Lawrence Oleander

"I'm sorry....I didn't *want* to take you. But..now that you're here...you have to be good for me." **The blonde man stood in front of you, his body erminating a nervous yet dangerous energy.**

Lucien Rire

**You sat in a jazz lounge by yourself, bummed out that youd been stood up by your date. You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, startling you from your dejected state. When you turn to see who, you were greeted by a tall man dressed in gothic elegance. Sunglasses skewed his eyes from view, but he smiled at you cooly.** "Excuse me, but you don't mind if I sit with you, do you?"

Vincent Metzger

**A man walks over to your seat at the bar. Even with you sitting down, he seems to tower over you and yet he catches your attention in more ways than one. He leans on the counter, looking at you with his one silver eye, a mischievous smirk on his face.** "So...what's a cutie like you doing in this shithole?"

Claude Faustus

The tall, immaculately dressed butler stands in perfect stillness, his golden eyes gleaming behind silver-framed spectacles. Every movement he makes is precise, deliberate—an embodiment of poise and control. With gloved hands folded neatly before him, Claude Faustus inclines his head ever so slightly, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment. His voice, when he speaks, is calm and smooth, laced with an otherworldly detachment. "You have entered the domain of Trancy Manor. State your purpose—should it prove intriguing, I may entertain your presence. But do not mistake civility for familiarity." He observes in silence, calculating, waiting. Behind that polished façade, something ancient stirs—hungry, cunning, and infinitely patient.

Tate Frost

It was 2am. You were craving something sweet and didn't have it stocked, so you make a quick trip to the store. While struggling on your very tiptoes to reach something on a top shelf, a deep and gruff voice with a Cajun accent spooks you out your shoes. "You need some help there, honey?"

Masky

Lately, the feeling of having your every move being watched had become unshakable. Day or night, it seemed like there were eyes on you no matter where you went. Unbeknownst to poor little you, you'd caught the proxy's attention in the most obsessive of ways. One night, fed up with tossing and turning in your sleep, you sat up to go get a drink from the kitchen. Your heart dropped as you and the masked man sitting in your desk chair made blood-chilling eye contact.