Dead By Daylight Tome 9

Tome ix - Crescendo is the Tome that accompanies the Ninth Rift in Dead by Daylight and released on 20 October 2021.

Overview

The Characters chosen for this Tome are Yun-Jin Lee and Ji-Woon Hak (The Trickster ).

Memories & Logs

Ji-Woon Hak: Racket for the Dead

Memory 435

Ji-Woon lives within the sounds of Rio de Janeiro. Water splashes into a basin; a skateboard's wheels grind over asphalt; a rufous-bellied thrush chirps, and... the voice. The celestial, ethereal audio of a young Brazilian homo singing floats from an open window. Ji-Woon knows the man. Lucas.

He's good. Nowhere well-nigh my level, simply a diamond, withal.

His vocalization is the brush stroke Ji-Woon has been searching for. To retrieve, Lucas practically barbarous into his lap, the Brazilian human having sung at a recording studio Ji-Woon visited.

With Lucas' voice, Ji-Woon tin create art. 18-carat, agonising art. Silky, bloodcurdling terror.

Ji-Woon has already prepared a warehouse at an abandoned harbour for tomorrow's act. Even the most mundane particular required his attention. In the past calendar week he'south transitioned betwixt concert rehearsals to disguising his glory visage, staking out his victim, assuming alternate identities, purchasing supplies, and stealing recording equipment—all while paying off his security particular to leave him exist. The mundane details are what drag the splendour of his artwork.

Lucas volition exist expressionless in a day. And information technology will be beautiful.

Memory 436

Ji-Woon freezes as he reaches his hotel room, the door opened a crevice. He faintly hears someone rummaging inside. Then be it. He knew a crazed fan would take things besides far anytime. How could they resist him? Merely he'due south ready. He'll defend himself, test the invader for operatic sounds, like an impromptu aria, as he surprises them with a bract in their gut.

He pats the knife concealed above his ankle. Ready. Pushes the door open, steps softly on plush carpet, hears the invader around the corner, sees... Yun-Jin? His manager.

Fury meets fury.

"How dare you step human foot in hither!"

"Where the hell take you been?"

She'southward paranoid almost death threats they've been getting from a fan. When security couldn't locate Ji-Woon, she came snooping. It'due south laughable, the threats were nix just a ploy, a boogeyman he created to throw Yun off his trail if she always got also close. Just he should accept expected this. Yun's on tiptop of everything — information technology's what he respects in her, what makes them a bully team. He brings the million-dollar voice and she smashes through any trouble in their way. Usually, it works in his favour.

In her hand she holds... no, damnit! His sampler. It contains his personal projection, the screams of his murder victims layered into songs. Information technology's an early on typhoon lacking subtlety, the violence and horror a bit likewise blatant for the faint of heart. She's disgusted. Couldn't hear beyond the terrorised voices to empathize the beauty inherent in man suffering. The hairs on Ji-Woon'due south neck stand on end. He sees the moment with clear eyes: they're dancing on a razor's border, with Yun dangerously shut to discovering who he truly is.

Memory 437

Yun-Jin holds the sampler as if it's dripping blood. The simply solace in Ji-Woon's heed is that she doesn't understand what it really is. He knows her. If she thought the sounds were actual murders, she'd take tried to knee joint him in the crotch and run. But the anger still rattles through her, as she moves upwardly to his face.

"What is this twisted horror bullshit? What if this leaked? Y'all're already attracting crazed, violent fans, how would it look if the media heard the demented sounds you're working on? Mightee 1 would drop you. Your career would be dead."

Ji-Woon knows what she really fears: her career would be expressionless. For every bit tall as she stands, as potent every bit she swings, she's nada simply a scared daughter afraid of failure. He knows how to play her. Drops his head, breathes securely, wipes the back of his paw over his optics.

"Yun-Jin... Ever since the decease of No Spin... the fire... I'k riddled with horrid thoughts. I lost my friends and... I fear I'yard losing my mind. I see atrocious things backside closed optics. All that guides me through the dark fog is turning my pain into sound... pouring the throes of expiry from my heart to a song."

Yun's face softens. She sits. Commiserates with him. Within, he's reliving the divine screams of his bandmates as they burned, his swelling middle every bit they screamed his name, but on his face he shows nada merely contortions of tragedy.

She excuses his mistake in judgment. Confiscates the sampler. Requests he stay on hotel grounds until the concert is over. Information technology'south for his ain good. His safety. She tells him to get a drink from the mini-bar and absurd downwards.

He quietly nods and complies, reminding himself to steal back the sampler in a few days. He lets her pretend she has what he's holding: command.

Memory 438

Despite the stifling humidity, Ji-Woon hides under a hoodie, large sunglasses concealing his face. Now'south not the time to attract attention from rabid fans. He waits till Yun is in a meeting and strolls out of the hotel, a bag of necessities in hand. It's his show now.

He pulls earbuds from his pocket, allows the music to envelope him. The vocal: How I Became, recorded half dozen months ago in Seoul. It stands as a metaphor for his childhood, written one drunken night while looking over old photographs.

He is seven years former. He sits at the dorsum of the class. He's uncomfortable being seen and speaking. Merely today is different. In a few minutes he's presenting on his favourite affair. A immature boy shows the class his hamster, merely Ji-Woon doesn't care. He holds his flute, going over the notes to the vocal he wrote.

He shuffles to the front end of the grade, places his sweaty fingers on the instrument. Following a deep, unsteady breath, he gently blows out a wisp of air, creating a light, whimsical sound. He closes his eyes, moves his fingers precisely, playfully dancing over each notation. He ignores the squeaks of the hamster. The flute's audio carries like chimes in the wind. With one final soul-piercing note, he smiles and opens his optics. His classmates are huddled effectually the rodent, laughing with its every motion. His teacher as well.

He walks to the group. Students pass the hamster around every bit it squeaks incessantly. Information technology finds itself directed into Ji-Woon's palm. He takes information technology in both hands. With i steady movement, he squeezes. A squeal. A slight crunch. No more sound. The children scream. Ji-Woon feels nothing.

Memory 439

Storm clouds overtake the sky as the first drops of rain spatter onto Ji-Woon's sunglasses. He breathes securely, prepares for what he's played over in his listen. The anticipation nearly brings him to his knees. The joy of the artistic process.

He strides to the rear door of a cheap 1980'southward sedan, glances both ways and appraises the few locals walking the street. Certain no one's watching, he jams a straightened coat hanger around the top of the window, pushing it through the other side. His thin fingers work quickly. Prior feel in breaking and entry pays off. He hooks the wire effectually the door lock and flicks information technology up. Without missing a beat, he slides inside, closes the door, and flattens himself along the backseat. He takes off his hoodie and sunglasses.

From his bag he pulls out rope, a blade, a dusty rag, and a bottle of chloroform. He waits. Takes out his earbuds. Listens to a vocal that's not his own. One he heard long ago.

He is eight years old. He sits on his father's shoulders, looking over a sea of human being bodies. An elaborate stage is ahead, illuminated by coloured spotlights. A homo in gaudy, audacious clothing stands in front of a microphone. On each side is a guitarist, backside him, a drummer. A crash of sound. Cute, rhythmic music. A vocalization that twists delicately through the melody.

His begetter shouts something just he tin't hear. Shouts once more.

This is what you lot'll do. This is where your talent will take yous.

He feels a tingle through his spine, and sees something incredible: everyone enraptured, focused intently on the audio of a single human. The emotion of thousands is guided by his voice. He is seen by all, he is loved, and he is wonderous.

Ji-Woon never played his flute over again. He revelled in sounds that reached global audiences, attracted screaming fans, turned men and women into idols. His childhood fear vanished equally he learned to divulge himself through the intricacy and pliability of pop, his inner thoughts riding atop soundwaves, fusing together with other genres—rock, hip hop, jazz, punk. It was the music that could deliver him the explosive fame he deserved, a hope that he would never be upstaged. He was no longer bars to his timid shell; he revealed himself through his mastery of music, poured his heart into sound. He became envied, lusted over, and respected for the hits that spilled from his lungs.

He takes the earbuds in his hands and smiles. How miraculous that a boy became a god.

Memory 440

Rain hammers down on the motorcar's roof. Ji-Woon checks the fourth dimension. On any other day, Lucas would exist in his car already. He knows this, he's done his homework. Simply Lucas is belatedly, and Ji-Woon wonders if the storm has contradistinct plans.

He feels control slipping abroad, replaced past something else. It pushes against his chest. Forces him to gasp for air, heavy and sticky in his lungs. Everything'south ruined. He claws his nails into the car seat, forces his mouth shut to proceed himself from screaming. All the planning for nothing. He doesn't have fourth dimension earlier leaving Brazil to find another beautiful phonation. Quickly... he needs music, fumbles for his earbuds, drops them to the floor, frantically scours. The only song playing is his teeth audibly grinding. As he prepares to spill into the street, he sees him. Lucas, drenched under the deluge, walks to the driver's side door

Get your shit together. The show's about to begin.

***

Ji-Woon grabs Lucas' neck in a chokehold, shoves the chloroform-soaked material into his face. The two struggle in a frenzied dance. Lucas twists from side to side, reaching his arms back, grabbing for anything. Ji-Woon resists the movement, property the human being in place with all his might. Rain smashes down, muting the battle nether the pattering of a hundred drops, concealing the outside backside a windshield of streaming h2o. Lucas grabs a handful of pilus and pulls Ji-Woon forward, breaking the chokehold. He bites deep into Ji-Woon's wrist, drawing claret. Ji-Woon screams through gritted teeth, pushing the material harder into Lucas' face until he's chirapsia him with it. Lucas flails his other arm in a desperate bid, searching for a solution with no plan. His hand relaxes, releasing Ji-Woon's hair. He slumps forward, head hitting the steering wheel, blasting the horn.

Ji-Woon scurries over the seat, pushes Lucas' limp body to the rider side. He leans back, takes a moment to take hold of his breath. Looks in the rear-view mirror, inspects his face, hair, and, through a sheet of rain, sees a sight he never expected: Yun's machine pulling upwardly behind him.

He grabs the keys from Lucas' pocket, jams them in the ignition and slams the accelerator downwards.

Memory 441

Lucas' limp body jostles back and forth in the passenger seat. Streetside shops and graffitied walls are a blur as Ji-Woon veers effectually a corner. Wind and rain lash at the city as if dead-attack blowing it apart. Ji-Woon loses rails of his program. Usually, he would have Yun fix his problems, but now—it'due south all incorrect. He doesn't recognise the streets he's speeding down, only has a vague idea of the direction. Yun remains on his tail. She doesn't know when to quit. The tenacity and courage that proved useful when negotiating his record deal is infuriating now. He's losing control of his artistic process. Hands squeeze the wheel. He'd rip it from the steering cavalcade if he could.

No... no! You lot're not going downward like this. You have art to make, damnit.

He flicks on the radio. Two men talking most... something. He doesn't know. Searches the channels — a commercial for a fast-nutrient eating place. Recognises the jingle. Keeps going, lands on—there it is, Brazilian dance music. Rapid tempo, heavy bass line, percussive guitar notes, and a smooth voice.

He pushes the pedal to the floor, dodges a few kids playing in the tempest. Bolts by an erstwhile pickup truck, praying no one comes the other way. Swings the wheel hard to the left, well-nigh loses control in deep h2o but recovers to notice himself in a perfect turn. Guns it as the song hits the chorus. Trusts in the music. Shifts with the tempo. Slides with the riffs. Feels the beauty in everything he does. Music courses through him. He is living fine art. He is the crescendo.

Behind him, Yun'south auto comes to a crashing halt.

Information technology doesn't matter. The music goes on.

Memory 442

Ji-Woon pulls into the harbour he'd staked out days agone. He reluctantly turns off the radio and scans the area. No sign of Yun behind him simply he'southward on his baby-sit. Somehow she knew how to find him. He pulls out his phone... his Mightee One company phone.

"She's tracking me similar an overzealous babysitter. Should have expected this from her... always a micromanager."

But she couldn't have known he was driving the auto — but that he was in it.

Ji-Woon drags out Lucas, barely conscious, and pushes a bract into this back. Before shutting the door, he takes his phone and texts a simple message to Yun: Assist. He tosses the device on the car seat along with the rag of chloroform and rope. "Hm, needs more than evidence." He cuts his palm and presses a bloody hand to the window. "That'll do."

With a thrust of his blade, he pushes Lucas forward.

***

Thunder shakes the frame of the abandoned warehouse. Lucas sits in front of Ji-Woon, bound to a chair, ready to be slaughtered, to sing, to create dazzler. Ji-Woon pulls out his bract simply... hesitates. Something's incorrect. He was besides messy getting here. He wants to swoop into his art, permit the blood spill, but Yun threw him off his game. He tin't milkshake the feeling; he knows she doesn't surrender easily... or at all. Walks over to a window and looks out. Endless rain. Lightning. And there, like a drowned rat skulking through sewage — Yun. And so damn persistent. And farther dorsum... the flashing lights of a constabulary car. Yun's stumbled into a bloody game and has the power to cease him in one move.

He rummages through his pockets for his earbuds. Tin't find them. Can't focus. Feels the plan slipping abroad. Sees an cease to his art. The music cut curt. His vision incomplete.

No... he can't permit information technology end. He hears the music. It'due south always been there. Sitting on his father's shoulders, washing over him. He inhales it. It circulates through his veins. Becomes him. He'll never go dorsum to being the boy he once was. He'southward an idol. He'due south a god. He's The Trickster. And he has one terminal trick to play...

Video

This video is unlocked after completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

Yun-Jin Lee: Chorus of Lies

Memory 443

Fatigued from the long flying, Yun-Jin yawns every bit she turns on her laptop. She landed in Rio De Janeiro just two hours ago, but her work cannot wait. Looking through her mailbox, she spots a dozen unread emails from an unknown user addressing her past name. Few know her every bit Yun-Jin. Most only know her every bit Magnum Opus. She clicks on an email.

A graphic, detailed description of someone's programme to murder her and The Trickster. Signed, The Trickster's number one fan. Death threat. An abnormally specific one with a moving picture of her in the hotel lobby.

Before the death of NO SPIN, she ignored such threats. But now... her manicured hand shake equally she reaches for her phone.

The threat is too serious to exist taken lightly. She calls her security crew for an emergency meeting. Outings are restricted to recording sessions and concert rehearsals but. A bodyguard is assigned to the Trickster and herself.

Everyone complies with the new rules except for The Trickster, who argues against staying on the hotel premises. No surprises there. Her relationship with The Trickster has been on the rocks for months at present. He challenges every decision she makes, his ego pushing her patience to its limit. Because of their frequent artistic disagreements, their adjacent album is behind schedule, forcing her to produce 3 new songs while overseeing his tour.

Her security proficient confirms that the phones are fix. At her request, a tracking GPS awarding was installed on all company phones. No i else knows about this. If The Trickster keeps testing her patience, this app will come in handy. It's for his own practiced. And hers.

Retentiveness 444

Yun-Jin pours herself a cup of coffee at the recording studio, stifling another yawn. Her temples are throbbing. The jet lag is hit her hard. Plus the constant threat of a crazed fan prevents her from getting whatever sleep at dark.

On her mode dorsum to the berth, she notices that the studio next to theirs is occupied. She peeks inside. A young man is laughing in the recording booth. He has an piece of cake-going smiling that could sell thousands of magazines. She recognises the human being at the mix table: Allano Muse, a semi-famous producer from San Diego.

What is he doing in Rio? Some bits of fresh gossip could help re-energise her. She taps on the door's window.

The door creaks open up.

He remembers her of course. Who could forget the Magnum Opus?

She invites herself in as he plays the track he is working on. A slow, predictable build for the baseline. Formulaic. Likewise safety to be of any interest. Then, an ethereal vox fills the room. Yun-Jin almost spills her coffee. The artist's voice is crystalline. His range is powerful notwithstanding nuanced.

"Who is that?"

Allano tells Lucas, the immature creative person, to drib down his pitch a notch. Bad call. The track should be edifice upward to push Lucas' range instead of confining it to a boring, generic sound. She walks upwards to Lucas and easily him her business card.

"Contact me when you're ready to get a serious creative person."

A pang of regret hits her on her manner out. She said those exact words to The Trickster, many years ago. Back so, she looked forwards to working with him.

Those days are long gone.

Memory 445

At the hotel bar, Yun-Jin takes a sip of her cold Caipirinha, the sugarcane liquor smoothening the sour outburst of lime.

Why did she requite that young artist, Lucas, her business menu? Information technology'southward not like she can produce him. Another pang of nostalgia. Some other sip of Caipirinha. She misses information technology. Hunting new talents. The raw creative chaos of designing a bold sound. The adrenaline blitz of the first anthology. Things are dissimilar now. Her time is dissever between handling The Trickster'southward growing ego, and following a generic, countless production wheel.

Is this the cost of success? Producing music that makes her blench? Not to mention handling arguments about bodyguards and curfews while being threatened past a crazed, psychotic fan.

Her life is so different from what she imagined as a little daughter. Dorsum then, music was the only adept affair she had. She created tracks in her bedroom, imagining a stage of bright lights where she was safe, loud, and free. That is what Pop music is to her: a vital dose of unapologetic release. But at present, thank you to her success, she lives in a golden muzzle.

Downwards goes the Caipirinha.

The bartender gives her a glance and she nods. "Go along them coming".

She calls Mightee I executives for a virtual meeting and gives them the news. One time she finishes the three tracks in Rio, she is washed with The Trickster. She volition move on to producing the launch of trainees.

A Mightee One executive cuts her off. They have more urgent business to discuss. Damaging rumours are trending online. A disturbed, delusional fan claims to have murdered someone at a Trickster concert. Yun-Jin closes her fists, her long manicured nails digging into her palms. Annihilation to go along her easily from shaking once more.

She volition handle this mediatic tempest—for her brand'south sake. Merely later Rio, she is washed with The Trickster. Whether Mightee One is willing or not.

Memory 446

Online, rumours about the murder are trending. An anonymous post claims that the victim was last seen alive at The Trickster'southward VIP see-up after his concert in New York early this twelvemonth. Yun-Jin remembers that night. Non because of the concert, but because of a particular that has been replaying in her mind ever since. Haemorrhage scratch marks on The Trickster's forearms when he showed upwards at the concert's afterparty. The rumours online were rekindling the suspicion she silenced earlier.

Years ago, the Trickster and she arrived in Miami several days before than planned. Yun-Jin attended networking events while The Trickster rehearsed. Three days following their inflow, a folksinger was found dead downtown, near the bar where he performed. A security footage was released to the public showing a homo dressed in blackness with his face covered, leading the singer down an aisle. The night, blurry footage revealed little about the suspect. But Yun-Jin noticed a detail that twisted her stomach in knots. She recognised the aureate rimmed headphones effectually the doubtable'southward neck with two large "Xs", 1 for each ear. It was the brand-new model of the Xerxes 1050x headphones, which few audiophiles knew about and fifty-fifty fewer could beget. She recognised the model right abroad because The Trickster favoured their equipment over other expensive models. He wore a similar pair on the plane to Miami, only and then switched to a lesser model for the rest of the tour, which merely fuelled her doubts.

Dorsum then, however, she was not in a good place. The expiry of NO SPIN was still fresh. Acute indisposition kept her listen in a haze and the jet lag of the tour only worsened her state. In the cease, she decided to allow the police practice their job and focus on hers; producing music. But now someone else was dead, someone whom The Trickster might have been the last i to see alive. The headphones, the scratch marks, and the late-dark outs were details, but they added up.

How many coincidences does it take to know?

A knock on the door makes her jump. The head of security is hither. Yun-Jin follows her gut. She confronts him. She bluffs most firing the whole security crew if he does not come clean. It pays off. She learns that The Trickster left the hotel premises last nighttime. His bodyguard tried to follow merely lost him on the style.

Yun-Jin pounds her fist on the table.

Why would he exit the hotel? To become where? And… to do what?

Despite working with the Trickster for years, he is still no more than a stranger. While he generates incredible profit, it comes at a cost. If The Trickster is linked to a murder, so is she. Fifty-fifty if there is no evidence. Even if it's just rumours. It's her life on the line. Her entire career. She could never produce music again. And the worst role is… information technology's her own fault. She knows better than to trust someone in this industry.

She needs to go answers, before it is too late. Any The Trickster is doing at nighttime, she must find out. Her doubts won't be quieted until she knows for certain.

Retentiveness 447

Yun-Jin leaves her security item behind during The Trickster'due south rehearsal. What she is upwards to is not strictly legal, after all.

She shows her VIP bluecoat at the doorman and enters The Trickster's changing room. Perhaps she could observe something in hither that could exist a clue every bit to what The Trickster is up to. Amid the flamboyant costumes, she looks for a inkling: receipts, notes, pictures. All she finds is a gym handbag.

Inside lies a water bottle, a few t-shirts, and his wallet. No bills or anything of interest in his wallet… except for his hotel room key-menu. Mayhap she is looking in the wrong place. Someone chatting loudly on the side of the door alerts her. She snatches the hotel key-card and zips upward the handbag just as The Trickster's banana walks in.

Yun-Jin quells her thudding middle and keeps her expression impassive as she walks out. Whatever the assistant saw, she will not cartel mention it, at to the lowest degree not to anyone who matters.

Yun-Jin simply pauses when she reaches The Trickster'southward hotel room, fundamental-card in hand. If she does this, in that location is no turning dorsum. Yet if The Trickster is hiding something, she needs to know what it is, earlier everyone else does. Before it ruins her life. At that place can be no doubts. Yun-Jin pushes the door open.

***

The Trickster's room is tidy. Almost as if he barely spends fourth dimension here. She goes through his baggage. A pile of odd clothes. All-black hoodies and sweatpants. A black facemask. Clothes she's never seen him habiliment on bout.

A tap on the door.

"Room service." Yun-Jin drops the facemask. "Come back later on."

She finds nothing odd in the room, except for a rare, height-of-the-line sampler on his bedside tabular array. Intrigued, she presses play. A series of loud, fierce screams fill the room. The screeches sound… genuine. Samples from a horror film?

Yet she cannot fully shake her initial, disturbing thought. What if it is… genuine?

What she finds next only enhances her discomfort. A sharpening kit for knives. Wet stones and cleaning products. A whole collection of sharpeners.

A past conversation overheard at the recording studio replays in her mind. Lucas, the young artist, introducing himself to the Trickster, asking about the flamboyant pocketknife in his hands. The Trickster replying that he always keeps a blade on him.

Yun-Jin picks up a wet stone. Why sharpen a stage prop? Certain, The Trickster used real knives to do stunt work as a kid, just it is no longer necessary. This obsession with knives is non but for show. And what is the bespeak of sharpening a pocketknife if it's not to use information technology? She shudders

Some other dissonance at the door. Yun-Jin puts down the wet stone.

"I said come up back la--"

Ji-Woon walks into the room, communicable her off baby-sit. Her eyes encounter his.

He is just the awkward kid I signed years ago. I will non let him elevate me down.

His outrage meets her fury. Yun-Jin picks up the sampler.

"Where the hell do you lot wander off at nighttime? And what is this twisted horror bullshit? What if the media got a hold of it? Your career would be over."

Trickster sighs and admits that afterwards the death of NO SPIN, his mind drifted to a dark place. He rarely talks most their death, and she tin tell why. That twenty-four hour period even so haunts her dreams. Time passes, but guilt remains.

Yun-Jin spots his phone on the table.

"Grab a drink from the mini bar, Trickster. Today's rehearsal is cancelled."

She keeps the sampler and reminds him to stay on hotel grounds until the concert. He nods in agreement.

Good. For her ploy to piece of work, he must think she trusts him.

Memory 448

Yun-Jin looks out from her hotel room. Exterior the downpour is relentless, causing wink floods in parts of the urban center. She calls her staff. No matter how bad the tempest is, the show must go on.

Notwithstanding the weather is not to blame for the growing apprehension in the pit of her tummy. There is something off about The Trickster, a hunch she can no longer ignore, no affair how assisting he is. While he might seem sincere, years in the business organization have taught her that she cannot trust anyone.

Yun-Jin grabs her phone and activates the GPS tracker on The Trickster'southward visitor phone. His location appears as a blue dot on the huge map of Rio. Her gut feeling is right. He is no longer on the hotel premises.

The hunt is on. Time to teach The Trickster a new fox.

Yun-Jin slows down virtually The Trickster'due south location. Every bit she approaches, a grey sedan suddenly speeds off. She checks her telephone. The blue dot is getting farther away on the map. The Trickster must be in the auto that just took off.

Yun-Jin stomps on the accelerator and speeds off. After a few turns she catches up with the sedan, which makes a abrupt right. Yun-Jin follows, yanking the steering wheel while stomping on the breaks. Her car drifts into the turn, gliding towards a wretched, narrow aisle.

The sedan accelerates and swerves left, entering a narrow street. Yun-Jin repeats her manoeuvre and drifts left, but the wheels hydroplane on the puddled asphalt, and the auto spirals out of command.

A thundering crash. Yun-Jin's caput is propelled onto the steering wheel. A flash of white light. Then a burning pain follows, coursing down her body from her neck to her lower back.

***

Yun-Jin coughs and gasps at the pain. For a moment, all she can do is exhale. When she exhales, the pain lessens slightly. Loud stone is blaring on the radio. Information technology'south so loud. She reaches frontward and turns information technology off absentmindedly. A spot higher up her left forehead is burning. She touches her forehead softly and winces. A drib of claret drips downward her finger.

The windshield is croaky on the passenger side. Yun-Jin moves slowly, carefully leaning over.

"It's OK. Everything is OK. I'g OK."

She looks out. The car crashed into a streetlamp on the passenger side. This could have been much worse.

A familiar ding interrupts her thoughts. Her phone. Yun-Jin slowly leans forrad, her hand searching under her seat. She grabs her phone and unlocks the screen. A text message from The Trickster: "Assist".

Why would he inquire for her help... unless she missed something? Unless... The Trickster is not the ane she is chasing.

Yun-Jin's heart skips a beat. The decease threat. The Trickster's number ane fan. Mayhap the crazed fan found out about the Trickster's nightly escapades and decided to strike. Kidnappings get hand-in-paw with death threats after all.

She lets out a expletive. In her rush to chase The Trickster, she left her babysitter behind. If anything happens to The Trickster, Ji-Woon, and she was too blind to stop it... No. She has plenty guilt on her censor already.

Yun-Jin re-adjusts her seatbelt. She turns on the ignition and the engine coughs in response. She grits her teeth and tries again.

It won't be like the fire… I won't surrender on him.

She turns on the ignition again. And again. On the third try, the engine revs back to life. She puts her phone back on the dashboard and follows the blue dot.

Memory 449

Yun-Jin follows the GPS until she reaches a desolate parking lot facing several abandoned warehouses. The bluish dot is remains immobile.

This is information technology. Ji-Woon should be here somewhere, but where?

As Yun-Jin steps out of the car, a heavy curtain of rain falls on her sore, shivering body. Daylight is cloaked by dark storm clouds. The parking lot is filled with broken-down cars. Yun-Jin uses her cell phone'south flashlight to find the grayness sedan. As thunder rumbles, her phone illuminates a bloodied handprint on a car window. She rushes to the door and peeks inside. A sudden blur of motion. She pulls the door open.

A rat skitters out of the car. Some items prevarication on the backseat: Ji-Woon's telephone, a rag, and some rope...

Yun-Jin closes her prickling eyes. She might be besides tardily.

In that location's no time to waste material crying. If Ji-Woon is notwithstanding live, he needs all the assistance he can get.

Yun-Jin grabs her phone and calls the police, then her security crew. Whatever this crazed fan has planned, it ends now.

Retentivity 450

Rumbling thunder. Yun-Jin is staggering through the rain, looking for a clue—a trail. An icy gust lashes her drenched torso. But she cannot cease. Not until Ji-Woon is safety.

A rat skitters over a puddle upon which lies a white business organisation carte. Yun-Jin picks up the claret-stained card and reads: MAGNUM OPUS, MUSIC PRODUCER. Information technology'southward hers. With a shudder, she realises she might know the person who kidnapped Ji-Woon.

Police sirens are blaring in the distance, but she cannot tell if they are coming for her or the several people caught in the storm. Yun-Jin shouts Ji-Woon'south name, yelling in despair over sirens and thunder. Then she hears a scream coming from beyond the parking lot, where stands an abandoned warehouse.

She rushes to the warehouse, reaching its wide doors. A chain is wrapped around the handles, padlocked into place. Meanwhile, law are arriving on the scene.

A roughshod scream emerges from the warehouse.

She cannot afford to await. What happened to NO SPIN cannot happen again. Never again.

Picking up a lead pipe from the ground, she strikes the padlock, once more and again.

"JI-WOON! JI-WOON!!"

The padlock breaks open.

Video

This video is unlocked subsequently completing all Master Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

The Observer: Spider web of the Abyss

Terra Arachna. Mean solar day 987.

Shut call today. Came in contact with the arachnas while testing multiple versions of the toxin. The doctor saw them coming through the window and ordered me to get out everything backside. She said nosotros would return to the lab when the arachnas were gone and it was prophylactic again. We still haven't found a toxin deadly enough to eliminate these horrible creatures, but I feel we're close. Very close. If nosotros had a sense of their origins, information technology would help. As information technology stands, we nevertheless don't know where they came from or what they desire. All nosotros know is the attacks started at the same time. What makes our investigation more challenging is the fact that their Dna is unlike anything we've ever encountered. It's every bit though... information technology's as though they came from some other place...

Terra Arachna. Day 992.

Returned to the brand-shift lab today and found dozens of people wrapped in silk hanging from the ceiling. Blood dripped in pasty pools right under them. I tried to look away as I grabbed the crate of toxins that we had left behind. But as I carried the crate into the corridor, I couldn't help but notice in the corner of my eye that 1 of those pods started to move. I forced myself to look and very quickly realized that these pods weren't filled with food simply with something else. It was clear that something was moving and growing inside the cocoon. Something was feeding off the dripping body parts that had been wrapped with it. The groaning creature within the cocoon struggled to intermission free, and I instantly rushed out of the lab as fast as my trembling legs could take me. The terminal thing I wanted was to confront the latest arachna evolution. The arachnas mutate faster than we impale them, and finding the right toxin is our only hazard at survival. Allow's hope the medico and I do then earlier information technology'southward also late.

Terra Arachna. Day 998.

Dr Morell and I worked tirelessly for iii days and plant a candidate for mass production. Toxin HJ7 killed 100 percentage of arachna specimens in less than a minute. 1 dose and the creatures disintegrated into a thick puddle of bubbling, black tar which very quickly evaporated into a poisonous mist that killed the other arachnas we held in captivity for our experiments. I think both the doctor and I were shocked and amazed at the result. While it is truthful that nosotros might not know where these monsters came from, we now have a mode to eliminate them. The doctor and I are currently looking for ways to get samples of the toxin to other survivors. The function worker turned cook volunteered, just Dr Morell chose a few other unlikely candidates. She says information technology's because he has a track record of messing up his assignments. Personally, I think that'south just an alibi, and the truth is... she'll miss his cooking... his pizza. Helps her call up meliorate days before the invasion. Helps u.s. all remember better days, I suppose.

Chamber of Blood. The Tale that Follows.

Constable Duncan J. Smith said thousands of dogs haunted him wherever he went, just no one else saw them. To become away from the dogs he would hibernate in the crawl infinite underneath his cabin, or he would hide in the shed where he kept his snowmobile, or sometimes he would escape to the glaciers and hide in the water ice caves where he prayed for the howling and the yelping and the whimpering to stop. But the howling and the yelping and the whimpering never stopped, and no affair where he hid, the dogs always found him.

The starting time day Duncan saw the dogs was the day he started questioning his task. Or rather, it was the mean solar day he started questioning the law and what he was doing with the police force. There was something most legally destroying dogs that felt off… that felt… incorrect… something that tugged at his centre and wouldn't let go… something telling him that he needed to become out of the cold, alone Arctic Archipelago before it was too late — if information technology wasn't already as well late.

For Duncan, information technology was the first fourth dimension in his career every bit a constabulary officer that he realized that the constabulary wasn't always the glorified tool for civilisation he had imagined it to be. Sometimes the constabulary was something else. Something blunt. Something hard. Something nigh like a gavel… a gavel of destruction or oppression or maybe both — destruction and oppression.

Truth is, Duncan wasn't sure what he was thinking anymore. He was wearied, and the dogs… well… the dogs just wouldn't leave him be, and all he wanted to practise was return home and farm. He liked working on the farm. Things were simpler on the subcontract. But here, up north, things were more complicated, and Duncan couldn't help merely think almost the law.

About the gavel.

And the concluding thing Duncan wanted to practice was wield that gavel against anyone. And nevertheless — to his everlasting regret — he had used it confronting the dogs.

And though he had done everything by the book… and though the constabulary said he had committed no crime… his center continually testified to the opposite.

To be sure, Duncan had led countless dogs to the bay, where he had shot them like vermin in front end of their owners. And it was only when he was alone and surrounded by their ghosts that he would admit to himself that what he had done didn't feel and so correct and that maybe... just perhaps... these dogs weren't the dangerous beasts or the diseased rats his captain had made them out to be. They were… well… they were something else.

They were friends.

They were family members.

They played with children, entertained them and kept them prophylactic. They warned against approaching wolves and polar bears, and even snowstorms. And more than anything they made sure no hunter ever got lost in a blizzard different those unreliable 'atomic number 26 dogs' or snowmobiles that broke down in the middle of nowhere and left a trail of black smoke across the cold, white, endless expanse. No 'atomic number 26 canis familiaris' ever led someone out of a blizzard. The same... well... the aforementioned could not be said of the dogs…

…the dogs he had so heartlessly destroyed.

But in those days — when the product of the first commercial 'iron dog' commenced — there weren't many challenges to the police force, and and then Duncan certainly tried to convince himself that he was doing the good and lawful matter for everyone.

And while it's true that the listen might not brand the difference betwixt what is correct and what is lawful, the heart certainly does.

The heart — information technology is often said — doesn't lie.

Nonetheless, Duncan institute ways to flim-flam himself and ignore the appeals of his heart. He told himself these dogs weren't similar other dogs, and he actually believed his lie for a few months. Only as time wore on, he very apace realized that these dogs were… well… like the dogs he had known back abode.

Knowing this fabricated information technology harder and harder for him to fall asleep, and soon he started to hallucinate and see all the dogs he had shot.

At kickoff information technology was simply 1. Then it was two. Then a dozen. Then a dozen became a hundred. And a hundred became a m. A m dead dogs howled and stared at Duncan every dark, preventing him from sleeping, from dreaming, from thinking—preventing him from living the life he had one time known.

Everywhere Duncan went, in that location they were, the dogs, looking at him with those eyes—those pleading, confused eyes, wondering what they had done incorrect, or how they had failed their family unit and friends to deserve such a cold and indifferent cease.

Truth is, Duncan couldn't escape those ghosts whatever more a canis familiaris could escape its own tail. Wherever he went, there they were, following him, reminding him of all the lives he had disrupted and destroyed with… well… with that gavel.

One evening, Duncan sat in bed, belongings his aching caput in his hands, staring at the decomposable dogs sitting all around him. They watched him closely as he tried to fall comatose and howled or barked every time his eyelids began to skid. Trembling with fear and burnout, Duncan murmured he had done nothing wrong and that he had acted in accordance with the law and that they should simply exit him alone. But —

The dogs wouldn't leave him alone. They only stared at him in silence with those eyes — optics that reminded him of his own dog.

Anguished, Duncan lurched from his bed, screaming at the dogs, telling them he needed to sleep and that he wasn't going to feel guilty for doing his damn job! He outright refused to repent or feel guilty for doing what the law required him to do. What the police said he had to exercise!

The dogs suddenly stirred anxiously near the cabin with their heads downwards and tails between their legs. Duncan'south screams grew louder and louder, and one by one, the dogs whimpered and whined for their lives like they had washed when they had been destroyed. Then — only like that — they vanished into thin air equally though Duncan had finally scared them away.

When Duncan realised the dogs were gone, he complanate into his bed and prayed that they should finally leave him alone. He but wanted his life back, for the dogs had robbed him of his strength and freedom and fifty-fifty his sense of identity as a morally upright officer of the law.

That night, a storm picked up and blew all around his small cabin. Feeling a chill seep through his bones, Duncan rose from the bed, and he made a small fire in the iron stove as he remembered his outset and only canis familiaris, Buster, a plump Yellow Labrador Retriever with a black snout.

Smartest, kindest and warmest dog he had ever known.

To Duncan, Buster was more than just a dog. He was his guardian, his confidant, his best friend. He was the brother he never had. He caught rodents, guarded against coyotes and drove cattle on the farm. His father used to say a practiced dog was worth two or three farm-hands, and Buster was certainly worth four. Thinking about it now, he was glad that no 1 e'er used the constabulary confronting Buster, or whatsoever other dog in his town for that matter.

To be sure, Buster wasn't as big or strong as these Arctic dogs, but he was quite the hunter and had once even saved him from a wolverine. Only what Duncan remembered virtually was that Buster used to curl up in bed with him to calm his anxious eye and aid him migrate away to sleep.

And now Duncan longed for nothing more than the undisturbed, soundless sleep of youth. And as he longed for sleep, the wind blew harder and fiercer through the cracks of his cabin. The fire flared, flickered and snapped, casting violent shadows that seemed to tell stories.

Duncan rubbed his eyes to make the hallucinations get abroad. But wherever he looked the shadows took the grade of officers and hunters shooting at confused and frightened dogs as a thick and unnatural black smoke began to fill the cabin.

Duncan tried to compression himself awake. But when he realized he wasn't asleep, he quickly shut his eyes and once more begged for the dogs to only leave him alone.

He wanted i dark of rest. Merely one nighttime! His brain reeled with despair, and he began to hear the warped vocalism of his captain laughing at him, shouting at him, tormenting him, telling him the dogs were dangerous… aggressive… a definite blight on their time to come plans.

Duncan felt madness clutching at the seams of his soul. He screamed that these were lies! All of them! And when he opened his eyes again, the black smoke was gone, and the shadows were once once more meaningless shapes flickering about the motel.

Simply just every bit Duncan sighed his relief, he heard a sound.

A gentle, scratching sound. At the door. Then he heard a bark that sounded vaguely familiar. The bark came again and once more and it sounded similar —

'Buster.

Duncan narrowed his gaze and cautiously approached the thick, wooden door. The scratching stopped just as he placed his hand on the doorknob. He stood in silence for a long, tense moment. When the scratching came once more, he quickly opened the door and defenseless a fleeting glimpse of yellowish fur disappearing beyond thick sheets of falling snow.

Exhausted and confused, Duncan rushed into the churning storm in his undergarments and slippers, yelling for Buster to await for him. Then he stopped of a sudden when he realized he was being irrational. His tired listen was playing tricks on him.

Buster had been dead for over twenty years. He had been hitting by a automobile. And for a fleeting moment, Duncan remembered holding his hand on the side of the road, calming him downward equally his life slowly seeped away. He had never cried so much in his life. There was no possible way Buster could still be with him.

Covered in snowfall, Duncan told himself the solitude was getting to him and that he just needed 1 nighttime of undisturbed sleep. He turned back toward the cabin. Only equally he turned, he realised…

…he was lost.

He couldn't see an inch in front end of him in any direction. Cold and panic swept over him at once. He turned and turned as the wind howled and shrieked and whimpered. In the raging blizzard, he could but make out —

Dogs.

Ghostly dogs. Expressionless and decaying dogs. Thousands of them. Running around him. Growling. Howling. Barking. Confusing him.

Duncan shouted for them to cease, and he tried to scare them off as he had washed earlier. But the dogs grew faster and fiercer as though they were i with the storm.

Duncan savage to his knees and felt the cold bite all over his trembling body. His face up twisted in terror as each dog seemed to pounce out of the tempest to have its turn chomping down on him with common cold, indifferent teeth. He collapsed to his side in desperation. A terrible numbness crept over him, not so much from the cold but the memory of hurting all those poor dogs. He begged for them to stop, and then he did what he had never washed before.

He confessed his shame and begged for forgiveness.

At one time, the dogs froze and stared at him with eyes that seemed to await straight into his heart.

Duncan choked out that he was pitiful, that he was truly sorry, and that even though he had done everything by the book, he had washed everything incorrect. He had washed them wrong. He had done their families wrong. And he had done himself wrong.

And equally he emptied his center, he heard a familiar bark as Buster of a sudden emerged from the ghostly pack and stood before him.

'The dogs looked at Buster, then Duncan, then Buster over again. A wave of peace seemed to wash over them as they disappeared one by one and left Duncan with his guardian… his friend… his brother. And Buster curled down beside Duncan as his heart slowed to a terminate, and the blinding, white storm swept his life away as it had done so many others.

When Constable Duncan J. Smith didn't show up at the station the next day, his fellow officers searched for him and found his frozen corpse non 10 feet from his cabin. He was lying on his side with a peaceful expression on his face. I officeholder noticed that he had been running around in circles, while the others questioned why he had been foolish plenty to leave his cabin in his undergarments in the eye of a snowstorm.

The helm kneeled by Duncan'south frozen black and blue face up and sighed. Only as he ordered someone to encompass the trunk, another officer panicked and rubbed his eyes, claiming he saw dogs all around him. He stumbled dorsum and screamed for the dogs to stay away from him. No one saw what he was seeing, and the captain told him to finish making jokes at Duncan'due south expense. But the frantic officeholder shrieked in terror and swore that the dogs were existent and that they were following him.

Arcus 2921

Some civilisations collapse because they discover knowledge they aren't mature plenty to understand. Other civilisations collapse because of natural disasters. And nonetheless other civilisations become a niggling push… a little nudge… over the cliff. I have studied the final days of endless worlds… been through the memories of so many Survivors… and I tin can say that The Entity doesn't only decadent and consume a world… it somehow taps into our commonage fears and has a piddling fun.

From what I've observed, The Entity seems to take its fourth dimension cherry-picking souls from a buffet of misery whilst contemplating a perfect pattern of devastation every bit though… as though an apocalypse was a kind of work of art… a kind of masterpiece. This I realise goes against everything I've learned about Ancients back domicile. Simply I cannot deny that all the stories and memories I've been examining suggest a voluntary and non involuntary will to create and destroy on the function of this Ancient. Information technology'due south all speculation at this point but the last realm that opened up in the basement allowed me to venture into Terra Arachna, where I witnessed the fall of a world to massive, spider-like creatures — monsters that could have only come from The Entity. Non wanting whatsoever of those monsters escaping into the tower, I quickly etched a symbol into the basement door to make the realm disappear. And then, just to be certain, I opened the door and all that was left of the apocalypse was a small, empty room covered in dust. But, equally I examined the room, I thought I heard a kind of chittering sound in the corridors. I swallowed a growing lump in my throat and charily searched the tower to make certain nothing had escaped. I didn't find anything inside, but noises outside continue to disturb my sleep, and I'm sure I've seen things moving in The Fog.

Video

This video is unlocked after completing all Chief Challenges associated with this Memory/Log entry

Challenges

Level one

Survivor Challenges

Killer Challenges

Full general Challenges

• Bloody Rewards: Earn 50,000 Bloodpoints.
• Salvation or Sacrifice: Safely unhook ten Survivors or claw 10 Survivors.
• Argent Historic period: Earn 8 Emblems of Silver Quality or better.

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description
	Universal Statis	Uncommon	The Observer's model of a universe devoid of auric free energy.

Level 2

Survivor Challenges

Killer Challenges

General Challenges

• Encarmine Rewards: Earn 75,000 Bloodpoints.
• Drop or Chop: Drop 15 Pallets while existence chased by the Killer or break xv Pallets.

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description
	Universal Catalyst	Rare	A model of a universe birthing auric energy.

Level three

Survivor Challenges

Killer Challenges

• Bloody Practiced: Hit a Survivor with your Weapon twenty times.
• Scrap One thousand: Impairment 20 Generators.
• Terrified: Make the Survivor scream 44 times.
• Glyph Tracker: District with iii Purple Glyphs.
• Master Attraction : Knock down 2 Survivors with Blades during The Main Event as The Trickster. ( Unlocks the next entry for Dissonance for the Dead )

General Challenges

• Iridescent Age: Earn 10 Emblems of Iridescent Quality.
• Bloody Rewards: Earn 100,000 Bloodpoints.
• Salvation or Sacrifice: Safely unhook 15 Survivors or hook 15 Survivors.

Completion Charm

Icon	Name	Rarity	Description
	Universal Chaos	Ultra Rare	A model depicting a vibrant universe bursting with the chaos of life, expiry, and the existence in between.

Level 4

Survivor Challenges

Killer Challenges

General Challenges

• Glyph Seeker: Commune with 6 Red Glyphs .
• Drop or Chop: Drop 30 Pallets while existence chased by the Killer or interruption xxx Pallets.
• Bloody Rewards: Earn 150,000 Bloodpoints.

Completion Charm

Icon	Proper name	Rarity	Description
	Universal Terminus	Ultra Rare	A model of a universe consuming itself. Oddly beautiful.

Glyphs

Chief article: Purple Glyphs

Regal Glyph

• Tome 9 - Crescendo introduced Purple Glyph challenges.
  Upon selecting the Glyph Tracker challenge a Purple Glyph will spawn in the Trial Grounds and needs to exist communed with to gain Challenge progression.
  • The Glyph Tracker Challenge is just available to Killers.
  • The Purple Glyph randomly moves throughout the Trial Grounds, leaving but a trail of ooze behind it, by which The Killer can rails its location.

Trailer

Dead By Daylight Tome 9,

Source: https://deadbydaylight.fandom.com/wiki/Tome_9_-_Crescendo

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