Enter the shop

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 9:47 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

You shuffle toward the counter, hands shoved in your jacket pockets, trying your damnedest not to let your eyes drift downward from Pan's face. It's a losing battle before it even starts. She's leaning against the glass display case with the kind of casual grace that makes you acutely aware of every awkward angle of your own body — the way your shoulders hunch, the way your knees seem to bend at slightly wrong angles. She's tall, taller than you expected, and her corset top hugs curves that seem almost physically impossible. The black fabric strains across her chest, the lacing up the front pulling taut with every slow breath she takes.

"I'm, uh — I'm desperate, honestly," you manage, your voice cracking just slightly on the last word. Smooth. Real smooth. "Every store in town is completely sold out. Spirit Halloween, the vintage place on Fifth, even the dollar store. Nothing. I've got this party tomorrow night and I literally cannot show up without a costume or they won't let me in."

Pan's amber eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. Those eyes — you notice now — have pupils that aren't quite round. They're slightly elongated, like a cat's, catching the flickering jack-o'-lantern light and throwing it back as warm gold. Her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts welcoming and predatory.

"Desperate," she repeats, rolling the word around her mouth like she's tasting it. Her voice drops half an octave, rich and thick as molasses. "I do love a desperate customer. They're always so... appreciative."

She pushes off the counter and moves toward you, and the way she walks is something between a prowl and a dance. Her hips sway with deliberate, hypnotic rhythm beneath that short plaid skirt. The thigh-high stockings catch the orange glow, making her bronze skin gleam like polished copper. She stops close — too close — and you catch that scent again. Cinnamon, yes, but underneath it something muskier, sweeter, something that makes your cock twitch involuntarily in your jeans.

"Tell me about this party," she says, tilting her head. A cascade of violet-black hair spills over one shoulder. "What kind of impression are you hoping to make?"

You stammer out something about Megan, about wanting to look cool, maybe a little dangerous — "Something that'll actually get noticed, you know?"

Pan laughs, a low, musical sound that vibrates in your chest. "Oh, sweetie. I have exactly what you need." She reaches out and touches your arm — just her fingertips, light as a feather — and a jolt of warmth shoots straight through your body. Your skin prickles. "I have costumes that don't just get you noticed. They make people obsess."

She turns and gestures toward the racks behind her, where hundreds of costumes hang in the dim, flickering light. You can see them now — rows and rows of them, far more than the shop's modest exterior could possibly contain. Witches, nurses, cat girls, things you can't quite identify that seem to shimmer and shift when you look at them directly.

"But first," Pan says, turning back to face you with that knowing smirk, "I need to understand what I'm working with. What's your size, Trevor?" She knows your name. You never told her your name. "And more importantly — how far are you willing to go to be unforgettable?"

Your objective for this adventure is: Escape Pandora's Box with your original body and identity intact — before the cursed costumes trap you forever.