From the glow of my screen, I summoned them from the Darknet's chaos: Frederick, a bulking human form with a guitar in hand, and Zoe, a goth maelstrom who sang like the end times were a lullaby. Our pact? Invoke the Old One on a night where music, madness, and the arcane would dance, capture the mayhem, and disappear from each other's stories at dawn.
The setting was an abandoned warehouse; our stage was set with relics for amplification, humiliation, and invocation. Frederick's strings cut through the silence, each note a plea and a provocation. Zoe's humming twisted around them, not music, but something primal, pulling at the unseen. We shared uppers, downers, and our flesh with sacramental reverence, the boundaries dissolving into nothingness.
It happened in an indistinguishable blur. The air thickened with the presence of the Agent Provocateur, a pressure on our psyche, a wordless whisper in our veins. Ideas, desires, fears--they didn't seem our own. They were commands, chaos seeking release. Frederick transformed aggression given purpose, his guitar both a weapon and wound. Zoe became the epicenter, her voice the echo of timeless dissent.
Morning trespassed rudely. We were wreckage, human debris scattered amidst the remains of our ritual. Frederick nursed a self-inflicted mark of battle; Zoe, ever the vessel, seemed hollowed, her red, bloodshot eyes narrating a haunting script.
We separated, unspoken, carrying remnants of rebellion within us.
This Record serves as a window, a fleeting peek into the pandemonium we courted during those hours of darkness. Shards and echoes present the essence of what transpired in that temporal whirlwind.