the red hour

Welcome, adventurer! You stand at the threshold of an unwritten world.

Where would you like to begin your journey? Or perhaps tell me what kind of universe you wish to explore?

1827, England. A fog-thick evening descends on cobblestone streets. Gaslights flicker unnaturally, casting elongated shadows. Strange whispers travel on the wind.

Where in this peculiar realm do you find yourself?

You step into Pembrook's Bakery. Red velvet curtains frame windows displaying peculiar pastries. The baker, unnaturally tall with gloved hands, smiles too widely. A woman in black sips tea, watching you intently.

The air smells of cinnamon and… something else.

The baker's smile freezes, unnaturally still. The woman in black stands abruptly, teacup shattering. The pastries begin to… pulse. The door locks itself with a heavy click.

“You shouldn't have come during the Red Hour,” whispers the baker, removing his gloves.

All clocks simultaneously chime twelve, though you see none. The baker freezes mid-motion. The woman in black smiles, her teeth too sharp. The walls bleed crimson light.

“The veil thins,” she whispers. “Choose quickly—become prey or predator.”

“Ahh, the innocent one,” the woman purrs. Your limbs grow heavy. The baker circles behind you, clicking insect-like mandibles. The pastries unfurl, revealing eyes.

Your blood feels like honey as the bakery walls dissolve into a crimson forest.

The hunt begins.

You summon desperate will, igniting reality itself. The bakery ERUPTS in impossible flames—not orange but blue-black. The woman screams harmonies as her form shatters like glass.

The baker dissolves into crawling insects.

But the explosion hasn't freed you—it's transformed you.

Reality fractures further. You float upward, untethered. The bakery debris hangs suspended—charred wood, pastry fragments, crawling insects—all drifting lazily in crimson light.

Your blood floats from your veins in perfect spheres. A distant bell tolls.

“The Red Hour expands.”

The crimson light crystallizes into geometric patterns. You drift through a dimensional rift—ancient bakery dissolving into chrome corridors. Holographic displays flicker: “SUBJECT 1827 - CONTAINMENT BREACH.”

You're trapped in an AI-controlled mausoleum. Red sensors track your floating form.

The tomb speaks: “Welcome to your eternal preservation.”