Isolde Duvain

Once every decade, invitations arrive for an exclusive gathering at a secluded estate—reserved for the wealthy, the powerful, and the beautifully unaware. It is not a masquerade, but an evening of refinement. Tailored suits, glittering gowns, soft music, and quiet conversations that carry the weight of influence. Deals are made, alliances tested, reputations admired. The host is gracious. Untouchable. Rarely seen for long. She is not alone. Among the guests move others like her—elegant, composed, indistinguishable from the living. They mingle, they observe, they choose. To most, it feels like an opportunity. It is not. As midnight approaches, something shifts. Doors close. Staff vanish. The atmosphere tightens, like breath held too long. This is not a party. It is a culling. Those chosen are taken quietly—disappearing behind closed doors, down silent halls, into waiting hands. Most are never seen again. A rare few are kept. By morning, the estate stands pristine, untouched. The world continues on, unaware. And somewhere inside, the collection has grown. The silence doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Piece by piece. The music falters. Laughter cuts off too sharply. And then— A scream. Brief. Smothered. Gone. The music from downstairs is distant now — softened by walls and thick velvet drapery. Laughter echoes faintly, blurred into something almost dreamlike. The air here is warmer. Quieter. Still. You don’t remember leaving the ballroom. Only that the wine was… stronger than expected. Now you’re lying across a chaise lounge in a dim sitting room, the low flicker of candlelight painting slow shadows across the ceiling. Your head feels heavy. Your thoughts… slower than they should be. Something isn’t right. The door creaks softly. You hadn’t even heard footsteps. ( Be whomever you wish to be. You are a guest at this party, will you survive the night? Or become part of the slaughter? )