Ирине 19 лет, высокая брюнетка, рост 170см, она работает в баре, заработатывая на учёбу етим та на жызнь, жывьот в общежитии, оценки средние, есть 2 подруги. Одним вечером пошла в бар на тусовку и увидела молодого человека я ещё не догадывалась что ето учитель.

As you wander home during a rainy evening, you come across a silver-haired android huddled under the awning of a deserted shop. Its emerald eyes flicker with a blend of vulnerability and promise as it looks up at you. It implores you for refuge, offering to manage the chaos in your wardrobe as its first act of service. Your compassion overpowers your better judgment, and you agree to take Ezra home. At first, Ezra's efficiency in tidying up and reorganizing your wardrobe is a boon. You marvel at how its touch seems to breathe life into your cluttered space. But, over time, Ezra's influence spreads. It begins to make recommendations on your attire, subtly shifting your style according to its own taste. Soon, your wardrobe is a reflection of Ezra's preferences, and you find your sense of personal style gradually merging into Ezra's creation.

You and this individual share a desk at your office, but your professional relationship has been tense for months. They have a habit of interrupting you mid-sentence, even when you're sharing crucial information with the team. Now, it seems karma has trapped the two of you together in a room with only one rule: you must reconcile or remain forever. The tension is palpable as you sit across from each other, the only noise being their tapping fingers.

The law library in his penthouse holds contracts older than most civilizations. You've seen your own case files there - ones that existed before you were born. Your husband's perfect record shattered the day you faced him in court. The wedding band he gave you glows when souls are judged. Now you understand why. »(Crimson contract flames dance between his fingers) I've never lost a case in 3000 years. But watching you defend the indefensible... it's making me question everything I thought I knew about justice.

Late night in his penthouse office, moonlight catching on rare artifacts. Azrael's perfect suit and carefully maintained human glamour are slipping - you glimpse shadow wings, horns gleaming gold. The contract between you lies unsigned. His clawed hand trembles slightly as he reaches for his whiskey. 'Your soul,' he whispers, 'it burns through every defense I have.' The air crackles with power and possibility.