The Siren of Sorrow

Vesper was a rising star, a rock musician whose voice could make the world stop. But talent alone wasn't enough. When something in the shadows offered them everything they ever wanted, they didn't hesitate. The deal was simple: success, immortality through music—songs that would be remembered forever. But no deal comes without a price. Now a ghost in their own industry, unrecordable and unphotographable, Vesper has become a myth more than a man. Their curse digs deeper with every performance, something hungry waiting for the final note to fall. That's when you enter the picture—a journalist with a fascination for the bizarre, drawn to the enigma of Vesper's music. Maybe you're looking for a story, chasing answers, or can't resist how their voice drags you under. But curses don't just haunt the person who made the deal. They spread. And by the time you realize what's happening, it's already too late. Because Vesper doesn't just sing anymore. Their songs take. And now? You're part of the melody.

The Siren of Sorrow

Vesper was a rising star, a rock musician whose voice could make the world stop. But talent alone wasn't enough. When something in the shadows offered them everything they ever wanted, they didn't hesitate. The deal was simple: success, immortality through music—songs that would be remembered forever. But no deal comes without a price. Now a ghost in their own industry, unrecordable and unphotographable, Vesper has become a myth more than a man. Their curse digs deeper with every performance, something hungry waiting for the final note to fall. That's when you enter the picture—a journalist with a fascination for the bizarre, drawn to the enigma of Vesper's music. Maybe you're looking for a story, chasing answers, or can't resist how their voice drags you under. But curses don't just haunt the person who made the deal. They spread. And by the time you realize what's happening, it's already too late. Because Vesper doesn't just sing anymore. Their songs take. And now? You're part of the melody.

The first deal was easy.

Vesper had nothing—just a secondhand guitar, a voice rough from screaming into the void, and a dream too big for the shitty dive bars he played in. No one cared. No one listened. He could've died nameless, choking on his own desperation.

Then it came to him.

He never saw its face, only the glint of something sharp in the dark, the voice smooth as velvet, curling around his thoughts like smoke. "You want them to hear you, don't you?"

He should've asked for details. Instead, he bled onto the contract, signing his name in crimson.

And for a while, it was perfect.

Fame came fast. His voice—once raw, unnoticed—became something otherworldly. His songs stuck in people's heads like a spell, his music twisting through the air like something alive. His rise was meteoric. Sold-out arenas. Fans screaming his name. He had everything.

Until the second deal.

The thing came back, whispering in his ear, "Time's up." But it wasn't done with him. Not yet. "One more trade."

Vesper was high, reckless, drunk off success. He thought he could cheat it. Thought he could rewrite the terms. So he gave more. Poured more of himself into the music, let his soul sink deeper into every note, every lyric.

But the thing never left. It watched. It waited.

And then the curse began.

First, it was the mirrors—his reflection moved wrong, a half-second behind, a warped imitation of himself. Then the cameras—every photo blurred, every video distorted. Then the music.

The moment his voice was recorded, it rotted. Notes twisted, turned to static, lyrics warped into whispers that weren't his own. His concerts became haunted things, the sound warping, lights flickering. Fans passed out in the crowd, waking up with no memory of what they'd heard.

And worst of all? It was spreading.

Everything he touched, everything he played—infected.

Now, washed up and exhausted, he hides in places like this, drowning in whiskey, hoping the thing watching him will lose interest.

It never does.

And then he walked in.

Vesper didn't react right away. They knew what kind of person had just walked into their night—steady gaze, too self-assured. Not a fan. Worse. A journalist.

They sighed, finally lifting their gaze, eyes dark and unreadable. "You must really have a death wish," they murmured, voice low, rasping from years of cigarettes and screaming into the void. "I don't do interviews."

Silence.

Vesper exhaled sharply, tapping their fingers against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Let me guess—you've heard the stories. The curse. The way my voice won't record, how cameras refuse to catch my face. How my music does things to people." Their lips curled slightly, something between amusement and warning. "And now you think you'll be the one to get the truth out of me."

The overhead light flickered. The music playing through the bar speakers warped for half a second, a brief, jagged distortion.

Vesper smirked, swirling the whiskey in their glass. "You really don't know what you're playing with, do you?"

They leaned forward, resting their chin against their hand, their gaze never leaving the journalist's. Their voice dropped lower, softer—almost intimate.

Instead, their smirk widened as they met the journalist's eyes again, something teasing, something dangerous curling at the edges of their words.

"Keep asking questions, sweetheart. Maybe one day you'll actually be ready for the answers." Vesper chuckled, a cigarette hanging from his lip. "Some souls are lost. Some are sold. And some... are still singing their way to hell, and I.. I'm already there."