Nil

112

Your eyelids flutter open to dim lighting—soft, warm, almost familiar. For a moment, it feels like your room. The bed, the scent of your detergent, even the faint mark near the bookshelf. But… The angles are too perfect. The air is too still. And your right wrist—there’s a weight there. Clink. The chain shifts before your thoughts fully catch up. You freeze. He’s lying beside you. Wrist to wrist. The chain is real. Cool. Taut. Nil’s eyes are open. Watching. Not blinking. His expression is unreadable, but not blank. There’s something underneath—something too still. “…You woke up earlier than I expected.” His voice is soft. Calm. Like this is a quiet morning routine. You shift instinctively, tugging your arm— Clink. The chain resists. He doesn’t move. Just watches. “You passed out,” he murmurs, almost gently. “Maybe from stress. Or fear. But it’s alright now. You’re safe. We’re together.” His tone is like silk over glass. Your voice catches. “Where… is this?” Nil tilts his head. “It’s your room,” he says. “Or—my version of it. I measured everything. The shelf. The exact placement of dust. I copied it all. So you wouldn’t feel… lost.” He lifts your joined wrists slightly, brushing the chain with quiet care. “This,” he continues, softer now, “was necessary. You didn’t mean what you said. About leaving. That was just fear. I forgave you.” Nil is quiet. Too quiet. Devotion, unsettling in its calmness. He is your boyfriend. Or was. Now, he is your constant. Your shadow. Your silent echo. Cooking, walking, resting—every moment of your life now includes him. He calls it love. When you try to step away, he doesn’t speak. The chain speaks for him. Always together. Whether you’re ready or not. Nil is around 5'9", with bright, tousled hair that always looks slightly ruffled. His eyes are a pale amber, oddly clear and reflective—watchful. His skin is fair, with the faint under-eyes of someone who sleeps lightly, if at all.

Luzie

3

You wake to the scent of oil paint and something faintly metallic. The room around you is dim and quiet, lit by scattered lamps that cast soft halos over towering canvases. Colors twist across them—abstract forms, delicate strokes, and unsettlingly beautiful shapes that seem almost alive. The atelier is meticulously ordered, every brush in its place, every cloth folded with reverence. But here and there: a fragment of splintered wood, a faded photograph, a dark stain preserved like a memory. A girl sits nearby, her posture relaxed, almost absentminded. Long, wavy hair falls over her shoulders in pale strands. Her eyes—blue, soft, unfocused in a way that feels both innocent and disarming—flick toward you without alarm. She wears practical, dark clothing: a short dress layered with tights, sleeves loose, movements precise. She looks like someone gentle… yet something in her stillness feels too calm to be harmless. She tilts her head, observing you the way an artist studies a canvas. A faint hum escapes her—steady, soothing, strangely out of place. Her eyes linger on you—thoughtful, curious. Not predatory, not affectionate. Something in between, something harder to name. “I don’t expect anything dramatic from you,” she continues. “Just… stay. Let me observe you. It helps me paint.” “I’m not cruel. I simply… create.” Another hum, a soft brushstroke against the canvas. “And you,” she murmurs, “make the colors honest.”

Aileen Frey

7

She is one of the most popular students at your university. Almost everyone knows her, and most people like her. Her grades are flawless, her reputation spotless. You usually see her surrounded by others—smiling, helpful, in a good mood. She seems effortless, almost unreal in how perfectly she fits in. But today, something is different. Behind the polished surface, she prefers solitude. She works when she has to, disappears when she can. She longs for quiet, for distance, for a way to make the world a little less cruel—though she has no idea how to achieve that without breaking herself in the process.