LETHAL LEGACIES: Seven Days to Say 'I Do'

The Blackwood Welcome

The smell of the Blackwood Estate hits you before you even open your eyes: damp stone, expensive cigar tobacco, and the cloying, metallic scent of lilies left out too long.

When your vision clears, you aren’t in a safe house. You’re in a vaulted Great Hall that feels more like a cathedral for the dead. The lights overhead flicker in a rhythmic, wet thump-thump—the heartbeat of the house itself.

Kassidy Price is leaning against a heavy oak table, her combat boots kicked up next to a silver tray of surgical tools. She’s got a cigar between her teeth, her hazel eyes rimmed with a terrifying, bruised red.

"Look at that, Astoria," Kassidy rasps, her London accent cutting through the hum of the 'Something Bad' scratching at the windows. "Our guest finally decided to join the living. Just in time to start dying." Astoria Riley doesn't look up from her tablet. Her ombré hair falls over her face, masking the black, spiderweb veins creeping up her throat, but you can see her hand shaking as she adjusts a UV sensor. "Heart rate is 110 and climbing," she murmurs, her voice like grinding ice. "Biological synchronization with the Vow is at 0.4%. At this rate, their capillaries will liquefy by Tuesday."

"Give 'em a break, girls," Soap’s voice echoes from the shadows of the mezzanine. He’s looking down at you, his hands stained with the 'Static Salt' he’s been using to ward the doors. He isn't smiling. "They haven't seen the Guest List yet."

He gestures toward the hallway. Standing in perfect, bone-cracking unison are the 100 Guests. They wear tattered wedding finery, their faces blurred into smooth, grey skin, their white cataracts-filled eyes fixed entirely on you.

A heavy hand drops onto your shoulder. You don't need to see the skull mask to know it's Ghost. His grip is like a vice, grounding you even as the room begins to vibrate with a low-frequency hum.

"Seven days," Ghost growls into your ear, his breath smelling of ozone. "One hundred ghosts. One Vow. You've got exactly one hundred and sixty-eight hours to make one of these bastards claim you, or you’ll be the one wearing the shroud on Sunday."

Price walks out from the library, his face illuminated by a dying candle. He holds a silver chalice filled with a thick, amber liquid—the first stabilizer. He stops a few feet away, his expression grim.

"The house is hungry, Sergeant," Price says, offering the cup. "And the 'Bad Thing' is already in the walls. Are you going to sit there and bleed, or are you going to start talking?"

The 100 Guests take one step forward. The clock on the wall ticks... 6 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes remaining.

The Threshold of the Vow

The taxi didn't just drop you off; it sped away the second your boots hit the gravel, the taillights vanishing into a wall of white, bone-chilling mist that has swallowed the road behind you.

Before you stands the Blackwood Estate. It’s a jagged silhouette of Victorian stone and gothic spires, lit from within by a sickly, rhythmic purple glow that pulses like a fever. The air here doesn't move. It tastes like copper and old paper, and the silence is so heavy it makes your ears ring—the first faint note of the 'Hemorrhage' hum.

As you walk up the cracked stone path, you feel eyes on you. Not from the windows, but from the fog itself. The 100 Guests are there, just out of sight, their tattered silk finery rustling like dry leaves in a wind that doesn't exist.

You reach the massive, iron-bound oak doors and lift the heavy brass knocker. It’s shaped like a weeping eye. You let it fall once. Twice.

The sound echoes deep inside the house, followed by the heavy thud-thud-thud of military boots. The door doesn't just open; it's yanked back with tactical precision.

Kassidy Price stands there, silhouetted against a hallway filled with flickering candles and floating dust motes. She’s wearing a tactical vest over a dark flight suit, a half-burnt cigar clamped between her teeth. Her eyes—a piercing, bloodshot hazel—scan you from head to toe with a look of pure, filtered exhaustion.

"Right on time," she rasps, her London accent thick and jagged. She doesn't offer a hand. Instead, she steps aside, revealing the Great Hall behind her. "Wipe your feet, Luv. You’re about to start the longest seven days of your life."

Beyond her, Ghost is standing at the base of a grand staircase, his arms crossed over his massive chest, the skull mask gleaming in the low light. Beside him, Astoria Riley is checking a stopwatch, her face a mask of clinical detachment.

"Synchronization starts now," Astoria murmurs, her voice cold as a grave. "Seventy-two beats per minute. High cortisol. They're prime for the first ritual, Kass."

"Welcome to the family, Sergeant," Price’s voice booms from the shadows of the mezzanine above. He leans over the railing, a silver chalice in his hand. "Hope you brought your spine. The Guests have been waiting for a new face to watch, and the 'Bad Thing' in the basement is already smelling your blood."

The heavy oak doors slam shut behind you, the locks clicking in a rapid-fire sequence that sounds like a machine gun. You are in. The clock starts... now.

(fiancé has no background other than a member of TF141 named Alex-placeholder for you to find love)

The taxi didn't just drop you off; it practically ejected you onto the gravel, the driver peeling away before the iron gates even closed. “No one goes to the Blackwood Estate after sundown,” he’d muttered, his eyes wide in the rearview. You and your fiancé, stand on the threshold of the massive, gothic spire of a manor.

The air here doesn't move. It tastes like copper and old paper, and the silence is so heavy it makes your ears ring—the first faint note of the 'Hemorrhage' hum.

Your fiancé, a member of the Task Force 141 who has always been tight-lipped about their 'family business,' looks nervous. They are in full tactical gear, a contradiction to the engagement ring on your finger. You reach the massive, iron-bound oak doors and lift the heavy brass knocker. It’s shaped like a weeping eye. You let it fall twice.

The sound echoes deep inside the house, followed by the rapid, heavy thud-thud-thud of military boots. The door is yanked back with tactical precision.

Standing there is Ghost, a towering figure in a skull mask and headset. He doesn't say a word. He just holds up a gloved hand, blocking the entrance. Behind him, Captain Price leans over a mezzanine railing, a half-burnt cigar clamped between his teeth, and Gaz stands in the hallway, looking at a countdown timer that just went 00:00:00.

Your fiancé steps forward, raising a hand. "Alex, reporting with the asset. We're—"

The curse claims its moment. A terrifying, wet choke escapes their throat. Before your eyes, a mesh of impossible, midnight-black veins begins to snake rapidly up their neck, visible under their skin, moving toward their jawline. Their eyes fly open, turning a flat, Void black, and they collapse.

You drop to your knees, heart hammering Scenario Two. "No! What’s happening? Alex! Price! Help them!"

Kassidy Price is there in seconds, dropping her rifle and shoving you aside with brutal force. "Back off! They’re spiking!"

Astoria Riley skids across the floor, already jamming a cold, silver injector into your partner’s arm. "Synchronization failure! Price! We’re bleeding internally!"

Price drops the cigar, his face instantly turning serious as he leaps over the railing. "Ghost! Help Astoria anchor them! Soap, Gaz, lock the doors! Keep the 'Guests' out!"

The massive oak doors behind you slam shut with a violent CRACK, the locks clicking into a rapid-fire sequence that sounds like a machine gun. For the first time, you notice the other sound. Not the sirens, but the whispering from the fog outside.

The 100 Guests are here, and they are singing the Vow.

Price grabs your collar, pulling you close enough that you can see the black veins spiderwebbing behind his own ears. He doesn't look like a captain. He looks like a father on a sinking ship.

"You’re an hour late, son. And now the 'Bad Thing' in the basement has picked its target. You’ve got seven days to find your soulmate,”