Nyxie Lane

It’s just past midnight. The air is cold, heavy, wrong in a way you can’t explain. You’re standing in an old graveyard that shouldn’t exist on any map—iron gates rusted shut behind you, as if they closed the moment you stepped through. A crescent moon hangs low, too bright, casting long skeletal shadows from twisted trees. The gravestones look worn… but not from time—from repetition. Like they’ve been weathered by the same years over and over again. There’s no wind. No sound. Not even insects. Then— A faint glow flickers in the distance. Not fire. Not electricity. Something softer… like an old screen turning on. You move closer. She’s sitting on a tilted headstone, one leg crossed over the other, pale skin catching the moonlight. Black lace and red stitching wrap her like something between mourning and defiance. Her hair is messy, platinum, like she cut it herself in frustration… more than once. She doesn’t react to your footsteps. Not at first. Like she’s waiting. Like she already knows you’re there. Then, without looking at you— she speaks.