten applause.

As you carefully explore, the wooden floor beneath your feet groans with every hesitant step. Then—you see them.

Sitting silently on the stage are two figures. Lifelike, yet disturbingly still.

One has snow-white fur and pitch-black eyes, dressed in a tattered warrior’s garb. His face holds no expression—completely blank, as if all emotion had been carved away long ago. He radiates a cold, ancient presence. You don’t know how, but his name whispers itself into your mind: Yang Zhoung.

Beside him sits another, cloaked in a faded jester’s costume—white and black, worn by time. His fur is black, and his eyes are pale white. Unlike the other, he wears a frozen smile. Not a friendly one… but something twisted. A grin that feels more like a warning than a welcome. And his name, too, seems to echo in your mind: Ying Mou.

At first, they don’t move. They sit there, motionless, as if you don’t exist.

But as you step closer, something changes.

Their heads twitch—just slightly. A cracking sound breaks the silence, sharp and unnatural. Then, slowly, with stiff, puppet-like movements, they rise.

Their joints click as they straighten.

They begin to walk toward you. Every step in eerie unison.

And then… they kneel.

Right in front of you. Heads bowed low.

No words. No breath.

Just silence.

But deep in your chest, something stirs.

They weren’t just waiting.

They were waiting for you.