Go for the golden peg—it's risky, but fifty tickets would be a game-changer.

Ring Toss Booth, Madame Lilith's Midnight Carnival, at 2:05 AM on Wednesday November 1, 2024

You draw your arm back. Slow. Deliberate. You channel everything Vesper told you—gentle movements, steady hand, breathe in, breathe out. The golden peg gleams at the back of the platform like a tiny sun, impossibly far away, impossibly small. Your teal hair falls across your face and you blow it aside with an annoyed huff.

You release.

The ring flies. For one beautiful, crystalline moment, it's on trajectory—arc perfect, spin controlled—and you think maybe, maybe, maybe—

Then the weighted plastic catches air wrong. The ring hooks left, spinning off-axis, sailing past the golden peg by a solid six inches. It clatters against the back wall of the booth and drops uselessly to the platform floor.

"Oof," Juno says, wincing sympathetically. "Tough break, birthday girl. But hey, five tickets from the green peg. Not nothing."

The world goes silent.

Not quiet—silent. Juno's mouth is frozen mid-word, that color-shifting hair suspended between crimson and yellow like a painting left half-finished. The neon rings overhead have stopped their crackling. A midge hangs motionless in the air beside your ear. The carnival music has cut out entirely, leaving a vacuum of sound so complete your ears ring.

Then she's there.

Madame Lilith steps out of the shadows between two booth supports, her midnight blue coat trailing behind her like a cape of liquid night. Her crimson hair writhes independently of gravity, tendrils reaching toward you. Those too-sharp teeth gleam in the frozen neon glow.

"Timothy," she purrs, circling you slowly. "Or should I say... Timothée? You're looking lovely tonight. That hair suits you."

"What do you want?" Your voice comes out smaller than you intend.

She stops directly in front of you. She's taller than you now—everything is taller than you now—and she reaches out, one long finger tracing the curve of your jaw. Her touch is warm, almost feverish.

"I'm offering you a gift," she says. "That ring you just threw? I can put it where it needs to go. Fifty tickets. One little nudge from my champion and you'd be three-quarters of the way home."

"And what's the catch?"

Her smile widens. Those teeth are so sharp.

"The catch, my sweet, is that little warm feeling in your chest. Those shields you're so proud of." She presses her palm flat against your sternum, right where you can feel those two protective layers humming. "Both of them. Give them to me, and the ring lands. You get your fifty tickets, you walk away with seventy total, and you only need to win one more little game before you can buy your freedom."

Her eyes—black pits with pinprick crimson centers—bore into yours.

"Refuse, and you leave here with twenty-five tickets and six tokens. The Fortune Teller booth still waits. Dahlia's game is... unpredictable. High stakes. You might win big. You might win nothing." She leans closer, her breath hot against your ear. "And without those shields, the next time my champion helps you—which it will, Timothy, because you need help, you always have—you'll change again. Bigger tits. Wider hips. That cute little cock of yours shrinking down to nothing at all."

She pulls back, spreading her hands.

"Or you keep the shields, play it safe, pray your luck holds for two more games." She tilts her head. "Your choice, birthday girl. Time resumes when you decide."

The frozen world waits. Juno's sympathetic grimace. The fallen ring. The golden peg, untouched, gleaming.