Chapter 1
Edgar Foster wasn’t your typical A-lister. With movie star good looks, a body sculpted like a Greek god, and a reputation for phenomenal acting skills, he had it all. Tack on his charming personality, and he was the golden boy of Hollywood. But there was one hard rule he lived by—no night shoots past midnight. The tabloids thrived on this quirk, desperately spinning it into scandal, but Edgar stood his ground. The world could buzz and howl, but he refused to budge. Meanwhile, Eleanor River was grappling with her own peculiar crisis. Her dog, Max, had started acting strangely. Usually, he was the picture of joy—tail wagging, eager for her cuddles and playtime. She’d scoop him up for long hugs, always rewarding him with goofy kisses on the nose, and he’d respond with glee. But lately? Something was off. “Come here, buddy!” she called, patting the couch for him to jump up next to her. Max approached with an unusual hesitance, his big brown eyes seeming to twinkle, but they held an unmistakable confusion. “You good?” She squinted at him, her brow furrowing in concern. It wasn’t that he was sick; he just seemed distant, more interested in the shadows flitting outside than in sharing those lazy, sunshine-filled afternoons they adored. Was it her imagination, or did he sometimes give her an odd look, as if he weren’t quite who he used to be? As the clock ticked closer to midnight, an inexplicable sense of nervousness washed over her. She flipped through her phone, checking social media, where Edgar was once again trending. This time, the headlines claimed he was spiraling out of control, the attachment to his bizarre rule becoming a subject of ridicule. She narrowed her eyes at the screen, a mix of annoyance and intrigue. That was when the ground beneath her shifted. Just after midnight, she felt it—a vibration beneath her feet. It was the same feeling she used to get in old horror movies when something supernatural was about to go down. And just like that, her phone buzzed with a new alert, the screen illuminating Max, whose gaze turned towards her, almost pleading. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on, Max? Are you... haunted or something?” she joked half-heartedly, the humorous notion oddly comforting in her solitude. At that moment, as if answering her whimsy, a surge of energy whisked through the room, wrapping around her like a warm blanket. The lights flickered, and for just a brief moment, she thought she could see two figures in the dim light—Max, and an ethereal outline that looked suspiciously like Edgar Foster. But a blink later, it was over, and she was left with her dog, who now seemed almost expectant. She chuckled nervously. “What, did you eat something weird today?” Max tilted his head, like he understood every syllable she uttered. And at six in the morning, as the sun peaked over the horizon, it was just another day. Max was back to being that playful pup, bright-eyed and full of energy, while Edgar, somewhere out in the world, probably chuckled at the absurdity of his night shifts and the media feeding frenzies. What Eleanor didn’t realize was that everything was about to change. Behind every strange flicker of energy at midnight, behind the longing gaze of her dog, was a connection that would bridge their worlds in the most unexpected of ways. Little did she know, her goofy dog was living a double life, one that would soon drag her into adventures that neither of them could have ever anticipated. And in the world of sequels, perhaps a simple night rule was just the start of something delightfully chaotic.
Chapter 2
The moon hung low, casting a silver glow across the narrow street, its light dancing on the cobblestones like whispers of the past. A woman with long hair strolled alone down the shadowy lane, her figure clad in a form-fitting red dress that accentuated her curves. Suddenly, a figure plummeted from above, landing squarely in her path. Startled, she froze, her heart racing as he hunched forward, glancing up at her with unsettling intensity. His eyes gleamed an eerie green, and he bared sharp fangs in a grin that made her blood run cold. “Ahhh—!” Her scream sliced through the night, echoing like a siren’s wail. Just then, the faint sound of footsteps approached, and a poised man strolled towards them. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, looking every bit like a character from a bygone era. A mere glance at the assailant sent him scurrying away in fear. Still trembling from shock, the woman turned her attention to this newcomer. He was stunning. “Cut!” A voice bellowed from behind a camera. “That’s a wrap for that scene! Let’s get some close-ups of the expressions, then we can call it a night.” A collective sigh of relief washed over the crew as they re-energized for the next shots. Edgar Foster stepped aside, taking a swig from the bottle his assistant handed him. After a brief moment of rest, the director summoned him to his mark once more. “Edgar, wait up. Let’s touch up your makeup since you just had some water,” chirped a young makeup artist with a bob haircut, hurriedly approaching him. He nodded at her, murmuring a quiet “thanks.” She stumbled slightly, rummaging through her kit before applying a deep crimson lipstick to his lips, transforming them into something undeniably alluring. God, he’s just too damn hot. If only I could reach out and touch his face—my ancestors must’ve racked up some serious good karma. The director grew impatient after a moment and interjected, “Alright, enough with the paint job. You’re not redecorating a wall!” He rolled his eyes at the enthusiastic crew, who looked like they were ready to spring at every opportunity. Reluctantly, the girl withdrew, clinging to her makeup case as she stepped back. The close-up shots went smoothly, and Edgar nailed it in one take. After wrapping, instead of joining the cast and crew for a late-night meal, he hopped into the assistant's car and headed back to The Hunter’s Inn for some much-needed rest. It had been a long day of filming for an advertisement, yet there was something oddly captivating about it. The latest campaign for Brightwood Guild's lipstick, and he was playing a vampire—his first time in such a role, and he found it surprisingly refreshing. Emerging from the bathroom, towel in hand, Edgar settled onto the couch and opened his laptop. It had been ten days since he snagged the Golden Pine Award for Best Actor, and the online discussions hadn’t simmered down. His success was partially thanks to the passionate fanbase of Gerald Morgan. “If it weren’t for ‘Operation Eclipse,’ could Edgar really have won Best Actor? [LOL]” “Yeah, but didn’t ‘Midnight Seas’ just miss entering the Golden Bull Awards? [smile] Can we all just agree to stop being hypocrites? [smile]” “Can everyone just chill? I’m getting a headache trying to keep up with this drama…” “Wait, there are double fans? Oh, please. They’re just hopping from Gerald Morgan’s bandwagon and they think we don’t notice [smile]” “I’m just saying, Liam Morgan might not be much older than Edgar, but he’s been in the game for fifteen years. He’s got a real following, and who’s to say Edgar doesn’t look up to him?” “Come on.” Edgar leaned back, the soft glow of his screen highlighting his chiseled features. He absolutely was a fan of Liam Morgan. If Morgan was the gold standard, the ultimate goal for every actor in the industry, he could own that. But if anyone ever claimed he was just another devoted follower? No way. :) He enjoyed reading the back-and-forth arguments on The Herald’s Voice. It was educational—he’d even learned new slang, like “toxic fan,” just recently. Some comments were pure gold, especially from one particular user: “Did the fans of Liam Morgan and Edgar clash today? Spoiler alert: they did. [snacks]” To be honest, it surprised him a bit how some Liam Morgan fans would throw shade at him. Morgan was a veteran; Edgar was just starting to carve out his niche. But ever since Edgar won that award, the animosity seemed to spike. Maybe it was just that their timelines had overlapped too closely. He was scrolling through Weibo when a knock echoed through his hotel room. He glanced at the wall clock—11:40 PM. Who on earth could that be? Definitely not his assistant; she had her own key. Curiosity piqued, he rose from the couch and approached the door. “Who is it?” “Edgar, it’s me, Isabella Redmond,” came a soft, sultry voice from the other side. Isabella Redmond. His gaze flickered with recognition. She was the star of this ad campaign, a striking model of mixed Russian and Chinese descent, and her popularity had been skyrocketing recently. “Isabella, what brings you here?” he called out. There was a brief silence before she replied, her tone now dripping with allure, “I have a small favor to ask. Mind if I come in to chat?”
Chapter 3
“Sorry, I was already asleep. If it’s not urgent, can we talk at the Training Grounds tomorrow?” Edgar Foster's voice was muffled, still caught in the haze of sleep. Silence fell heavily on the other side of the door, stretching out longer than expected. Isabella Redmond stood there, holding a bottle of red wine, her disbelief hanging in the air like a chilled breeze. How could this man not even have the decency to let her in? It felt so lacking in gentlemanly charm—or maybe just plain clueless. Frustration simmered beneath her surface, yet she refused to sulk or beg to be let in. “Goodnight,” she finally called out, the words tinged with disappointment. She turned away, her high heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor as she left. With each step, the sound echoed in the quiet, marking her retreat. Edgar, hearing her footsteps fade, plopped back onto the plush bed at The Hunter's Inn, stifling a yawn as he reached for the laptop on the bedside table. With a few clicks, he shut it down, allowing sleep to reclaim him as he sank into the softness of the sheets. The rhythmic ticking of the clock filled the space, lulling him into a deeper daze until unexpected noises stirred him awake. Was his assistant back? His brow furrowed slightly, confusion clouding his still-heavy eyelids. When he opened his eyes, the world spun into focus from a strangely low angle, as if he were sprawled on the floor. The room around him felt foreign—a spacious living area melded with modern charm, complete with a glass coffee table and a comfy sofa that invited relaxation. The décor exuded a fresh, clean vibe, everything meticulously chosen, even down to the stylish chandelier hovering above. This wasn’t the hotel room the crew had booked for him. Wait—everything looked black and white? He blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the fog in his brain, but the muted shades remained, like a scene from an old television show from the 60s. Edgar’s thoughts were fuzzy. There was no way he had wandered into a dream like this. He shut his eyes again, hoping to slip back into the oblivion of sleep when a creak of the door jolted him. “Creak!” The sound made his heart race slightly. Reluctantly, he peeled his eyes open once more. The space was just as he had seen it, the only change being a woman in pajamas emerging from the bathroom. A pale towel wrapped around her head, droplets of water trickled down her slender neck and danced along her collarbone, finally disappearing into her clothing. Edgar— This visual was tantalizingly vivid… Could it be that Isabella's visit had stirred such a dream? “Raven!” The woman wore slippers adorned with bows, crossing the room toward him, her playful tone catching his attention. “What are you looking at? It’s bedtime.” She crouched down, ruffling his hair affectionately. Edgar— He stared at her as the neckline of her shirt fell open slightly, revealing a glimpse of something enticing. This new perspective was distracting. …Edgar sank into contemplation. He had always prided himself on his self-control. Spring had come and gone, so why would he dream of something like this? After the woman’s gentle touch lingered, she turned to the kitchen, washing her hands with a casual grace, then retrieved a face mask from the fridge. Edgar scrutinized her—approximately 5’6”, soft facial contours, and flawless skin. She was stunning, but he had never seen her before. Why was she so vivid in his mind? Usually, faces in dreams were a blur—yet this woman’s features were strikingly clear. This dream felt disturbingly real. He could almost feel the warmth of her palm when she touched him, coupled with the fragrant scent of her body wash that wafted through the air. After applying her mask with casual ease, she disappeared into another room. Instinctively, Edgar sat up straight, moving to follow her, drawn by an inexplicable urge to be closer. It was strange; something about her invited him in. She glanced over her shoulder, a puzzled look in her eye before she spoke, her voice slightly muffled by the mask. “Raven, what’s with the tailing? It’s past midnight. Time to hit the hay.” “Woof.” Unable to control it, Edgar let out a sound that was decidedly canine. Edgar— His reality took a turn for the absurd. He calmly turned his head to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the glass coffee table. A handsome mixed-breed dog stared back at him. His tail wagged playfully. Edgar— It had to be the vampire role he’d immersed himself in that had birthed this bizarre, slightly risqué dream. Yeah, that had to be it. With a final glance at the beautiful stranger, he turned and burrowed back into the cozy nest he had been occupying. Sleep beckoned—if he drifted off, he could wake up from this strange fantasy faster. As lovely as she was, he didn’t want to live the life of a dog—even in a dream.
Chapter 4
Edgar Foster awoke in the sprawling bed of The Hunter’s Inn, the light filtering through heavy drapes. As he hit the snooze button on his phone, the clock blinked a bright 6:00 AM. For a moment, he lay there groggy and disoriented, before jolting to full consciousness. He looked down at his hands and feet, making sure everything was in place. "Everything’s just as it was before," he muttered, aside from a dull ache at the back of his head. Exhaling a deep breath, he let himself sink back into the softness of the pillow. Just a dream, he thought, though it was hard to shake off the lingering memory of that woman—her delicate neck and stunning collarbone. No, he wasn’t that kind of guy. She just perfectly fit his aesthetic, so he’d conjured her up in his sleep. Maybe it was time to think about dating again. The door swung open abruptly. Edgar glanced up lazily to see his assistant striding in. “Mirabelle.” He stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Edgar!” she exclaimed, her expression a mixture of concern and disbelief. Mirabelle Stone was his assistant—born and raised in America. “You aren’t going to believe this—I had the wildest dream last night. I was a dog!” Edgar laughed as he rummaged through his clothes. Mirabelle advanced, tapping furiously on her phone. “You didn’t just dream it, Edgar. You actually acted it out.” Edgar blinked in confusion, but the video playing on her screen caught his attention. It was obviously recorded last night—he was still in his pajamas, bounding around like an idiot, barking uncontrollably on all fours. “……What the hell,” Edgar muttered, staring in disbelief. “Yeah, you weren’t exactly winning the ‘Best Actor’ award with that performance,” Mirabelle replied, remembering how crazy he’d been. “You lost control completely. I had to knock you out to make you stop.” “……You did what?” Edgar looked at her incredulously. “Hey! I didn't have a choice,” she defended herself, her cheeks reddening slightly. “If you kept that up, we would have attracted half the hotel. Thank goodness it was just me.” Edgar’s lips pursed, processing this strange scenario. It was scientifically implausible, yet there he was, behaving like he had no grasp on reality. He didn’t have a history of sleepwalking. “Edgar, are you sure you’re alright? I mean, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure since winning that Best Actor trophy. Some of those fans of Gerald Morgan have been pretty intense online. Maybe you should take a break from the internet?” He nodded slowly, though he seemed lost in thought. “Yeah, maybe…” “Let me tell Alistair about this,” Mirabelle said, crossing her arms. “No, no—there’s no need for that. It was just acting too intensely. It doesn’t warrant a report.” “No can do,” she countered, determined. “Alistair made it clear that he wanted to hear everything, no matter how small.” Edgar sighed, brow furrowed. “It’s not like he has nothing better to do with his time, right?” Mirabelle raised an eyebrow at his resignation. “But I still report to him directly. He controls the budget, remember?” “Sure, but I’m the one who signs your checks.” He leaned closer, giving her a mischievous grin. “So, what do you think?” Mirabelle swallowed hard, losing her bravado under his penetrating gaze. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.” “Good.” He straightened up and resumed dressing, leaving her feeling a little flustered. After a quick breakfast at the hotel, Mirabelle drove them to the filming location—a haunted castle where they would shoot today’s scenes. Edgar had to shift into vampire mode. The makeup artist from yesterday was back on set, her hands jittery with excitement as she glued vampire fangs onto Edgar. Mirabelle watched with a clenched jaw. “Hey, be careful there! No shaky hands, okay?” “I’m trying!” the girl squeaked, clearly overwhelmed. Once he was decked out in his fangs, Isabella Redmond arrived on set. As she locked eyes with Edgar, she paused, taken aback by how striking he looked, with his eerily handsome face transformed into something both beastly and alluring. No wonder fans liked to compare him to Liam Morgan—but after last night’s craziness, things felt awkward. Still, Edgar was his usual charming self, greeting her warmly. “Isabella, good morning! You were looking for me last night, right? We can talk now.” Her heart raced—was he playing with her?
Chapter 5
The makeup artist beside her and Mirabelle Stone perked up instantly. Just last night, Isabella Redmond had sought out Edgar Foster. Isabella noticed their subtle movements and pressed her lips together before offering Edgar a smile. "It's nothing. Just got a little too wrapped up in things last night. Being alone at The Hunter's Inn freaked me out a bit." "I get that. You could have listened to some music or had a cup of warm milk to settle your nerves," Edgar suggested. "Got it. Thanks," she said, forcing a smile as she moved aside for her makeup touch-up. Mirabelle leaned closer to Edgar, her voice hushed. “So, Isabella came looking for you last night.” “Yeah.” “And?” “I didn’t open the door.” “…” Mirabelle fell silent, contemplating whether this was something she should report to Alistair Quinn. “You know, your response seems a bit off. We’ve got a crowd here.” “Whether it’s appropriate or not, I don’t know,” Edgar said, shrugging. “But I can guarantee she won’t be coming back for me anytime soon.” Mirabelle blinked at him, momentarily at a loss. Clearly, Edgar Foster knew how to play the game. Given the vampire-themed commercial shoot, most of the filming happened at night. By the time Bard's Troupe wrapped up, it was already eleven. After washing off his stage makeup, Edgar headed straight back to The Hunter's Inn. He skipped watching The Herald's Voice tonight, took a shower, and collapsed into bed—after downing a cup of hot milk, of course. Hopefully, that would ward off any weird dreams. Sleep took him quickly. He was drifting off when a woman's sudden shriek jolted him awake. …What the hell? He frowned, blinked his eyes open, and felt a familiar tension in his chest. Not again. Not the living room from last night. He had stopped watching The Herald's Voice; why was he still dreaming about this place? Instead of lying on the cozy couch like before, he curled up on the sofa, with a flat-screen TV flickering in front of him, showing some kind of movie. “Ah!” A figure suddenly appeared on the screen, and the woman behind him gasped softly. Edgar turned his head, and sure enough, it was that same woman from last night. The TV had to be showing something spooky, as she clutched him tighter, pressing against a soft object behind him. Edgar blinked. “Lily.” The voice caught his attention, and he turned back to the screen to see none other than Liam Morgan’s face. This was Liam's film, *Shadowvale Institute*, which he reportedly took on to push his boundaries as an actor. Edgar watched for a moment; although the film had turned monochrome in his eyes, it didn’t detract from Liam’s talent. Unlike many who trained in acting, Liam had burst onto the scene at sixteen, honing his craft on set rather than in a classroom. He was undeniably a gifted performer. Some people were just born for the stage. The ominous score filled the room, heightening the chilling atmosphere of the film. The woman behind him quickly mirrored the film’s tension, tightening her grip around him. The softness of her body became even more vivid, the aroma of tangerine from her hair stimulating his senses in every way. …He was a healthy man, normal in all regards, even in dreams—he was a normal man, if a bit more dog-like. Determined to avoid any unwanted reactions, Edgar started to wriggle free from her embrace. “Don’t move, you mutt!” She playfully shoved him, but he wasn’t having it. “Seriously?” he thought, struggling against her more fervently. “Arf!” he yelped, springing away from her. She glanced back at him, her brows knitting together. “Why are you running? It’ll be over soon. If you leave, I’ll watch this alone!” Edgar rolled his eyes. Was it really such a thrill to watch horror alone in the dead of night? Okay, maybe a little. But he wasn’t sticking around; he was ready to wake up. She seemed to give up on chasing him, pouting as she grabbed a nearby cushion and cuddled it instead. Once more, Edgar’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he fell back into sleep. When he next opened his eyes, he was once again summoned from slumber by the piercing alarm clock he had set for six. Staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, Edgar felt a wave of confusion wash over him. Why had he experienced this bizarre dream two nights in a row? What was it trying to tell him? Maybe he ought to find someone to help him unravel these dreams. “Edgar, you up?” Mirabelle tapped at the door and walked in before he could respond. He settled onto the small couch near the window and said nothing as she took a seat across from him. “So, did you dream about turning into a dog again last night?” Edgar pressed his lips together. “What did you record this time?” Mirabelle pulled out her phone, tapping the screen to bring up a video before handing it over to him. There it was—a fresh recording of him in pajamas, scrambling across the room like he had the previous day, then plopping down on the sofa and circling around himself. He couldn’t help but laugh at how absurd it all was.
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