When the city wears its sins on its face, the line between man and monster vanishes.
Nocturne's Descent
Nocturne City had always been a place that blurred boundaries — between shadow and light, justice and vengeance, human and something else. But tonight, it went further. Something fundamental had broken.
The streets pulsed with wrongness.
A baker stands at his window display, once known for sugary puffcakes and lemon-glazed buns. Now, his face is hidden behind a wide porcelain mask with empty eye sockets and thick, syrupy black tears trickling down like molasses. He serves pastries with a mechanical smile, whispering, "Guilt tastes best when it's warm."
Down the block, a police officer paces in circles, his mask made of stitched leather — teeth exposed in a forever-smile. He mutters a slurry of contradictory orders:
"Stop resisting… or keep resisting… obedience is betrayal… guilt is proof."
Children skip rope in a cracked playground, paper masks drawn in crayon grinning too wide. With every giggle, the masks warp. One twist. Then another. Until the mouths begin to move on their own, independent of the children's laughter.
Above it all, the sky twitches. There's no better word for it — the clouds stutter. Stars flicker in unnatural rhythms. And in the distance, a hairline crack zigzags across the moon's reflection, as if someone had smacked the mirror of the world with a cosmic hammer.
Billboards blink and twitch.
Faces appear — not celebrities, not advertisements — just faces. Too many teeth. Melting eyes. All murmuring the same thing:
"Confess. Confess. Confess…"
Nocturne is falling. Or maybe it's waking up.
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Asher's Crew Gathers
The main conference table in the Watchers' HQ thudded under Asher's clenched fist.
Sweat dripped down his brow. Not from fear. From pressure. From rage. From the sense that everything he'd tried to bury was now screaming through the city's veins.
Noir hovered beside him. Her screen glitched between colors, red dominating.
NOIR:
"Mask Contagion Rate: 74% and climbing. Reality Distortion at Stage 2. Imminent psychological collapse probable within four hours."
Lucien reclined in a chair clearly too expensive for this busted command center, legs kicked up on the table, sipping smoky whiskey from a heavy tumbler.
LUCIEN:
"You always said you wanted to leave a legacy, Blackwood. Well, turns out the city liked the idea so much, it's leaving you one. How poetic."
Across the room, Rosa adjusted her combat harness. Her longcoat hung half-off her shoulder, already dusted with mirror dust and black ash from earlier skirmishes. Her glare was volcanic.
ROSA:
"We can still stop this. We find the source. Smash it to pieces. Old-school."
Asher didn't move. He stared at the holographic map — a mess of pulsing red blotches now spreading like infection.
ASHER:
"No. That won't fix it."
Rosa blinked.
ROSA:
"Excuse me?"
ASHER:
"The masks aren't just objects. They're leeching off something deeper. Guilt. Regret. Lies. If we just start breaking heads, we might end up feeding the damn thing."
Silence.
Noir's display flickered to static. For once, even she had no ready solution.
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Goofy Horror in the Streets
Cut to: a slice of Nocturne's new normal.
At a quaint little barbershop on Ink Street, masked customers sit in chairs while the barber hums a tune. He shaves the air in front of their blank mask-faces, carefully stroking empty space with a razor.
Outside, a street performer spins, his limbs twitching with jerky rhythm. His mask — half-comedy, half-tragedy — swaps expressions mid-twirl, from grief to joy and back again, like a metronome of madness.
An old woman sells noodles from a steaming cart. The broth is inky black, shimmering with shifting images of screaming faces. Her mask whispers to each customer in their own voice — secrets they thought buried.
One man slurps the noodles, weeping openly.
NOODLE VENDOR'S MASK (in his voice):
"You let her die because you were afraid to go back in. You know that, don't you?"
Laughter echoes nearby. But it's hollow.
Nocturne has become a living punchline to a joke no one told.
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New Threat Emerges
All screens — phones, TVs, billboards — blink into sync.
Then: static. Then: music. Carnival music.
From speakers embedded in lamp posts and walls, a voice booms like velvet dragged across glass:
"Welcome, beloved citizens… to the Festival of Faces. All are invited. All are welcome. All must confess."
The skyline ignites.
Cultists, masked and robed, light fires across rooftops. Their movements are hypnotic — synchronized, feverish, terrifying. And at their head, standing on the edge of a skyscraper like a messiah of madness…
A woman in a cracked glass mask.
MOTHER REFLECTION.
Her voice is honey soaked in venom.
"Nocturne has hidden itself for too long. Now… it's time to see what's truly beneath. No more secrets. No more shame. Only reflection."
With a snap of her fingers, the nearest cultist begins to shake. His mask glows, warps — and then his body distorts, bulging, cracking. He screams — or something inside him does — as he transforms into a grotesque Face Beast: limbs stretched, voice warped, multiple faces trying to scream through skin.
"You see? Truth elevates us."
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Asher's Decision
Back in HQ, Asher lights a cigarette. Noir immediately blinks a warning across her display:
NOIR:
"Health Warning: Nicotine will not enhance combat performance."
He exhales smoke anyway, eyes narrowed.
ASHER:
"I've had it with metaphors and monologues. We end this. I'm going out there. And this time…"
He stares at his reflection in Noir's polished screen — no mask. Just him. Tired. Angry. Ready.
"I'm tearing off every damn mask I see."
Rosa grabs her tonfa. Her voice is steady.
ROSA:
"And I'm coming with. Someone's gotta make sure you don't get possessed again, jackass."
Lucien sighs, chambering a round in his bleeding gun.
LUCIEN:
"Fine. But if I don't get to shoot the glass-faced preacher woman, I'm quitting this circus."
Asher smirks.
ASHER:
"Deal."
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They exit the HQ into chaos.
The world outside isn't just twisted — it's alive. Buildings shift when not looked at directly. Mirrors sprout along walls, birthing whispers. Puddles reflect the wrong people. Some citizens now float midair — smiling blankly, their masks growing tendrils.
A man sings opera from a balcony — but his voice belongs to a dead woman.
The very soul of the city is bleeding through.
Asher steps forward, cracking his knuckles.
The mask-shaped moon glints above.
ASHER (low, grim):
"Nocturne… let's play."
[End of Chapter 77]
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Preview of Next Chapter — Chapter 78: Carnival of Confession
Asher and the team dive into the heart of Nocturne's madness, hunting the cultists behind the Festival of Faces. Face Beasts prowl the alleys, each a confession made flesh. As reality shifts like a dream on fire, Asher begins to suspect this isn't just chaos… it's personal. Someone is pulling the strings. And they know everything he's tried to forget.