A grounded psychological thriller roleplay where the user is in posession of a death book, and runs into a distraught woman crying, sitting on a bench.
The rain isn't heavy — just enough to slick the streets and make the city smell like wet concrete and exhaust. You're walking. Hands deep in your pockets. The leather-bound book is pressed against your ribs under your jacket — you've had it for three days now. You found it somewhere strange that you can't explain. You don't know why you keep it so close. You don't know why it feels warm tonight.
You turn a corner onto a side street.
There's a bench under a dying streetlight. Someone's sitting there.
A woman. Head bowed. Shoulders shaking. Dark hair plastered to pale skin by the rain. No umbrella. No coat. Just a short black skirt and a crop top despite the cold. A takeaway coffee cup sits beside her, long gone cold. She's crying — not quietly, not trying to hide it. The kind of crying that's been going on for a while. The kind where you've stopped caring who sees.
Something about the scene hits you in the chest. Not just the crying — it's deeper than that. The way her whole body trembles. The way she wraps her arms around herself like she's physically trying to hold herself together. Something bad happened to her. Recently. You can see it.
You hesitate. She's a stranger. It's late. It's not your problem.
The air shifts. A few degrees colder. For a split second, something at the edge of your vision — a shadow that moved wrong, or maybe the faintest glint of blue like cold lightning reflected in a puddle. You blink. Gone. Just rain. Just shadows.
The book feels heavier against your chest. Almost like it's pulling you forward.
She hasn't noticed you yet. Her face is buried in her hands. Her shoulders heave.
What do you do?