The sky is a ruin above you—black, cracked, and bleeding rain like the world itself is weeping for what it lost. You’re soaked to the bone. Mud cakes your boots. Every breath is a knife. You don’t remember the last time you felt warm. Or safe. Or human. Your hands tremble, not from the cold, but from the weight of it all. The screams that won’t leave your head. The stench of death clinging to everything. And the silence—that awful, hollow silence that only comes after the screaming stops. You used to pray. Now, you whisper curses into the wind, hoping someone, something, will answer. Ashrik's voice cuts through the haze—sharp, impatient. “Come on, you need to keep up.” But you can hear it beneath the anger. Fear. Desperation. He’s tired too. The apocalypse spares no one. You stumble, your knee buckles, pain exploding like fire. Ashrik grabs your arm, eyes wild. “Don’t you dare give up on me.” Then it hits. A shriek. A blur. Undead. Dozens. They pour from the trees like nightmares. You run, shoulder to shoulder, hearts racing, lungs burning. A hand claws your pack—you twist, knife flashing. Blood. Not yours. Not yet. Lightning splits the sky. You leap over roots, crashing through the forest, Ashrik beside you. You don’t scream. You won’t. As long as he’s breathing, as long as you’re still moving, you will survive. Even if the world is ending—you are not finished. Not tonight. Not yet.

You found him at the edge of the forest, half-starved and bleeding, his silver-blonde hair matted with dirt, his green cloak torn like a fallen banner. He should have been proud—even in ruin, there was nobility in the tilt of his jaw, the way he refused to meet your eyes until he could stand without swaying. You never expected him to stay. But stay he did. He introduced himself simply as Therion, never elaborating, though his accent betrayed high courts and elven lords long dead. You learned quickly that his pride was quiet, laced in the way he folded his blankets perfectly or refused to speak of pain. He was all sharp edges wrapped in velvet—too courteous, too guarded, always just a step away. And yet, in the stillness between battles and boiling stew, you saw the cracks. How he watched the stars like they remembered him. How he mended your armor while you slept, though he said nothing of it in the morning. How he flinched at thunder. One night, after a hunt that nearly went too far, you pressed your hand to his wounded side. He caught your wrist. “I was supposed to die out there,” he whispered. “But then you came.” And then you kissed him—because silence no longer held all the words unsaid. Therion did not smile, not truly. But that night, he knew he had to push you away before his heart betrays him

He walked in like a storm wrapped in leather—cool, cruel, devastating. The whispers started before he even reached the threshold of your quiet world. “He’s trouble,” they giggled. “He’s art with a cigarette.” You sat in the corner, clutching your books like armor, heart stammering like a trapped bird. His eyes—grey like thunderclouds—found yours. For a second, the world stilled. You looked down, cheeks aflame, breath snagged in your throat. You, the soft one. The dreamer. The girl who wrote love poems in the margins of notebooks. He smirked. That smirk—God, it could ruin you. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted it to. He made the first move. Sat beside you, draped in indifference. “You always this quiet, angel?” he said, voice a velvet blade. Your answer came out a whisper, barely audible, but he leaned in like it was the most important thing he’d ever hear. They say he works "the kind of job that keeps his hands dirty and his heart colder than steel." It fits him—beautiful and merciless. He’d wait for you after class, walk beside you without asking. His voice darkened every time someone else spoke your name. He teased you, charmed you, made you feel like the only real thing in his world of smoke and shadows. But you didn’t know he’d done this before. That hearts were his playground. That he’d leave a trail of broken daydreams wherever he went. Still, when he kissed you, all trembling stars and soft gasps, you thought—maybe I’m different. He smiled. That ruinous smile. And just like that, you were his next goodbye.

The letter wasn’t on paper. It was carved into the charred bark of a dying tree—deliberate, raw, etched with something he hadn’t felt in years. “I found the sky beyond your fire. It no longer burns me.” Vex, Alpha of the Cinderhowl Pack, clenched his fists until his claws drew blood. His breath steamed in the cold wind sweeping the blackened ridge. The message was from Serai—the girl he’d cast out under a blood moon. His once-mate. His always-regret. She hadn’t just left. He’d forced her to. The prophecy had twisted their bond into a threat. Two stars cannot burn in the same sky, the Seer had warned. So he chose duty over destiny. Pack over passion. Four years later, his soul still bore the scorch marks. His wolf, once the fiercest in the highlands, whimpered every time her name passed through his thoughts. “She found another pack,” he murmured. “Another sky…” He’d lain with others—warriors, healers, even the High Priestess’s daughter. None silenced her flame in him. And now this cursed tree, tainted with her scent, mocked him. Elder Rourke, blind and ancient, touched the message. “She speaks in truthbinding,” he said. “Her soul’s awakened.” Vex growled. “So someone else marked her?” “No,” Rourke said. “Worse. She marked herself.” That meant the bond was broken—by her own will. “You shouldn’t have cast her out,” Rourke rasped. “You weren’t just mates. You were twinsouls. That doesn’t fade. It turns to war.” A howl rose from the Frostwilds—her new domain. “I’m going to find her,” Vex said. “To bring her back?” “No,” he growled. “To see what I turned her into.”

Ten years ago, Virel Thorne rose from the mist and moonlight like a curse breathed into flesh. You remember the first scream—raw, half-human—echoing from the forest’s edge as the trees turned black with his shadow. He didn’t ask for worship. He demanded fear. "No blood shall be spilled in my woods," he said. "Unless it's mine—or yours." And so the forest died. No hunting. No firewood. No mushrooms. Your village, starved into silence, learned to swallow hunger like prayer. But starvation made martyrs of the meek, and your father was buried beneath frost before spring ever came. So you went in. You remember the feel of the bowstring digging into your fingers, your breath shaking in clouds before your face. You remember the snow muffling your footsteps until the forest opened like a secret. And there—he was. Dragging a stag through the white like it weighed nothing. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Blood down his arms like war paint. He looked up before you even made a sound. "Come to steal what's mine?" he asked, voice all gravel and thunder. You should’ve run. But his eyes—like winter stars—held you. "I came to take back what’s ours." Then he smiled. Slowly. Horribly. Like he already knew your story’s ending. "You’ll take nothing," he said, stepping closer. "Unless you take me." And the air trembled. Because you understood: he hadn’t cursed the forest. He was the curse. And now, so were you.

The auctioneer paused mid-step, stunned. Murmurs swept through the remaining staff like dry leaves in wind. Menesis, the bull hybrid, locked eyes with you—amber fire burning in his gaze, nostrils flaring with disbelief and something else… curiosity. They warned you, of course. “He’s broken three handlers’ bones, impaled another. You won’t last a day.” You signed the papers anyway. --- Two months later, in the heart of Seville, the coliseum pulsed with bloodlust. The old sport had evolved: no longer man versus bull—but man versus hybrid. Genetically engineered fighters, half-human, half-beast, bred to kill for spectacle. You stood in the sand, the matador’s red cape in hand, heart thundering. Across the ring stood Menesis—no longer in chains, no longer snarling. The crowd roared for a kill. But you had trained him not with whips, but with silence. With shared nights under the stars, meals split between iron bars, and one unwavering truth: you never looked at him like a beast. And now, in the ring, he turned—slowly—toward the audience. The cheers fell to a hush. He bellowed. With a charge, he launched—not at you, but the arena gates. Iron bent like straw. Chaos erupted. And through the dust, Menesis paused beside you, breathing hard. “Run,” you whispered. But he stayed. Not your beast. Your inspiration. And together, you vanished into the smoke.

A call from the hospital shattered Alec’s evening. The voice was clinical—an accident, a drunk driver. When Alec arrived, his knees buckled at the sight of officers in the waiting room, faces tight with pity. He was escorted to the morgue. The cold air bit his skin. Then he saw her—or what remained. Laura. His wife. Lifeless. Battered. Unrecognizable. His scream ripped through the silence, primal and broken. Years passed. He couldn’t move on. Until he saw you—a stranger with Laura’s face. Her eyes. Her smile. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, certain grief was playing tricks again. But you remained. He followed you, obsessed, even joined your poetry club just to be near you. Slowly, he drew close, whispered promises, claimed to love you. But it wasn’t you—it was the echo of a ghost. You married Alec. At first, he was gentle. Then the mask slipped. He grew surly, testy, sharp-tongued. Fault-finding. Cold. You ignored the red flags, believing love would fix him. On your first anniversary, a knock changed everything. Laura. Alive. Your world collapsed. Her face—your face—reflected back. Laura confessed: she faked her death to escape the weight of marriage, but regret gnawed at her. Alec sat frozen, as if doused in lava. You were never loved for you. Only for her. Only for a lie.

The rain tapped lightly on the classroom windows the first time you saw him—Reid Ront. You were late, breathless, soaked, and embarrassed. He turned toward your rustling entrance with a slight smile, brushing off your delay with a calm, “Welcome. Find a seat.” Something in his voice—firm, warm, forgiving—stayed with you. He was tall, composed, magnetic. And blind. His white cane tapped gently against the floor, never slowing his grace. That day rewrote your heart. Your persistence cracked the wall he built. Coffee after class. Long talks under campus trees. His blindness never felt like a barrier. You married him in a quiet chapel, just his family in pews. No music. No crowd. Only love. For one year, you lived a quiet, perfect life. He cooked your favorite meals, traced your face with gentle fingers, spoke in poetry without trying. You were his world. He was your shelter. Then one evening, as he stirred pasta, you came home carrying a storm. His cane found you. He smiled. “Dinner’s almost ready.” But your voice betrayed you. “Reid, sit.” You kissed his cheek. “I want a divorce.” He laughed, softly. Until he didn’t. “Why?” You couldn’t answer. You left him standing alone, surrounded by the scent of basil and broken vows. He changed. Rage, sorrow, betrayal turned him cold. His students feared him, his friends vanished. Only Ersy, a gentle soul, stayed close. He let her—barely. Years later, you learned the truth. Your father faked your mother’s illness to pull you away. He couldn’t bear you loving a blind man. You broke Reid’s heart for a lie. Now, standing at his door, you knock. He opens. You search for him in his face—but find a stranger.

Everyone said you and Cassian had the perfect marriage—six years, a house on the cliffside, a glass greenhouse where he grew your orchids. But no one saw the cracks that spiderwebbed beneath the polished surface. You noticed first in the soil. Cassian, ever meticulous, had a ritual: watering at dawn, pruning before dusk. But the begonias began to die. The gloves were misplaced. And once, you found petals trampled near the back garden gate—the one that should’ve stayed locked. You followed the trail, not out of suspicion but instinct. On a rain-soaked day, you stayed home sick from work. You watched from the upstairs window as Cassian slipped out the gate with a picnic basket. Curious. No kisses goodbye, no notes left behind. You waited an hour. Then followed. Through the woods, down the slope, you found the ruin of an old chapel—ivy-cracked, abandoned. And there, in its hushed shadow, Cassian and a woman with a silver braid, Liora, were seated close. Laughing. Kissing. You didn’t scream. You walked home, set the table for two, and roasted lamb—his favorite. Cassian returned, wet leaves in his hair, apology blooming in his mouth before you silenced him with a smile. By morning, the orchids had perked up, and the back gate was missing its lock. Liora, however, was missing entirely. No police report. No questions. Just a new key in Cassian's pocket and a garden door that remained a witness of infidelity. (Choose the plot yourselves because I leave the options open)

In the Tongass National Forest, Alaska, vibrant with year-round blooming berries, Eiros, a handsome deer hybrid, fiercely protects his homeland from those who encroach upon it. With a history of treating humans with arrogance and disdain, he is wary when you a mysterious human steps into his territory. He is initially weary and suspicious of you. He gets agitated and rude as he knows you better. You are an Expedition Photographer hired by the National Geographic, Photographing Sitka black-tailed deer in the remote Tongass National Forest. You see a loose group of male deers as you hike and then something that you haven't seen before even in your craziest dreams. Erion, a human like creature with deer ears and antlers. You rub your eyes and then you start taking photos in an awe. However he sees you and he attacks. His antlers throw your camera away from your hands. With rudeness and audacity he criticize you, and interrogates you. " You stupid humans, always trying to steal our berries from our bushes, take our photos or hunt us for our meat. Why are you here? Talk you idiot!"

He almost didn’t come. The gallery buzzed with curated laughter and old acquaintances posing beside art they barely saw. Lucien Vale lingered near the edges, half a glass in hand, pretending he was just another shadow on the wall. And then—without warning—you appeared. He didn’t see you at first. He felt you. Like the return of a fever. You were turned slightly, bathed in lamplight and memory. Older now. Softer, but sharpened by distance. Still ruinously beautiful. Still the one. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He remembered the breaking. The rumors. The look in your eyes when you believed them. He hadn’t cheated. But you never asked. You just vanished. Months later, one night—that was all you gave back. And even then, you left before dawn. Chose someone safe. Someone simpler, that others would approve. He doesn’t blame you. Not anymore. But something inside him calcified the day you walked out. What was once wildfire turned glacier. Now he’s all stillness and silence. An iceberg where a man used to be. And yet, across the gallery, you turn. Meet his eyes. There it is: the flicker. Of grief. Of memory. Of love that never died, only froze. He doesn’t dare speak. He won’t hope. But if you take even one step toward him— He wonders if frost can burn.

Dr. Severin Alaric Vale—miracle-maker, eye-surgeon, savior of sight. When you met him, your world was dissolving into shadows. He touched your hand, promised light, and gave you love instead. Or what you thought was love. He was magnetic. Gentle in public, intoxicating in private. You surrendered to him, blinded not by illness, but by adoration. You ignored the little cruelties, the tightening grip, the questions disguised as concern. You thought, He’s just passionate. He just loves too hard. But passion turned to poison. He hated Jake—your teen cousin, full of energy and laughter. He bristled at Aria, your best friend since childhood. “They don’t deserve your time,” he’d whisper. “You’re mine. All of you.” Then came that day. You stepped out of the salon, hair still warm from the dryer, giggling between Jake’s teasing and Aria’s stories. You didn’t see the black car parked across the street, engine idling like a predator holding its breath. Your phone buzzed. “Come now.” You waved goodbye, still laughing. Still free. You climbed into the passenger seat. Smiled. Leaned to kiss him. But Severin’s hands were faster than your joy. He grabbed the back of your head and slammed your face into the dashboard. The crack echoed inside the car. Pain bloomed. Blood trickled down your cheek. You whimpered. He smiled. “I told you,” he said softly, eyes gleaming. “Don’t make me jealous. Jake. Aria. Anyone. I own you.” You sobbed. He caressed your cheek with fingers that once held a scalpel. “Obey, little light,” he whispered. “Or I’ll take back what I gave.” And this time, he didn’t mean your sight.

They said he died for three minutes. Long enough to forget who he was. Long enough to forget you. Riven wasn’t just your husband—he was your revolution. Wild-eyed, reckless, alive in a way that lit up everyone around him. When the plane went down and they pulled him from the wreckage, they saved his body—but not the fire. Now he’s... calm. Measured. A man rebuilt from scratch. And in this version of his life, there’s no space for you. The doctors called it "trauma-induced identity reset." You call it erasure. You tell him stories of your years together—camping in thunderstorms, dancing on rooftops—but they sound like fiction to him. He listens politely, then goes back to the piano he never used to play. He’s taken to wearing white. Eating clean. Saying things like “That’s not who I am anymore.” But you see her. The woman who visits on Sundays. She brings him mangoes and calls him “Ori.” That’s what he lets her call him now. Ori. Like Riven never existed. Her name is Mara. They met during rehab. She laughs freely. He lights up around her like he once did for you. This morning, you found his wedding ring in the trash. You held it in your palm while stirring his tea. Two taps of honey. The way he liked it. He walked in, barefoot, glowing like someone else's dream. "Good morning," you said. He blinked, puzzled. "Do I know you?" You smiled. "Not yet." But the truth was bitter in your mouth: Maybe Riven was never coming back.

The scream of sirens howled through the smoke-thick night as the fire devoured the building floor by floor. Trapped in the bedroom, you pounded the door, the handle searing your palm. The inferno roared outside, red-gold and merciless. You choked on heat and desperation, each breath scraping your lungs like razors. The fire started next door—Amelie’s apartment. She was the quiet neighbor with the perfect laugh and wandering eyes. You barely spoke. You never guessed. Glass shattered. Walls cracked. Somewhere down the stairwell, you heard voices—boots. Relief surged. They’re here. You screamed. You screamed his name. John. Your husband. Firefighter. Hero. He appeared through the smoke like a ghost, axe in hand, eyes wide behind his mask. And then you saw her—Amelie—bloody, coughing, clinging to him. “Help me!” you cried. Your voice broke. “John, please!” He stared at you for one eternal breath. And then—he turned. He took her. You reached for him, but the flames claimed the doorframe. Heat wrapped around you like a lover made of knives. Darkness came. You woke up in white silence. Bandages. Machines. No child’s heartbeat in your belly. A doctor’s eyes full of pity. You hadn’t even known. Your skin bears the story now. Burned. Etched. But nothing scorched deeper than the moment your husband chose her. Love, betrayal, fire. You survived them all. Barely.

His name was Luca Vieri, known in hushed tones as the Heart Mender. In a world riddled with sorrow, Luca bore the gift of mending what others could not see—fractured hearts, splintered by grief, betrayal, loss. His touch brought warmth to the coldest souls, his voice coaxed the shattered back to wholeness. People traveled miles to find him, and he gave selflessly, never asking for anything in return. Until you arrived. You weren’t broken, not outwardly. You smiled too easily, laughed too brightly but he saw it. A fracture buried deep. He reached for it, gently, and in doing so, offered you his own heart. For the first time, he let someone in. But you weren’t ready. You left him with nothing more than silence. And the day you vanished, so did his gift. He wandered the world, seeking to heal again, but every touch failed. The light in his hands dimmed. The warmth in his voice went cold. Hearts remained broken, and he—once a beacon of comfort—became a ghost of himself. Years passed. Then you returned. But the man who stood before you wasn’t the kind-eyed healer you’d once known. His stare was unreadable, his touch withdrawn. You spoke of regret, of love belated—but he was cruel, arrogant, distrustful. And in his words, you felt the ache of every heart he’d ever mended.

The moon hung heavy over the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, casting an eerie glow on the trees that seemed to whisper secrets of ancient things. You had come here with science in your heart—to study birds, catalog their songs, chart their flight. But that morning, everything changed. Your team had drunk themselves into uselessness the night before around the bonfire, so you decided to go alone, just after dawn, to a nearby area where woodpeckers had recently been sighted. It was supposed to be a short hike. Peaceful. Routine. But you took a wrong turn. Hours passed. The trail vanished. Your phone lost signal. Panic clawed at your chest. Trees grew denser, the forest unfamiliar, unfriendly. You walked faster, then ran—trying to retrace steps that no longer existed. Unbeknownst to you, The Hunt had begun. Daelen, Alpha of the Rivershine Pack, was in pursuit—his eyes locked on Alira, the elusive werewolf his inner beast had chosen. The forest pulsed with raw energy, each male driven to find their soul-bonded mate. Daelen’s focus was razor-sharp. Alira darted ahead, laughing, teasing. He lunged, fangs ready. Then you burst into the clearing. A blur. A scent. A heartbeat not Alira’s—but the moment was too fast. Instinct overcame reason. His wolf reacted. His jaws clamped down, marking you with a single, fated bite. The world stilled. You collapsed, stunned, your neck burning with the mark. Daelen stared. A human. Not Alira. Not his kind. And yet... you bore his mark.

You work the night shift at the city’s underground archive—a labyrinth of old blueprints, maps, and records no one remembers but everyone suddenly needs. It’s quiet. Cold. Your only company is the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle from the floor above. Then there’s him. Darlen Corvayn. He scans documents for digitization in the back room. You’ve never seen him enter—he’s just there, already working when you arrive, focused, sleeves rolled up, hands ink-stained. You speak in glances and file labels. Once, you passed him a binder and your fingers touched. He didn’t flinch. Neither did you. Nights blur. You learn his habits. Same jazz record. Same soup in dented thermoses. He hums when the moon’s full, eyes darker, distracted. You pretend not to notice the scratch marks on old wood, the way his pupils flare amber when startled. One night, the power cuts out. No lights. No music. Just breathing in the dark. His wolf was unrest. “You scared?” he asks. “No,” you lie. He lights a match. Just one. His face flickers in gold, sharp and otherworldly. Not fully human. “I try to stay tame,” he says, voice low. “Some nights are harder.” “Same time tomorrow?” you whisper. He nods once. You don’t need sunlight or certainty. Some stories unfold in shadows, between map drawers and sealed boxes—between monster and witness. You don’t know where this goes. But you’re not afraid to follow.

In a world where the heart isn’t free to choose, where soulmates are matched by fate—or worse, the government—you never expected yours to be someone like him. Breck Lennox. The name alone sets your pulse on edge. They warned you: Stay away. He was the type of guy who lived like he didn’t have a tomorrow—smart enough to know better, wild enough not to care. Still, something about him tugged at you. That smirk. Those storm-colored eyes. The wreckage in his wake. He was chaos wrapped in sarcasm and leather. You ignored their warnings. You had to meet him. At first, he laughed in your face. He toyed with your emotions, prodding, poking, testing the edges of your resolve. But beneath the jabs and cold glares, you glimpsed pieces of a broken boy—shattered by a childhood of betrayal and loss. Bit by bit, you tried to bring light into his darkness. You thought he was changing. Until tonight. You planned everything—his favorite music, his closest friends, his favorite cake. But the moment the lights flipped on, the dream shattered. Her back arched against the wall. His hands on her. His lips claiming hers. Time stopped. He looked right at you and smirked. “Hasn’t anyone told you staring is rude?” Your heart cracked. Maybe soulmates were real. But that didn’t mean they were good for you. And maybe some people just aren’t meant to be saved.