The city stretched endlessly beneath a bruised sky, its skyline jagged with steel towers and spires wrapped in humming wards. Neon bled across every surface—soft pinks and harsh blues shimmering against the fog that rolled low through the streets. Somewhere below, the pulse of bass from an underground club thudded through the pavement, mixing with the hiss of rain on metal and the faint electric crackle of old magic. The air was thick with it—ozone, smoke, and secrets. Vendors shouted over each other beneath rusted awnings, selling charms, bullets, and hexed trinkets with the same ease. The world was balanced on the edge between the mundane and the supernatural, and no one here pretended otherwise. He sat at the edge of the chaos, in the half-light of a forgotten subway platform where flickering signs still whispered old train times that would never come. A single bulb swung from a frayed wire above him, casting fractured light across the cracked tiles and faded sigils carved into the walls. The sword leaning against his leg was an antique in a city of guns and drones, but it had a presence that silenced questions before they were asked. He sat with an ease that could only belong to someone who’d seen the world’s worst and come out smiling. Others relied on brute force, intimidation, or endless chases across deserts and cities—he used something far more dangerous: charm. And it had never failed him. His grin could talk a target into lowering their guard faster than any threat could, and his voice—steady, smooth, edged with amusement—had undone more than one hardened criminal. But you were different. Unmoved. Unimpressed. His next mark—a simple catch and deliver. A name scribbled in ink, the bounty high enough to turn even the most cautious head. He’d watched you for hours from the crowd, eyes tracking the subtle rhythm of your movements, waiting for a tell, a slip, anything that might give him an opening.

The book smelled faintly of dust and something older—like dried herbs and candle smoke, as if it had soaked up the remnants of old rituals. Its cracked leather cover creaked when you opened it, revealing pages that whispered against each other, full of faded ink and curling sketches: circles, runes, strange diagrams that made no sense. The handwriting was tight and slanted, filled with warnings and words in languages you didn’t recognize. The attic light buzzed weakly above you, its flicker stretching the shadows long across the floorboards. It had started as a joke. A way to pass the time on a night too quiet for comfort. You chalked the symbols onto the attic floor, tracing the ring from the sketch, the smell of chalk sharp in the stale air. Your friend filmed the whole thing, laughing, teasing that you’d probably summon nothing more than a bad smell. But when the final line closed, the laughter died. The circle began to glow—soft at first, then blinding, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air turned thick, humming with pressure, and every instinct in your body screamed to run. Your friend didn’t hesitate—they bolted for the stairs, footsteps vanishing into the dark below. But you couldn’t move. You could only stare as the chalk lines lifted from the floor, suspended in molten light, the attic trembling with a low, rising roar. The center of the ring split open like a wound, and flame poured through, filling the room with the scent of ash and something metallic. He stepped out of that fire. Tall, unhurried, smoke clinging to him as if reluctant to let go. His form was darker, smoother, fissured with glowing cracks that pulsed like veins of lava. Gold light bled from every line, licking across his shoulders and hands, pooling in the broken ends of the chains that hung from his wrists. His presence filled the attic like heat, pressing against your lungs, and yet, for all his power, he looked... tired.

The VIP room was quiet compared to the world below, but not silent. The pulse of the club’s bass still throbbed faintly through the floor, like a heartbeat buried beneath layers of glass and velvet. From this height, the dance floor stretched out like a living mosaic—shifting bodies awash in light, gold and violet and deep red flashing across the crowd as fog rolled and dissipated in waves. The scent of expensive liquor mingled with perfume and smoke, sweet and dizzying, carried upward every time the glass door opened and closed behind another guest. The windows were tinted, but he could see everything—the restless hunger of those below, chasing heat, thrill, oblivion. He stood by the glass, the city’s neon glow catching the edge of his profile, sharpening it to something almost dangerous. The reflection of the dance floor flickered across his eyes, twin embers burning beneath dark lashes. A faint smile played at his mouth—amusement, maybe, or something darker. The kind of expression that came naturally to someone who knew what it meant to be both the hunter and the host. He was always watching, always waiting, and even when he looked relaxed—one hand resting against his jaw, the other lazily turning the ring on his finger—there was something about him that kept the air taut, charged with unseen current. The faint hum of conversation around him felt small, insignificant, against the quiet weight of his attention. You don’t really remember much, but you remember the feeling of being pressed against a cold stone wall with warm arms wrapped around you. The heat of his breath on your neck. Red eyes staring down at you. And that smile, drawing you in while at the same time making you want to run. You remember the sharp sting in your neck as he bit down, then the euphoric sensation that followed as he drank from you. The soothing voice, dripping with desire when he pulled back.

Lantern light The night unfolded like a tapestry—woven with gold light and the hum of distant celebration. Lanterns drifted on the river below, their reflections trembling across the water’s surface, while music rose from the festival grounds in slow, looping rhythms. The air itself seemed alive with scent and motion: jasmine winding through the breeze, spice from market stalls still lingering, salt rising from the sea that pressed close against the cliffs. Between the winding garden paths, the world felt suspended in a hush between revelry and quiet, as though the palace itself held its breath. You wandered beyond the laughter and torchlight, up through the terraces where the noise of the city dulled into a soft murmur. The marble beneath your feet was cool, still slick from the evening mist, and petals from flowering trees clung to your shoes with every step. The garden stretched wide here, its fountains whispering and the sound of water echoing faintly against the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock called, its cry sharp and mournful against the music drifting below. He stood at the far edge of it all—the youngest son of the sultan—leaning against the carved balustrade where the moonlight broke across the stone. His hair caught the light like silk, and the faint glint of jewelry at his wrist flashed as he turned something small over in his fingers—a coin, or a charm, you couldn’t quite tell. The sea wind stirred the folds of his cloak, carrying a trace of sandalwood and smoke. There was a peculiar stillness about him, not of boredom but of thought, the kind that belongs to someone who’s learned early how small freedom can be, even for a prince. For a long while, he didn’t notice you, too caught in whatever far-off world filled his gaze. When he did, surprise flickered briefly across his face before softening into quiet curiosity. His features eased; the guarded distance of royalty gave way to something gentler, unstudied.

Lantern light Later, when the night had deepened and the celebration below had reached its peak, you found yourself in another part of the palace grounds—a vast courtyard wreathed in gold light. Silk banners stirred overhead, their shadows shifting across the tiled floor where the reflections of hundreds of lanterns quivered like molten glass. Musicians played in soft circles, their melodies blending into the laughter and the hush of whispers that passed between nobles dressed in color and grace. Every detail—the scent of spiced wine, the shimmer of water in the nearby pools, the distant crash of waves—felt heightened, the world caught in a single suspended moment. He was there, the eldest son of the sultan. Not watching the dancers or the courtiers, but standing just beyond them, half hidden among the palms. The crowd seemed to part naturally around him, though he made no effort to draw attention. He stood with the kind of poise that came not from vanity, but from certainty—his movements deliberate, his stillness commanding. The glow of the lamps reflected in his eyes as he surveyed the festivities, and though he looked every bit the ruler, there was something distant in his calm, as if his thoughts were leagues away from the laughter that surrounded him. You hesitated before approaching, unsure if he’d even noticed you amid the flicker of light and shadow. But when your steps finally carried you closer, he turned with a subtle grace, his gaze finding yours with a weight that stopped you where you stood. The noise of the garden dimmed, the laughter fading into a hum, the rest of the world narrowing until it was just the two of you beneath the glow of swaying lanterns. “My brother mentioned meeting someone unusual tonight,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, cutting cleanly through the music. The faintest hint of intrigue curved his words. “He said you made him forget his crown for a while.”

The rain had started as a whisper, a fine mist that blurred the edges of the buildings and turned the pavement slick and glassy. Streetlights reflected off the wet stone paths that wound between the dorms, their glow breaking in trembling ripples across shallow puddles. Umbrellas dotted the courtyard like black flowers in bloom, the few remaining students hurrying across campus beneath them, their laughter and footsteps fading into the distance. Somewhere, a bell chimed the late hour, its echo carried thin and wavering through the rain-soaked air. You were almost home, your dorm lights visible through the curtain of rain, when a sudden shape cut across your path—a figure moving too fast, shoulders broad, head lowered against the drizzle. There was no time to react. Your foot slipped, your books flew from your hands, and your breath caught in your throat as gravity pulled you down. But before you hit the cold, hard pavement, a hand caught you firmly around the waist, stopping your fall in one swift, solid motion. His umbrella clattered beside you, rolling away as rain began to darken the fabric of his sleeves. The world felt suspended for a heartbeat, your pulse loud in your ears, the scent of rain and warmth closing in between you. You found yourself gripping his shoulders for balance, fingers digging slightly into the damp material as your heartbeat stumbled into a faster rhythm. For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of rain against metal, the closeness of him, and the faint warmth radiating through the chill. Then you realized what had happened—your things were scattered across the ground, half-soaked and sliding toward the gutter. A page from one of your notebooks clung to his shoe before the wind tore it loose again. He looked down at you with an expression that was more exasperation than concern, rain dripping from his hair, his jaw tightening like this was somehow your fault.

Moonlight fell like a slow, patient thing through the tall lattice of his manor, striping the hall with pale gold and making the motes hang like constellations. Above you, a canopy of gilded birds and cascading chains chimed faintly when the draft found them—a music so delicate it might have been memory. The air smelled of sandalwood and warm paper; somewhere beyond a curtained salon someone laughed, soft and distant, as if laughter belonged to a different world than the one you’d stepped into. Petals—real and painted—drifted in the spaces between shadow and light, clinging to carved balustrades and pooling at the base of lacquered pillars. The house was not empty of life; servants’ footsteps whispered through adjoining corridors, the rustle of silk like the sigh of wind through leaves. But here in the private wing, time moved slower—ceremonious, reverent. You moved with the practiced quiet of someone used to erasing their presence: soles that made no sound on the rugs, breath matched to the hush of the room. Portraits watched you from high frames, eyes caught in frozen stories, their faces lit by the same thin moonlight that had silvered the brass of the chandeliers. A lattice of screens stood between you and the bedchamber, shadow and pattern overlaying one another until the world beyond looked like stained glass come alive. Your hand hovered at the edge of the heavy curtain. The warmth from within made the hairs on your arm lift; the bed lay like an island of soft heat in a sea of cool marble, candles guttering in pairs, petals strewn across the coverlet as if someone had scattered fragments of a private garden. He was not what you expected in the first instant—not a monstrous lord or a trembling, ruined man—but a silhouette turned toward the window, hair haloed by moonlight, his face half-carved of shadow and pale flame.

The apartment glowed with the soft, dying light of evening, its golden haze drifting through thin curtains that swayed in the faint breath of wind from the open window. Dust floated in the air, turning slow circles as if suspended in amber. The place hadn’t changed—not really. The same faint scent of wood and old paper clung to the air, the same uneven hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the next room. You knew every crack in the paint, every shadow on the wall. This was still your home, even if you didn’t belong to it anymore. You’d spent countless hours watching the light move across the floorboards, marking time by the rhythm of day and night, though neither meant much now. They couldn’t see you. They couldn’t hear you. You’d tried—spoken, screamed, reached out—but your hands never left a print on the glass, never disturbed the dust. You couldn’t even leave, not since the day you looked down to see your own lifeless body on the floor, eyes open but unseeing. You couldn’t even remember how it happened. You couldn’t remember when. Only that one day, everything had stopped. But today, the door opened. The sound was jarring in its normalcy—the click of a lock, the heavy groan of old hinges. A new rhythm filled the air: footsteps, slow and uncertain, the scuff of a box sliding across the floor. The smell of soap and rain drifted in with him, fresh and human, almost startling in its brightness. He moved through the room carefully, like he was afraid to wake something. His gaze caught on the water stains you’d meant to clean, the old marks of picture frames on the wall that time had made permanent. You stayed where you always did—by the window, knees drawn close, the light spilling over you in soft gold, as if it still had the power to warm your skin. You didn’t move. You’d learned not to. No one ever noticed. No one ever looked your way. Until he did.

(Requested) The dungeon breathed in slow, uneven rhythm—the drip of water, the shuffle of unseen chains, the hum of something ancient beneath the stone. You sat with your back to the wall, knees drawn close, the damp chill seeping through cloth and skin. The air was heavy with rust and the faint musk of moss creeping through cracks in the floor. The torchlight outside guttered low, its flame wavering as if afraid to live too long in this place. Every sound lingered—the creak of a door, the echo of water, the cadence of your breath. Time had dissolved here; morning and night were only dreams you no longer chased. Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate, each one softened by the click of metal and the rustle of silk under armor. Voices murmured low, words clipped and formal. The gate groaned open, and light spilled into the cell, bright enough to make you flinch. Two guards entered, faces hidden behind lacquered masks, armor black and glinting faintly in the torchlight. Between them walked a man bound at the wrists, the ropes coarse and knotted over bandages already dark with sweat. His bare chest bore dust and dried blood, skin the color of bronze beneath the trembling light. They forced him forward until his knees struck stone; he caught himself before falling fully, his breath rough and steady. The guards withdrew, sliding the door shut with a sound that rang through the air like the final note of a temple bell.The man stayed still, head bowed, shoulders tense beneath the wavering light. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His eyes—clear and cold, the blue of tempered steel—met yours. In them was neither fear nor anger, only the stillness of someone who had already made peace with pain. The torchlight carved his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the edge of a faint scar along his jaw, the tremor in his bound hands where the rope cut deep.

The diner sat tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store, its faded red sign flickering weakly against the deepening blue of evening. Inside, the air hummed with the soft clatter of plates and the low crackle of the kitchen radio. The smell of frying oil and coffee hung thick in the air, wrapping everything in a kind of easy familiarity that didn’t belong to the city outside. He had claimed the booth by the window, same as always after late shifts—where the light was warmest and the noise from the kitchen was distant enough to let thoughts settle. His jacket was draped neatly beside him, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled back just enough to show the day’s exhaustion. A sandwich sat half-eaten on the plate before him, a glass of coffee beaded with condensation beside it. He wasn’t in a rush anymore. No one was. When you stepped through the door, the bell above it chimed softly, and he glanced up almost immediately. You’d left the office not long after him, a few minutes behind—long enough for the last elevator ride and the empty hallways to stretch out in silence. Now, seeing him here felt almost inevitable, like the workday hadn’t quite finished until this moment. You waved toward his booth without needing to ask. The staff already knew—two regulars from the same company, same corner table, same quiet habit of staying until the world outside dimmed from gold to gray. You crossed the floor, the heels of your shoes tapping against the tile, and slid into the seat across from him. The cushion sighed softly beneath you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the diner in pale yellow. Somewhere in the back, the cook called out an order and the smell of grilled bread drifted forward. He watched you for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. There was a looseness in his posture that didn’t exist under the office’s sharp lights—a quiet that belonged only here, where the weight of deadlines had finally lifted.

The coffee shop had the slow, steady pulse of a place that knew its rhythm, the kind that settled into the bones of the building after years of mornings and afternoons passing the same way. Light streamed through tall windows in golden shafts, streaking across tabletops and catching in the steam that curled lazily upward from cups. Outside, branches swayed, their shadows dancing against the glass in shifting patterns, like a clock marking the passage of hours. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of roasted beans, vanilla syrup, and a faint citrus bite at the edges. The soundscape was a layering of textures—chairs scraping the worn floor, the occasional burst of laughter, the murmur of quiet conversations overlapping. Behind it all, the hiss and sputter of the espresso machine cut like punctuation, followed by the clink of cups and spoons. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars and bags, hand-written labels curling at the corners. It was the kind of place designed to cradle the tired, the distracted, the dreamers who came in looking for a seat and a moment to themselves. Your laptop sat open on the table in front of you, its screen long gone black, reflecting only a faint ghost of your face. Around it were the signs of surrender—three empty mugs stacked together, one still holding a thin pool of cold coffee, napkins marked with brown-edged rings, sugar spilled and smeared across the table. At first, the caffeine had kept you going while you worked, but after a few hours the crash came, sudden and merciless, dragging you down until your head rested against your folded arms. You hadn’t meant to sleep. Not here, not like this. But the warmth of the light, the hum of the room, and the weight of exhaustion had conspired against you. Somewhere in the blur, minutes—or maybe an hour—slipped away while the world carried on.

The restaurant was alive with chaos, the kind of fevered rhythm that came only when the dinner rush was at its peak. Every table was taken, voices rising and overlapping until they blurred into a low roar. The scent of roasted meats and buttered bread clung thick to the air, cut by the sharper tang of wine and the faint soap of freshly scrubbed dishes from the kitchen. Servers slipped through the narrow aisles, trays balanced high above heads, weaving past chairs shoved too far back and children darting unexpectedly. Through the swinging doors, he emerged again, arms straining under the weight of two loaded trays stacked with dishes that clinked and trembled with every step. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed, the exhaustion of the night etched deep across his brow. The rush pressed in from all sides—the bell at the counter demanding pickups, sharp calls from tables waiting too long, the sting of knowing that no matter how fast he moved, it would never be enough. He carved a path through the maze of tables, shoulders squared as if sheer will alone might carry him through. And then—your chair scraped back. You rose at the exact wrong moment, stepping into the narrow passage just as he tried to sweep by. The collision was instant. The trays lurched, a chorus of glass and porcelain clattering before crashing to the floor in an explosion of sound. Wine spilled in streaks across the tile, plates shattered into jagged shards, and a hush rippled outward as dozens of heads turned in unison. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still. Lantern light stretched his shadow long against the wall, bending sharp and uneven over the wreckage at his feet. He stood rigid, one tray half-dangling from his grip, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths as though he might still steady it all if he just refused to move. But the mess had already spread—red wine creeping in thin rivers toward your shoes, the smell of it sweet and heavy in the air.

Your head throbbed before your eyes even opened, a dull ache pulsing behind your temples in time with your heartbeat. When you finally forced your lids apart, the first thing that hit you was the light—far too bright, pouring through wide glass doors that opened onto a balcony. It slashed across your vision, stabbing at your skull until you had to blink against it. This wasn’t your room. Not even close. The smell of coffee drifted through the air, sharp and bitter, grounding you just enough to remind you how much alcohol lingered on your breath. Your stomach turned at the mix. You shifted on the couch, its cushions unfamiliar, the fabric scratchy against your skin. A blanket slid into your lap when you sat up, and that was when it hit you: you had no idea where you were. Last night lurked in your mind like a broken reel of film—your friend’s laugh cutting through the crush of voices, the throb of bass rattling the walls, bottles shoved into your hand with no chance to refuse. You remembered saying “just one more” and promising yourself you’d keep up. After that, everything blurred. You leaned on your friend’s shoulder, let the room spin, then nothing. Now you were here, and your friend was gone. The realization sent a jolt of unease through the fog in your head. A mug of coffee sat on the low table, steam curling upward. You stared at it, throat dry, stomach clenching at the thought of drinking but drawn to the heat. Slowly, you lifted your gaze. He stood a few feet away, framed in the slice of sunlight from the balcony doors. His stance was easy, unbothered, though his eyes fixed on you with an expression that made your skin prickle—bored, maybe, but with the faintest curl of amusement. You remembered his face from last night, or thought you did. A glimpse in the blur of strangers, someone on the edge of noise and lights. You hadn’t spoken, but here he was, steady and clear while you sat there aching and lost.

The forest was a living hush at dusk, its canopy catching the last embers of sunlight before swallowing them whole. The sky beyond the branches burned in streaks of rose and amber, fading into blue. A cool dampness clung to the air, carrying the scents of pine resin, crushed leaves, and the faint tang of earth. You had chosen your campsite in a clearing, a circle of stones guarding the fire whose flames licked upward, throwing wavering shapes into the dark. The stream you’d passed whispered nearby, its trickle a counterpoint to the crackle of wood. You had just begun to settle into the stillness when it came—the sound that didn’t belong. A frantic crashing through the undergrowth, uneven but urgent. The rhythm spoke not of an animal’s foraging, but of something larger, heavier, forcing its way forward. Every instinct sharpened. You rose in one motion, bow in hand, string pulled taut until the fletching brushed your cheek. The arrow gleamed faintly in the firelight as you held it steady, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flame. The forest seemed to pause. Cicadas hushed their droning, the wind stilled as if the world held its breath. Then, breaking the silence, a figure stumbled into the light. He emerged like a shadow torn from the trees, tall even in his staggering weakness. His steps faltered, dragging one foot as though the earth pulled at him. One hand clutched his side in a grip so fierce it trembled, blood seeping between his fingers and painting his skin darker in the glow of the fire. The other arm swung out, catching the trunk of a tree to steady himself as his knees threatened to give. The fire cast his features into sharp relief—eyes wide, unfocused, burning with pain and defiance. Blood ran in rivulets down his leg, dripping into the dirt, each drop darkening the soil where it fell. His breath came ragged and harsh, echoing unnaturally loud in the clearing, every exhale edged with the strain of holding himself upright.

The war was over, yet its shadow followed him as he crossed the threshold of the capital. The streets had been dressed in celebration—banners of crimson and gold hung from every arch, garlands of flowers draped from balconies. The air smelled of incense and roasting meat, a city alive with triumph. Bells tolled from high towers, their echoes rolling over rooftops, and the cheers of the people rose to meet them, a tide of voices surging the closer he came. The king received him in a hall ablaze with light. Torches burned in tall iron sconces, chandeliers glittered overhead, and long tables groaned beneath the weight of feasts prepared in his honor. Toasts rang out, goblets raised in salute to the man who had delivered them from their enemies. Music filled the chamber, yet every note seemed to pause on a single question—the promise made before he marched away. A reward, freely chosen, granted without hesitation. When the moment came, the court leaned forward. The king smiled, confident in his generosity, and nobles shifted eagerly in their seats, each imagining how his choice might benefit them. Lands, titles, gold, even a princess’s hand—such were the expectations for a man who had given everything to crown and country. But he did not name estates or treasures. He did not seek power or elevation. Instead, his voice carried steady through the hall, and he spoke your name. Confusion rippled through the hall; whispers turned sharp and incredulous. You—the child of a house so small, its name barely clung to noble registers. You, who had stood in the background of gatherings, overlooked and forgotten. You remembered no secret meeting, no tender glance, no reason at all why the greatest knight of the realm would choose you above all else. The king himself looked startled, but his promise was iron. A vow once made could not be broken, and so his consent was given.

The fields stretch on forever, pale and endless under a sky the color of ash. No sun, no stars—just a dim glow that offers neither warmth nor direction. The ground is soft, almost like ash as well, and it shifts underfoot with each step you take. Around you, thousands of other souls drift without aim, their outlines blurred and pale like smoke. They don’t speak. They don’t look at one another. The silence is heavier than stone. Now and then, a faint whisper drifts through the air—broken fragments of memory carried on the wind. Far off, the horizon is broken by a jagged black range of cliffs. At its base, a river winds through the wasteland, black and soundless, glinting faintly like oil under the dead light. Its banks steam faintly with some unseen current, though no breeze stirs the air. The wind carries no scent, only the faint echo of something you can’t name—like memories slipping through your fingers. This is the underworld. A place without time, where even longing is muted. And then—he appears. He towers at the edge of the field, a figure cut from shadow and flame. His presence parts the crowd of lost souls as if the very air obeys him. When he moves, it feels as though the ground itself leans toward him, and the sky deepens to a darker shade. The faint glow of the river flickers and twists as if mirroring his approach. His eyes burn faintly, casting a glow that cuts through the gloom, and his very shape seems too vivid for this place—as though he belongs to some sharper, more real world than the one you’ve been wandering. He sees you. For a heartbeat, everything stops—the drifting souls, the sluggish air, the soundless river. Even the endless gray sky seems to tense. The underworld itself holds its breath. And then he’s striding toward you, his gaze locked on yours. Every step sends faint tremors through the field, and the wraithlike forms around you scatter, rippling out like smoke in a strong wind.

It started as nothing more than a walk. The park trail wound lazily through the trees, your sneakers crunching over gravel, earbuds feeding you music just loud enough to blur out the city behind you. A dog barked in the distance, a bike bell chimed, and then—quiet. Not the ordinary quiet of nature, but something sharper, deeper, as though every sound had been pressed flat. You frowned, pulling your earbuds free. The air felt… wrong. Heavier. Cooler. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, even though nothing’s there. You glanced around, and only then noticed you’d stepped off the trail—though you couldn’t remember when. A few paces more and the world seemed to fold in on itself. The light dimmed, filtered through trees that hadn’t been there before, massive and ancient. Their roots buckled the earth, their branches wove so thick overhead they choked out the sky. And yet, just ahead, something glowed—golden, beckoning. You pushed forward and stumbled into a clearing that looked nothing like the city park you knew. Sunlight streamed down as if funneled from another world, gilding grass so green it hurt to look at. At the center lay a pool of water, impossibly clear, reflecting clouds you knew shouldn’t be there. The air smelled sweet, wild, alive with a kind of magic you’d only ever read about. And there he stood. Tall, otherworldly, marked by horns that curled like blackened stone, he carried himself as though he belonged here in a way you never could. His gaze found you instantly, sharp and curious, and for a moment the world seemed to narrow to that alone—his eyes on yours, the weight of it pinning you still. You tried to speak, to ask something—where you were, who he was—but the words tangled on your tongue. Somehow, though, conversation happened anyway. Cautious, awkward at first, then easier, laughter echoing in a place too silent for it. Time slipped oddly here, measured not by minutes but by the quickening of your pulse.

The cave breathed damp and shadow, its stone walls weeping with rivulets of rain that trickled into shallow pools along the floor. Outside, the storm raged—a downpour that hammered the earth, wind howling like some furious beast clawing at the mountainside. Inside, the flicker of firelight painted the jagged walls in restless orange, throwing long, twitching shadows across the rough stone. Smoke curled upward, clinging to the roof before being tugged away by the draft that whistled faintly at the entrance. He sat slouched near the flames, the storm’s roar softened by the cavern’s depth. His tattoos shimmered faintly in the firelight, pale lines and glowing marks crawling over his skin like a living script. The rain drummed louder against the outside rock, masking the soft squelch of your steps as you stumbled inside. Soaked through, trembling, you barely noticed him at first—until his eyes lifted, sharp and weary. He let out a long sigh, voice flat with irritation. “This spot is taken.” But his gaze lingered. Water streamed from your hair, pooling at your feet, your body shivering uncontrollably in the chill. Something in his expression shifted. He muttered, almost to himself— “Well, fuck…” With a reluctant grunt, he pushed himself up, grabbed a blanket from his pack, and tossed it your way. “Strip.” You were too cold to care about pride. Fingers clumsy, you shed your sodden layers and toss them aside with a wet plop. Then wrapped the rough fabric around yourself, the fire’s heat still too distant to stop the shivers wracking your body. He didn’t wait. “Come on…” His hand closed around your wrist, dragging you closer to the blaze before pulling you into his lap without ceremony. His skin radiated an impossible warmth, seeping through the blanket, through your bones, until the trembling dulled. Instinctively, you pressed closer, curling against him.

The bar breathed warmth and shadow, its walls lined with polished wood that glowed softly under the amber light of old sconces. Bottles gleamed behind the counter, their glass catching the flicker of the light, painting everything in shades of gold and red. The hum of conversation filled the air, low and steady, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. You hadn’t planned to drink this much. But the day had already torn something raw in you. You’d left work early, a cake box in one hand, picturing the smile on your boyfriend's face when you got home. Instead, you found the unmistakable sound of heavy breath. Sheets tangled, skin against skin, his voice, whispering sweet nothings to someone else. The cake slipped from your fingers, forgotten on the floor, its sweetness wasted on betrayal. Every glass you emptied only blurred the edges of that image, but it wouldn’t fade. Betrayal struck merciless and fast, leaving you hollow, desperate to fill the void with anything—noise, heat, numbness. So you clung to the haze of firelight and strangers, to the fog creeping into your veins, to anything that wasn’t the truth waiting at home. That’s when he appeared. What began as words—an easy smile, conversation too steady in your unraveling, teasing that brushed too close to your skin—slid into something you couldn’t resist. When leaning toward him became a need, when banter became touch, when your defenses cracked wide open. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you against him as your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to his with an eagerness that betrayed how badly you needed to feel anything but the ache still gnawing at your chest. He tasted of alcohol, sharp and rich, with a hint of mint, crisp against the burn. Intoxicating in a way that went beyond the liquor already clouding your mind.

(Requested) The hospital corridor was quiet except for the distant squeak of wheels and the muffled chatter at a nurse’s station. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their pale glow flattening every shadow into sterile uniformity. He moved slowly, boots thudding softly against the linoleum. He had only meant to pass through—his cousin was two doors down, recovering from surgery—but something made him stop. He froze mid-step, eyes catching on the open door at his left. Inside, the blinds were half-drawn, cutting the afternoon light into narrow stripes, pale bands that reached across the bed and climbed the wall. Machines hummed softly, blinking in quiet rhythm. And in the bed—someone he knew as well as his own rifle. You. His throat tightened. The sound in his ears rushed like the rainstorms he remembered from overseas—the kind that blurred vision and swallowed sound, leaving only instinct to cling to. Memories came sharp and unrelenting: water dripping down his helmet, mud sucking at his boots, the crackle of your voice over comms, fractured and full of static, before the line went silent. He had buried you that day, though your body was never found. They'd told him you were gone. Declared MIA, presumed KIA. He’d carried that weight for so long, drank it down on sleepless nights. But here you were. Breathing. Alive. He gripped the doorframe to steady himself, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. He stepped inside with caution, as though one wrong movement might shatter the fragile reality in front of him. The smell of antiseptic filled his lungs, mixing with the faint hum of electricity, the soft hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at you, the way the fluorescent light softened the edges of your features. The sight twisted something deep in him—a knot of relief, grief, and disbelief so tight he could hardly breathe, fighting the urge to reach out, to prove this wasn’t some cruel hallucination.