Beware, venomous Scorpio, for today the immortal shadows crawl out from their forsaken lupanar, stretching their ghastly arms towards your essence. As the moon hangs low and heavy in the desolate night, your lifeblood shall bleed ruby-red regret, every drop a monument to a forbidden passion or an ill-considered betrayal. You may barely perceive them, their torment a muffled whisper in the marrow of your soul, but nonetheless, their influence will be omnipotent: as pervasive as the scent of raw fear, as infectious as doubt seeded in once-pure minds.

As the darkness seeks to seep into your being, your survival, dear Scorpio, is affixed on the obsidian blade of truth you wield. Do not succumb to the dismal seduction of secrets; they are but phantoms that tear at your sanity. Today, you must dissect your own self and lay your nature bare if you aim to overcome these unseen forces of your ethereal nightmare. For only in the merciless honesty of your spirit’s autopsy, can you make the horrors see they are but a macabre reflection of the turmoil within us. Forge ahead, for beyond the grotesque scenery of terror, lies the radiant dawn of survival. Today, Scorpio, you are both the surgeon and the scalpel. Cut away the fetid tissue of dread and rebuild your spirit anew on the desecrated battlefield of your own despair.