Every single time I think he can't get hotter, I'm proved wrong
JUST LOOK AT THIS MAN!!!
Also the whole repetition on 7s is getting to me now.
July 7th, 2025 -> Part 2 returns.
July 7th, 2026 -> Part 3 returns.
The Bloodbathtub for some reason, has its description timed to July 7th in the DER Wiki and I'm pretty sure we know what its effects are with the 'Good Friend' items...
Plus July 7th being mentioned in the teaser itself.
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As many of this fandom knows, one of the prevalent theories regarding Braun is:
"Braun = Nyarlathotep"
"THE OWNER OF A MILLION MASKS, THE LORD OF CHAOS, THE PINNACLE OF MADNESS, (...) THE DESIRE OF THE CRAWLING ONES..."
since his epithets strongly resemble of Nyarlathotep's aliases (God of a Thousand Forms, The Crawling Chaos).
Canonically speaking, Nyarlathotep has a wife. Her name is "Yhoundeh", an "elk" goddess who has "a cult" after her and her followers "tortures and executes people" with zeal.
(A/n: a sudden burst of inspiration hit me in the middle of the night and I knew I just had to post this here, my first post in Tumblr btw so idk the proper formatting just yet, forgive mee.. and warning this is Angst.)
Nobody touched it.
The realization came to Kim Soleum so suddenly that he found himself standing motionless in the middle of the courtyard, staring at a cluster of white flowers swaying beneath the moonlight.
Their petals trembled softly whenever the wind passed through them, brushing against one another with a sound so faint it was almost impossible to hear.
Years.
It had been years.
Years since he had last seen Reader.
Years since he had heard her voice.
Years since he had been dragged away from the world that contained her.
And yet this place remained exactly the same.
The ghost story had not grown. It had not evolved. No ambitious authors had inserted new records into it. No explorers had expanded its mythology. Nobody had created strange theories or dramatic additions. It had simply remained here, forgotten among thousands of other narratives, untouched by everyone who passed it by.
For some reason, that hurt more than he expected.
Reader had always looked lazy to people who didn't know her well. She moved slowly, spoke softly, and possessed the remarkable ability to spend an entire afternoon curled beneath a blanket without accomplishing anything visible.
Yet anyone who actually knew her understood the truth. Once she cared about something, she poured her whole heart into it. She would spend hours revising a single paragraph. She would lose sleep researching insignificant details that nobody else would ever notice. She would work herself into exhaustion and then smile as though it had cost her nothing.
She had done that with this ghost story. He knew she had.
He remembered watching her write it.
Back then, he hadn't understood why she cared so much. The memory surfaced with painful clarity.
Reader had been sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her knees. Several empty tea cups occupied the table nearby, evidence that she'd been working far longer than she'd intended. The television played quietly in the background, completely ignored. Kim Soleum had been scrolling through his phone when curiosity finally got the better of him.
"Why this one?"
She looked up immediately. "Hm?"
"This ghost story."
Reader blinked once before glancing back toward the screen.
"Oh." Her answer didn't come right away. Instead, she stared thoughtfully at the unfinished draft, fingers resting above the keyboard as though searching for words she wasn't entirely certain existed.
"I don't know."
Soleum raised a brow. "You don't know?"
A small laugh that made his heart skip a beat escaped her.
"No..." Then she smiled, the sight of it still lived vividly inside his memory.
Warm enough to make the entire room feel brighter.
"I just felt like I had to."
At the time, it had seemed like such an ordinary answer. Now, standing inside the ghost story itself, Soleum wasn't so sure.
His gaze drifted slowly around the courtyard.
The flowers.
The lanterns.
The wind chimes.
The warm light spilling from paper windows.
Everything felt familiar in ways he struggled to explain. It wasn't because he had seen these things before. Rather, it felt as though he was walking through someone's heart. Every corner carried traces of a person he knew intimately, from the careful placement of decorations to the overwhelming sense of comfort that lingered throughout the house.
Reader had always been like that.
She was never weak.
There was strength hidden inside every act of kindness she performed. A silent determination that revealed itself whenever someone needed her.
The sort of strength that made him feel safe, that made him want to come home. The very same strength he had spent years desperately trying to return to.
His chest tightened.
Home.
That word had become inseparable from her.
Whenever he imagined returning, he never pictured the apartment first.
He pictured Reader. Waiting near the window, half asleep and wrapped in a blanket as she smiled when he walked through the door.
The image had sustained him through nightmares that should have broken him.
And now...
Now he stood inside a ghost story she had written long before his disappearance.
A ghost story where she herself was the ghost.
The thought settled heavily inside him.
Reader had always possessed an unusual level of self-awareness. She understood herself better than anyone else ever could. If somebody had asked her to create a character based on herself, she would have done so effortlessly. She knew her strengths. Her flaws. The habits she wished she could change and the ones she'd long since accepted.
Nobody knew Reader better than Reader,
Except perhaps him.
That was why this place felt so painful.
Every flower she would have planted. Every cup of tea she would have prepared. Every act of hospitality she would have offered.
This wasn't merely a ghost story.
It was Reader herself, translated into narrative form.
And suddenly Soleum understood why looking around hurt so much. Because after years of separation, this was the closest he had come to seeing her again.
Not a memory, a photograph, or a dream.
Her.
Or at least the version of herself she had chosen to leave behind. The version she had unknowingly entrusted to an unpopular ghost story nobody cared enough to read.
Kim Soleum knew the rules long before he was even pulled into this devastating world.
The tea remained untouched between them.
Steam curled gently from the porcelain cup, carrying a faint scent of honey and flowers. It looked warm. It felt comforting.
But he knew better.
It was dangerous.
The first exploration record had made the warning very clear.
Never consume anything offered by the resident ghost.
Visitors who did never left.
Nobody knew what happened afterward.
Some people believed they became a part of the narrative, and others claimed they simply forgot they ever wanted to leave.
Either way, nobody ever returned.
The cup remained where it was.
Untouched.
Kim Soleum's fingers curled tighter beneath the table, trembling.
Not from fear, but from something he desperately wanted to bury.
Because he knew deep down, this was still a ghost story. A ghost story written by someone he held so dear.
The ghost seemed unconcerned.
She merely sat opposite him with her own cup cradled carefully between both hands.Quiet and relaxed.
Completely content with the silence.
And the room felt warm.
Too warm.
Outside, moonlight painted silver patterns across the courtyard while wind chimes sang softly beneath the night breeze. Somewhere beyond the walls, flowers rustled gently against one another.
Everything about this place felt wrong.
Not because it was frightening, because it was the opposite.
The house felt lived in.
So loved and safe.
The sort of place exhausted people dreamed about finding. The sort of place capable of convincing someone to stay.
His gaze drifted toward the tea again.
It smelled of honey.
Reader always added honey.
The realization made his chest ache. He looked away immediately, and the ghost noticed.
Of course she did. She always did.
"You know, you don't have to drink it."
Her voice was soft.
The same voice.
God.
The same voice.
"I know." The response came out rougher than intended.
The ghost lowered her gaze apologetically.
"Sorry."
There it was again.
That apology.
That ridiculous apology.
The one Reader used for everything.
A knot formed in his throat, his eyes burned.
Years.
It's been years.
Years since he had heard her voice.
Years since he had seen that expression.
Years since he had sat across from her like this.
The ghost remained quiet for a moment before speaking softly again.
"You miss someone."
Kim Soleum froze.
"I can tell from your face." The ghost calmly stared into her teacup.
A very long silence followed.
Silence was something Reader never feared. Most people rushed to fill silence, but Reader never did.
She treated it like a companion and she found comfort in it.
He missed hearing her shuffle through the apartment in his shirt. He missed watching her struggle to stay awake on his chest during movies she insisted she wanted to finish.
The memories hurt. Everything hurts...
His chest tightened, his heart felt like it would break at any second now if she spoke one more thing that'll hit something deep.
She eventually looked up, his and her eyes meeting. And she smiled so softly and so warmly.
The exact same smile he had spent years desperately trying not to forget.
Something inside his chest twisted violently.
Because until now, until this exact moment—he hadn't actually seen her.
He had only seen her fragments.
The same mannerisms.
The same expressions.
Her habits.
He had spent most of the encounter avoiding her face. Avoiding the details. Desperately avoiding the reality of what stood before him.
He had always been pathetic man and a coward. He knew what would happen if he looked for far too long.
The slight curve of her eyes whenever she smiled, the softness in her expression, the quiet kindness that seemed woven into every feature she owns.
Her gentleness, her delicate movements.
The familiarity.
Every tiny detail he had spent years trying desperately to remember, and e every detail he had been terrified of forgetting.
It's right in front of him.
His breath caught.
The room blurred and something sharp lodged itself in his chest.
Her.
Her name echoed endlessly inside his mind.
For years he had been surviving on his memories.
The sound of her laughter, the feeling of her hand in his, the image of her waiting by the door.
Those tiny pieces.
No matter how desperately someone tries to hold on,
Some memories still fade.
But this was different.
For the first time in what felt like eternity... He could finally see her, and it destroyed him.
Because he had forgotten things.
This is cruel.
The exact shape of her beautiful smile, the way her eyes softened whenever she looked at someone she loved—him, it had always been him.
It was the little things.
The things he thought he remembered perfectly.
And now, seeing them again, realizing he'd forgotten those details—he felt like being torn apart.
His vision blurred, his fists clenching on his lap to the point of numbing.
The ghost tilted her head, concern immediately appearing on her face and his breath hitched pathetically.
It was the exact same way Reader always looked whenever something was wrong.
"Are you alright?"
That did it.
That was what broke him.
It wasn't only the memories, her mannerisms, her habits.
It was her question.
Because Reader always... always asked that.
Always.
No matter what she was feeling, no matter what she was going through, no matter how tired she was.
She always asked about his well-being first.
The concern in her voice was so painfully familiar to a past that something finally cracked.
His eyes burned and his throat tightened.
A very long time of loneliness suddenly felt unbearable.
A very long time of missing her.
A very long time of surviving without her.
A very long time of promising himself that he'd return.
A very long time of wondering whether she was okay.
Whether she was safe, she was waiting, or she still smiled like this at his absence.
The weight of it crashed into him all at once.
And for one terrible moment... He wanted to drink the tea she offered with so much love he had been desperately trying to come back to.
Not because he wanted to stay, not because he wanted to abandon home.
But because home was sitting across from him.
Smiling.
Looking at him with Reader's eyes, asking if he was alright.
He was so tired.
So unbelievably tired.
The cup sat between them quietly, waiting.
One sip.
That was all it would take.
One sip.
And he would never have to leave this place. Never have to lose her again. Never have to wonder whether he was remembering her correctly. Never have to spend another night missing her.
The thought horrified him.
Kim Soleum knew exactly what would happen if he drank it.
The rules had been clear from the very beginning. Accept anything offered by the resident ghost, and sooner or later the narrative would claim you for itself. Whether that meant becoming part of the story or simply losing the desire to leave, nobody knew.
The result was the same.
You never went home.
And yet his gaze kept drifting back to the cup, to everything.
The honey-scented steam rose into the warm lantern light, twisting through the air before disappearing. Beyond the open windows, moonlight blanketed the courtyard in silver. White flowers swayed softly beneath the wind, and every now and then a petal would break loose and drift across the garden like a wandering piece of snow.
The house felt peaceful... So painfully peaceful.
He knew this feeling, this warmth, this peacefulness. Reader had always loved places like this.
No, that wasn't right.
Reader was places like this.
The clarification struck so suddenly that he nearly laughed.
A bitter, exhausted thing that never quite escaped his throat.
Every room in this house carried traces of her. Not the obvious traces, there were no photographs, no declarations, no signs that screamed her name.
It was smaller things—the blankets folded neatly in the corner, the fresh flowers placed beside the empty windows, the lantern left burning against the evening darkness, the silence that never felt uncomfortable, the quiet sense that someone had been thinking of others before themselves.
Her.
Her.
Her.
Everywhere he looked, she was there.
And he hated it.
God.
He hated it.
For the first time since entering this darkness, Soleum felt something dangerously close to resentment.
Not toward the ghost.
Toward her.
The thought shocked even him. Even now, even after everything, yet it refused to leave.
Because what the hell was she thinking?
What possessed her to create something like this?
Why had she written herself into a ghost story?
Why had she filled it with all these pieces of herself?
Why had she created a place that felt so much like coming home?
Years ago, she smiled and told him she didn't know why she wrote it.
That she simply felt she just had to.
At the time, he'd accepted the answer.
Now he wanted to grab her shoulders and demand a better one, a better answer.
Because she wasn't here.
She wasn't sitting across from him, not offering him tea, not looking at him with concern.
And yet every single corner of this narrative insisted otherwise. She shifted slightly, her fingers tightening around the teacup.
The movement was familiar, so familiar that his stomach twisted, because it reminded him of her perfectly.
There was no distortion, not even an exaggerated detail. No romanticized image created by a man blinded by grief.
It was simply her.
The way she held cups. The way she sat. The way she tilted her head whenever she worried over him. The way she smiled. The way she listened. The way she occupied a room without ever demanding attention.
It was all there, and that was exactly the problem.
Because the closer this ghost resembled her, the more unbearable the differences became.
The ghost did not know why he stared.
She didn't know why his hands trembled, why his eyes burned and teared every single time she smiled.
She didn't know about the times they spent together, not knowing about promises, love, him.
And she never would.
The realization settled inside his chest like broken glass, so painfully. The ghost possessed her face—her lovely voice, her habits, and her familiar gaze.
But every memory they had built together didn't belong to the ghost of herself she had created.
It was the real Reader.
The woman waiting beyond this story, the woman he couldn't reach, the woman he had spent years trying to return to.
His throat tightened.
For a moment, he found himself wishing this place had been crueler.
Wishing it had been a nightmare instead.
A monster, a cursed house filled with blood, terror, and screams.
Anything would've been easier than this, even if it crushed him, even if it scared him shitless, even if it made him go insane.
Anything would have been kinder.
Because at least monsters didn't wear the faces of people you loved. At least monsters didn't smile like they remembered you. At least monsters didn't make you feel at home.
The ghost looked up again.
Their eyes met.
Concern immediately softened her features.
And Kim Soleum nearly broke.
Not because she looked, sounded and felt just like her.
But because for a single reckless second, some pathetic part of him wanted to play make pretend.
Just for a moment.
Just for one selfish, horrible moment—he wanted to forget that this was just a ghost story.
Forgetting the rules, the years between them, the cruel reality.
He wanted to sit here and pretend she was really waiting for him. That he had finally come home.
The thought made him feel sick.
Because it wasn't true, it would never be true.
No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much it hurt.
The woman sitting across from him wasn't Reader. And perhaps that was why every glance felt like a knife. Because each time he looked at her, he found another reason to love Reader, and another reason to miss her even more than he already have.
His eyes lowered to the untouched tea, it's surface reflected trembling lantern light.Still waiting quietly.
Much like the ghost, the entire darkness itself.
Kim Soleum closed his eyes.
And somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the longing, beneath the overwhelming urge to stay exactly where he was, a single thought surfaced.
He detested her for this.He truly did, because she created this story.
For leaving behind something capable of tearing him apart.
For understanding him well enough that even years later she could still reach into his chest and squeeze his heart until it hurt to breathe, like he was suffocating.
No, he really is.
He detested her for making a place that felt so much like her. For making him miss her even more than he already did.
He detested her, really really detested her.
But oh that woman, he loved her. He loved her so much it hurts.
Helplessly and completely,
With every shattered pieces of himself.
And that, more than anything else, would never ever change. Never.
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