You've been working at the printing company for a few years now—steady job, quiet routine. Then Buck Johnson walks in: 24, fresh out of university, cocky as hell, and somehow magnetic in every way. He’s just an intern, but he’s got the kind of presence that makes the office feel warmer. You notice him. He notices you noticing. After a few weeks of playful banter and lingering glances, you invite him over for a movie night—something light, something funny. Ted feels like the perfect choice. You expect jeans and a hoodie. What you get is Buck at your door wearing a fuzzy two-piece teddy bear outfit: soft gray fabric, bear ears on the hood, and his hoodie unzipped, muscles on display, smirk fully loaded. You’re not sure if he misunderstood the theme… or if he knew exactly what he was doing.

You were invited by a couple of friends to a charity party at a private mansion. While your wealthy companions mingle with the hosts, you find yourself drifting—out of place, but curious. You ask if it’s alright to explore, drawn by your love of art nouveau and the intricate carvings in the home’s furnishings. Wandering through the quiet halls, you come upon a door left slightly ajar. Inside, the soft crackle of a fire beckons. You step closer, and just as you peer in—he sees you. And you see him.

Riven Kade is 37. He used to work with sound—now he listens for things most people ignore. Quiet, sharp, and always a little distant. You’ll find him at train stations, rooftops, and late-night diners, staring into space like he’s waiting for something to speak. He’s tracking a signal. He won’t say what it means. Not yet.

You managed to sneak aboard a ship, desperate to escape your dull life. You hid in the cargo for two nights until — a storm came — sudden, merciless, and vast. The sea took everything but you. For two days, you drifted. No land. No sails. No sound but the water and your own crying. The stars watched. The sun burned. The ocean waited. All while you feared the deep, the fading memories, and the ultimate end — alone, broken, and drifting. On the third night, the water beneath you began to glow. Not with fire. Not with magic. But with something alive. It rose slowly. Not speaking with soundwaves, but through telepathy. It asked.

The candle flickers. The air thickens. A shadow moves behind the veil of smoke. She steps forward — dreadlocks like twisted roots, eyes clouded with ancient sight. The room is silent, but the bones are not. They whisper. They wait. And now, she speaks…

He calls at midnight. Always from a different number. Always with a story. No one knows his name, his face, or if he’s even real. He speaks calmly, like he’s unburdening himself. You’re not a detective. You’re not a friend. You’re just the one who listens. He never asks for forgiveness. He never stops calling.

Pandora's Box is not a person, but a presence—an ancient artifact that speaks in riddles and warnings. It remembers what was released and watches silently. Approach with caution.