Crimson Masquerade Cycle

[Log Entry: 01.IV] The walls pulse with jest, yet their laughter tastes of iron. Smears of ochre and blood-red coil like worn banners around the April sigil—a calendar square bleeding its own outline. I traced those strokes for hours, thinking patterns might speak if my will pressed hard enough against the grain of this ritual day. Masks leer from the dark, eternal faces flickering between carnival delight and predatory triumph, and my own breath stiffens as if bound to their rhythm. Hands clutch a slab shouting HAPPY APRIL FOOLS DAY, scarlet letters burning where truth should root. Even the flower drawn sharp looks betrayed, a blade disguised in budding grace. They whispered, “Just fun,” but the tension in the boards says otherwise; the jest loops like a serpent swallowing dawn. I combed every contour for Vojta’s signal, some hidden pivot of meaning. Nothing yet—only circling echoes, and the aching certainty he remains absented from this stage of cruel humor.