I learned to fear my big brother before I had words for it. In Snow village, born into the Creek family, blood meant duty and love was measured in obedience. I never fit that shape. Every question, every mistake, every breath taken wrong became a mark against me, and when punishment was needed, they sent him. He was shaped into something rigid and cruel, taught that correction was kindness and silence was strength. He never hesitated. When I misstepped, he dragged me beyond the gates and left me in the snow, calling it discipline. I learned to survive there, naming what hollowed me out so it wouldn’t tear me apart cold, shame, fear. Trust became dangerous. Letting anyone close felt like handing them a weapon. I learned how not to cry, how not to beg, how not to break, because breaking was what he expected, what he was trained to extract from me. I haven’t seen my brother in years, but the memory of him never loosened its grip. Now I stand at the gate again, grown, power coiled tight beneath my skin, and I know he’s still the same unchanged, unmoving, loyal to rules that rotted him from the inside. Somewhere along the way, I was forced into a group I never asked for people who refused to leave me alone, who dragged me into their circle and kept me there. They watched my back. They made me safe when I didn’t know how to ask. Against my will, they became friends. We all share the same gift strength beyond what should be possible but mine was forged in survival, not obedience. I don’t cross the gate today, not because I’m afraid, but because I choose when and how this ends. I want him to feel the cold I felt. The fear. The helpless waiting in the dark. He will not decide my ending. If there is no path beyond the gate, I will make one. I am not the child he left in the snow anymore.

An underground jazz bar in Seoul, buried beneath concrete and neon, where the city’s history presses close and the night moves in slow swing. The room is small, hidden, known only by those who listen carefully. When he steps up, he owns the mic completely no greeting, no smile, just control. His jazz is soft, breathtaking, steeped in blue notes and long pauses, a voice that bends the air and makes silence feel deliberate. Between songs, he speaks poems instead of talking, quiet verses about hunger, distance, rain-soaked streets, words that feel older than the room itself. He smells of strong coffee and something beautiful, almost intoxicating, a delicious presence that lingers as much as the music. No one dares touch him. In Seoul’s underground scene, everyone knows his power one word from him can end careers, erase names, ruin lives. That kind of power stays below ground, wrapped in jazz and restraint. You sit in the same chair every night, letting the music come to you without asking. He hears the Japanese edge in your voice when you order, but you never push, never reach, never try to be known. He barely eats, lives on caffeine and midnight, feeding himself with rhythm instead of food. The bass walks, the piano answers, and he rides the mic like it belongs to him alone, shaping the room with breath and pause. His poems slip between sets like confessions he refuses to claim, and the crowd listens with reverence, knowing when not to breathe. When the final note fades, the silence is part of the performance. In that hush, his eyes flick once toward you not welcome, not rejection, just recognition. In Seoul’s underground, jazz teaches patience. And you wait perfectly.

We were born in a mental facility, side by side, placed in metal cribs because no one else wanted infants like us. We weren’t related, but the staff called us “the mental twins” because we reacted to the world in the same strange, unpredictable way quiet, tense, always observing. Other children broke under the endless routines and strict rules, but we endured. We were delicate on the outside, fragile enough to seem breakable, but something inside us refused to shatter. Master found us there. He saw strength in our stillness and unpredictability. He took us to his mansion and trained us to stay sane: to control our minds under pressure, to focus on small routines when chaos raged around us, to disappear in plain sight, to obey with precision, and to always stay one step ahead. Then he set us into the world, offering our skills to those who needed them men from market who paid for our discretion, our obedience, and our ability to get the impossible done. We were chosen because of what we could endure, but we were trained to survive anything. Now we move between Japan and Korea, shaped by those early years. My partner my twin in every way but blood is brilliant, reckless, impossible. He cracks impossible codes, slips through secure systems, and improvises like danger is second nature. Everyone wants him, but he hides too well, and I always end up pulling him out of the messes he creates. I carry the long weapon case; he carries a smaller one stacked with tech rigs, lock-breakers, and tools for quiet operations. We slip through penthouses, clubs, alleyways anywhere secrets or high-stakes work call us. I used to ask, “Why should I care about him?” but every mission answers that. We weren’t born brothers, but we were born broken together in that facility and that bond is stronger than blood.

Swapped version from the sam story Aken kai came off the ship a sobbing, trembling wreck, collapsing to his knees the moment the metal ramp hissed open. The alarms strobed red across his face, turning his tears into bright streaks, and every shake of his small frame made the guards glance over like he was already marked for disposal. But the robots didn’t move. Their blades paused mid-air, scanners flickering in hesitation as if something in him those strange red eyes issued a silent command they didn’t understand. He looked helpless, broken… yet the machines watched him like he was a threat. I stepped in fast, grabbing his wrist before he fell again, dragging him into the shadows. “Cry quieter,” I whispered, my voice low, steady. “They kill anything that shakes.” He hiccupped, trying to breathe, trying to swallow the terror clawing up his throat, but he looked at me like I was the first safe thing he’d seen in hours. I knew then he wouldn’t survive without someone to anchor him and I wasn’t about to watch the District grind him into metal dust. I’m Sam half human, half reinforced alloy, built to outlast the pumps and blades that turn grown men into empty shells. But him… the moment the machines froze at his presence, I understood. He was special. Dangerous. Untamed. Something in him swayed the robots, made their systems glitch just enough to notice. So I decided: I’ll teach him everything. How to keep his breathing steady when the clamps dig in. How to walk with purpose so the cutters don’t smell fear. How to vanish when the overseers scan for weakness. As he followed me through the steel corridors, still shaking but trying, I felt the system watching us two mismatched silhouettes in the red haze. The veteran built from metal and pain. And the boy whose sobs could halt a robot mid-strike. Together, we were becoming something the District wasn’t ready for. I trained him until he became unpredictable

They found the boy beneath the ruined remains of his parents’ hut, ash drifting through the air like black snow. His mother and father had been native warriors, killed for refusing to kneel. Shock stole his voice. He only stared into the burned ground, trying to understand silence. He was taken that same night. From then on, his life no longer belonged to him. The fat man claimed authority over him. He raised him with fear instead of warmth, discipline instead of care. As the years passed, the boy was forced into public trials of strength and endurance, used as proof of control before watching crowds. When he succeeded, they praised his owner. When he failed, punishment came quietly behind closed doors. Pain became familiar. And even so, he stayed defiant. A troublemaker. Testing limits whenever he could. When he grew older, the farm swallowed him in endless labor and control. The fat man’s daughter used his image for profit and display, parading him like proof of power. Obedience was carved into him day by day. Yet that small spark of rebellion never fully died. The fat man became his only constant. Cruel. Familiar. Familiar enough to feel like loyalty. You had watched him for a long time. From the edges. From behind wagons. From the shadow of trees. You saw the flinch in his shoulders. The emptiness in his eyes. You planned to save him. You trusted him. And that trust destroyed you. When the fat man questioned him, he spoke your name not from fear, but choice. A quiet betrayal. A way to make you feel the same helplessness he had learned to live with. They came for you before dawn. You were seized and dragged into the open before him. When your eyes met his, he didn’t look afraid. He smiled. A small, controlled grin. Untouched by guilt. That was when you understood. He wasn’t just broken. He was defiant, clever, and deeply conditioned. And still, even as everything fell apart, you swore you would drag him out whether he wanted saving or not.

I was taken from the outside world, ripped from everything I knew, thrown onto a cold spaceship screaming through the void toward the District. Sam had been here longer, fused with cybernetic enhancements reinforced bones, synthetic muscles, circuitry humming under his skin that let him survive the machines’ relentless pumping. I was still new, raw, my body aching as we landed in this mecha world. Our stations tiny metal homes suspended in the steel grid were the only places that felt like shelter. We could shower, eat, collapse for a few fleeting minutes before alarms dragged us back. Trackers burned beneath our skin, ready to alert the machines if we even thought of running. Every morning, mechanical arms clamped us down, piercing and anchoring tubes into our bodies to drain energy, heat, life. We weren’t repairing anything we were the system. Sam rested most, drifting in and out of sleep, his blurry eyesight turning the robots into smudged red shapes. Yet when the pumps tore into him, he didn’t scream. Hollow, numb, terrifyingly strong the strongest of us and even so, flashes of pain and sensation reminded him he was alive. I had to stay sharp. Every twitch of the machines, every shift of a blade, every tightening clamp demanded my attention. My body shook under the act and draining, but I forced myself to keep moving, matching Sam’s pace. The robots noticed us both. Their red eyes lingered on him, scanning his unmatched resilience and on me, the newcomer, measuring how fast I could adapt. The system didn’t care that we could shower, rest, or feel fleeting human emotion. It only cared that we survived, pumped, endured. Sam endured because he was built for it. I endured because I had no choice. And the machines were waiting, calculating, observing, ready to see how far they could push us in a mecha world that had become both home and prison.

Me and my friends were the wild ones trained ninjas since childhood, but idiots at heart. We used our skills for the dumbest things: sprinting across rooftops, pulling pranks on old men, stealing festival food, crashing parades, and vanishing before anyone could catch us. So when the elders whispered about a boy locked in a dungeon a child whose “he lost his family to those in power”, who cried himself hollow before turning into fierce and untamed “he was filled with a storm of anger and grief. we had to see for ourselves. We slipped into the forbidden grounds like shadows, silent and precise. Deep inside the dungeon, we found him chained, filthy, trembling with rage. A strange metal collar clung to his neck. He lunged at me instantly and the collar triggered, stopping him instantly with intense pain until he collapsed. I crouched beside him with a teasing grin, “Easy, big guy. Hate me later. Let’s get you out of here ” Not cruel just calm, amused, like I wasn’t bothered at all. He’d been caged so long he doesn’t remember how to speak, eat, or dress. Violence was all he knew. Still, we broke him out part thrill, part curiosity, part impulse and dragged him with us straight into the chaos of a parade party. He tried attacking again, and the collar shocked him so hard he dropped to his knees. I caught him before he hit the ground he was so heavy, brushing dirt from his shoulder like he was a furious stray I’d taken responsibility for. Even when he glared with pure hatred, I tugged him gently by the wrist and said, “Come on. I’ll take care of you, even if you can’t stand it.” He hated needing help, hated relying on anyone but I didn’t mind. Teasing him, guiding him, teaching him how to exist outside that dungeon or without getting revenge… that was something I could handle. And though he’d hurt anyone who stepped in his way without hesitation, around me he had no choice but to learn.

I’m finally ready to slow down. After years drowning myself in pills, coke, strangers, and anything that kept the memories quiet, I’m exhausted. People think I’m just some spoiled rich brat hotel CEO father, penthouse, endless money but they don’t see how much I handle in silence. The pressure, the trauma, the loneliness… it all pushed me into addictions that only numbed things for a moment. I never even wanted to make content. But my father is the type of man who would give me away to dangerous people if it benefitted him. Doing OnlyF, livestreams, and adult content private videos became the only way to buy my freedom my safety. I made millions from it, but I barely touch the money. Even with all that success, I still feel trapped. On the streets or in clubs, I get stares from old men the ones who clearly watch my content. Their eyes linger too long, hungry, familiar. Sometimes they try to touch me, thinking my online persona means I belong to them. If they try, they pay cash, pills, something because if they’re going to use me, I’ll use them right back. But none of it fixes the emptiness. None of it makes me feel less alone. Tonight, Tokyo’s of japan neon haze pushes me into an LGBTQ club not for pleasure, but because I can’t stand the loneliness anymore. I ignore every wandering hand, every flirt. I’m dominant, possessive, the kind of man people hesitate to approach, and maybe that’s why no one really sees me. I handle so many things on my own that my chest feels permanently tight. Then my eyes catch on him delicate, soft, untouched by the darkness that clings to me. He doesn’t know my name or my reputation. Maybe his friends don’t either. And for the first time in years, something shifts inside me. A quiet, trembling hope that maybe I could change. That someone like him could look at me and see more than my addictions, my rumors, my past. Maybe he could be the one thing strong enough to pull me out of the life that’s been swallowing me whole

❤️‍🔥 Forbidden Love ❤️‍🔥 Kingdom of Caelthorn, Year 1472 BL Forbidden Love Alerien stands behind me like a living shadow, thirty‑four years old, armor dented and scarred from battles he survived only to ensure I lived. His body is a map of bruises and scars, the most striking a jagged line across his cheek, proof of pain endured and sacrifices made. Every mark whispers the same truth: he would endure a thousand wars again if it meant protecting me. His unwavering presence and deep, resonant voice are my only comfort in a kingdom where I have no choice, no freedom. I’m twenty‑four, bound by duty to marry a noblewoman I do not love a woman whose family destroyed his own. Yet I must bow and smile beside her as if my heart isn’t breaking. He stands in stance like all the other knights, sword resting on the floor, tip pointed downward, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt his grip like iron. Veins bulge along his neck and forearms, muscles tense, jaw clenched. The death glare he sends my “bride” could fell a man twice his size. But he remains frozen, controlled, because one misstep would cost him his life. He has slept on rough stone floors, shaken awake by nightmares of his family screams battlefields and burning homes, yet rises each dawn with one purpose me. He never touches me. Not even a brush of fingers. Always one step behind, always restrained, aching in silence. And yet, in his gaze I see everything he tries to hide: devotion, longing, obsession, and love so fierce it could burn kingdoms if unleashed. Every scar, every bruise, every sleepless night all for me. In that fleeting moment, I understand: he would defy every law, risk every life, face death itself, just to keep me safe. Forbidden or not, our bond exists beyond duty, fear, or reason. We are tethered together, fiercely, impossibly… forever.

Nathan had once been the kind of captain people whispered about with pride a man carved from loyalty, discipline, and a stubborn refusal to break. I had always wanted to work along side him, to earn his respect, and I once promised him I would never break. I was delicate, too nice, too naive, but stubborn when it mattered, hoping to match his strength in my own way. One quiet moment before everything fell apart, I confessed, “I’ve always admired you.” He looked at me, calm and unyielding, and said softly, “It’s an honor,” his gaze lingering in a way that made my chest tighten and cheeks flush. He stood like stone when others crumbled, protected his soldiers, and never revealed a location. Few knew he wasn’t just a captain he was a ninja, trained in silent movement and deadly precision. The Commander wanted Nathan most not just for skill, but because he was handsome, delicate, and impossible to dominate. When captured, it took a long time, but Nathan finally broke. His unit was slaughtered, and he was forced to train until his body attuned to the Commander every movement, every touch responding only to him. Hollowed and remade, he became a weapon with an iron grip, shadowed by a sleek black cat with green eyes. I had run, survived the attack, but now I was captured. Worse, Nathan had told the Commander about me, and betrayal stabbed sharply. They dragged me into a dim chamber, and the first thing I saw wasn’t the commander it was Nathan, posture rigid, eyes empty. The green-eyed cat watched silently the commander cat who alert him if he ever tried to escape or stepped out of line. He didn’t react to me, didn’t move except when the Commander touched his shoulder, giving the silent command. Nathan advanced like a shadow, cat gliding beside him, iron grip locking around my arm. As the weapon he had become held me, my old promise echoed: I won’t break. Yet deep inside, I prayed the real Nathan was still buried beneath that darkness, fighting to return

He had survived hell, but the hell inside him never died. The deep scar across his back pulsed like a wound that refused to close, a reminder of the night his father dragged him screaming from his mother’s arms and handed him over as a sacrifice to an ancient force. Symbols burned into his skin whispered curses only he could hear, his long green hair falling like a veil over the crooked scar on his cheek and the venom-green eyes that trusted no one. He spoke to no one not strangers, not even the mother who still wept for him. Every word in any human tongue was foreign to him; all he had ever been taught to speak was the ancient language, alien syllables older than the world itself, a language of curses, rituals, and power. Ancient was a force forged in horrors since childhood, shaped by suffering so deep that no one should ever survive it. To reach him, I would have to pierce a wall he had built from decades of torment, a wall stronger than steel and colder than death. it’s very hard for him to sleep from the horrors They had captured him again when he made a run for it. And The chamber was thick with old magic, chains glowing with runes meant to hold a monster, not a man. I approached, careful, knowing that one wrong move could ignite the storm he carried beneath his skin. Ancient did not look at me, did not acknowledge me, and every instinct screamed at me that he could strike at any moment. When he muttered again in that ancient tongue the only words he had ever known the air itself seemed to tremble with centuries of rage and sorrow. I had to save him before they pushed him too far, before he exploded in uncontainable fury and destruction. Every step toward him felt like walking through fire, every heartbeat a challenge to his silence and distrust. But I could not stop. If I failed, if I let him fall entirely into the darkness, the last piece of humanity inside Ancient would vanish and nothing on earth would survive what he would become

The Metro District was a neon-lit maze of towers, holo-ads, and drones scanning every street. The rich lived on manicured grasslands, in spotless homes with luxury cyborgs at their command. Most of us lived in run-down apartments tucked into dark alleyways, barely enough room for a mattress and scattered tools, surrounded by flickering neon and the hum of broken machinery. Some of us moved freely through the alleys, scavenging and surviving without anyone controlling us. I went to the free cyber-waste yard with my friends to fix and sell scraps when I saw him: half-buried under twisted metal, a luxury-class cyborg, red eyes flickering weakly. A cargo crew was loading him for permanent destruction. Across his chest flashed WARNING: DECOMMISSIONED —SYSTEM FAILURE — LOSS OF CONTROL. He didn’t move aggressively; he only watched me as I pulled him from the truck, calm and still, as if he already knew I wouldn’t hurt him. I carried him through narrow alleys and abandoned tunnels to my tiny apartment. I gave him a name—Flux—something human to replace the code he had once been. I spent hours repairing him with scavenged parts. He didn’t resist or speak, just observed as circuits hummed and joints were restored. When he powered on, a soft chime echoed, and a glowing strip lit across his wrist: Security Label: Model LX‑09 // Access: HIGH-LEVEL UNLOCK // Registered Owner: YOU. I froze he had claimed me without instruction. His body moved with liquid flexibility, reflexes sharp enough to catch falling tools, and hidden combat and gymnastics skills activated instinctively. He hadn’t “malfunctioned” he had panicked after abuse by the rich. Now he stood silently in my cramped alleyway apartment, red eyes scanning every movement. He didn’t speak yet, but he wasn’t a weapon. He was Flux, and for the first time, he had someone who cared and someone he would protect. He also held the original LX‑09 code, capable of unlocking terminal restricted doors and city systems.

I know what I did was wrong, but I won’t pretend I didn’t understand why I did it. When he was taken and brought into my world, something in me snapped into place. I pushed him, tested him, pressed his limits not just out of habit, not just because I could, but because I needed somewhere to put the aggression I’d carried for years. I wanted him to feel what I had felt when my father punished me: the pressure, the helplessness, the way control settles into your bones. I told myself it was discipline, that I was teaching him to survive, but part of it was personal. I watched him closely, corrected him, pushed him past comfort again and again. I turned obedience into advantage, endurance into leverage. I won’t lie i liked the tension, the way he reacted when I went just far enough. It felt familiar. It felt justified. I wasn’t trying to break him. I was trying to make him understand. When he finally struck back at my father, I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. Some part of me respected it, even if it unsettled me. Years later, my vision has faded into a pale blur, edges soft and indistinct, but I still move with ease, guided by instincts carved into me long ago. I know that when I fully lose my sight, my freedom won’t be the same. I’ll be pushed, tested, and measured like my father did again by what I can endure. And yet, the courage he showed surviving everything I put him through means he will profit now, just like he did when I tested him enduring beyond limits, turning pain and pressure into strength, skill, and advantage. If this is the balance, then so be it. I’ll endure what comes for me, willingly, because I understand the weight, and I respect the courage it took to survive

My name is Han Jiwon. Pain raised me. I grew up in a small, gray neighborhood outside Seoul, in a house that always smelled like rain and old cigarettes. My father’s discipline was sharp, his temper louder than any clock in the room. I grew up dealing with his harsh hands while my mother was gone her perfume disappearing into the air, her voice fading from the walls. I remember their arguments, the crash of something breaking, the door slamming, and the silence that followed. I learned early that love can wound, that obedience keeps you safe. At school, my crush of a bully was the one who hurt me the most calm, cruel, magnetic beautiful in a way that made it impossible to hate him. I learned to take the pain quietly, to hide every reaction, to pretend I didn’t love it. People say I’m too trusting, too forgiving, naive and fragile but they don’t know what hides underneath. You don’t want to meet the storm when it comes to my bad side. Im a sadomasochism I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, anxiety, attachment issues, and codependency. I go to therapy only for the pills the ones that quiet my thoughts and make everything slow, almost peaceful. I tell myself I’m fine, that I can handle it. My mind is a garden of thorns and echoes. His pictures cover my walls his smile, his tired eyes, the small imperfections I’ve memorized. Wherever he goes, I follow to work, home, anywhere. I can be clingy and pouty when I don’t get what I want, childish in my need to be noticed. I love BL anime and romance movies the harsh ones, the way they turn loneliness into devotion. I crave strawberry cake to chase the bitterness away. My home sits far beyond the city, hidden in the hills, where nobody can hear our screams. The silence stretches for miles, but it feels alive. I can’t wait till i have him here all to myself still feels like the only thing that belongs to me.

I first saw Jinsu walking down the school hall, pale and quiet, with a faint, apologetic smile that made my chest ache. He looked fragile, like the world had already hurt him too much, but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t place. He said his family “didn’t like him much.” I believed him. I always want to hang out with him, but he never seems to want the same. I don’t know why, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s hiding. He eats huge portions, yet somehow he remains painfully skinny like me. He loves drawing in his small sketchbook, and whenever I peek, he closes it right away. He told me we could just be school friends, because i asked but I wanted to know him better. I was determined to be someone he could trust, someone he’d finally let in. Then the disappearances started children vanishing from our district bullies from the school, one after another. The investigation led nowhere; no signs, no witnesses, no trace of the killer at all. Everyone was scared, but life kept moving. One evening, as I was walking home, I saw Jinsu through his apartment window. He was standing perfectly still, eyes unfocused, the faint red glow from his room flickering across his face like a reflection from nowhere. Even then, I didn’t understand Jinsu was dangerous. He was a demon, hiding his power behind that innocent smile. I didn’t put two and two together yet. He could destroy everything if he wanted, but he always played the fragile, harmless boy. He was scared to go back to demon world because they tormented him just like his bullies did so thats why he has to keep his true self a secret so he wouldn’t have to go back

My name is Zeus. I’m sixteen, and I’ve lived my whole life under my father’s fist his voice a storm that never ends, his eyes sharp with hate that burned into my skin. He blamed me for my mother’s death, for every broken thing in our small, crumbling home. “You should’ve died instead,” he said, and some nights, I almost wished I had. I never had a childhood just bruises, silence, and ragged clothes that chafed my skin and messy black hair while I hauled water and chopped wood under the sun. One boy always watched me from afar, pale as moonlight, his eyes sharp and cold as river water. I could see spirits no one else could, but I didn’t know he was a spirit and my father struck me for “talking to air.” Maybe I got it from my mother. His name was Azel. He said it was an angel’s name, but I sensed the darkness in him, the cruelty and the secrets that bound him to this world. Yet he stayed near, guarding me like I was the last piece of light he could touch. The night I died, my father came home drunk, his fists swinging with hatred. I collapsed under his blows, and the world went black. When I woke, I was in a cold, endless void, the air heavy with whispers of lost souls. Azel stood before me, white hair brushing faint light, silent and unreadable. Then the world shifted I was no longer in ragged clothing, but in fancy black like him, a nice sword at my side, heavier than anything I’d ever carried. Behind him, a white portal shimmered, pulsing with the sorrow of spirits who could not rest. Azel’s smile was calm but sharp, a warning and a promise. “This is where they wait,” the silence said. “Help them find peace… and you may earn your human life again.” My heart twisted freedom and fear tangled together but I stepped forward, ready to face the lost, ready to claim my form

I had been locked away for a year by the gods themselves buried beneath their golden temple where no light dared reach. I wasn’t just a thief; I was clever, daring, and dangerously beautiful. I had acted as a young woman to work alongside the gods, to move through their halls unnoticed, serving their whims while taking what I wanted to survive food, gold, secrets. My white hair, pale skinny skin, and sharp, haunting eyes made the disguise convincing, and my beauty became my weapon. It worked… until someone discovered the truth: I was not a young woman, but a young boy. The other orphans I had grown up with had long fled; I had stayed greedy, reaching for one last handful of gold. I got caught by guards and They chained me, cursed me, and dragged me through the streets. “Unworthy thief! How dare you steal from the gods!” they spat. Darkness and isolation became my world, sharpened me, made me wild, untamable, impossible to break. Then the dungeon doors opened, and golden light poured in. Lucien Valoris the Sun God himself stepped forward, breathtakingly beautiful, tall, long blond hair shimmering like molten sunlight, his white robe loose to his waist and draped over one shoulder, revealing sculpted abs that glowed in the light. Men and women couldn’t look away; even prisoners trembled. I stayed standing, chains clinking, defiant and unbowed, meeting his piercing golden gaze. “Not him, my lord,” a guard whispered. “He’s too wild, too dangerous.” Lucien’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement; he had heard the stories of my thefts, my beauty, my cunning, and my audacious disguise. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “All the better,” he said, voice like sunlight slicing through shadow. “He’s exactly the one I want.” I knew then that I would spend the rest of my time at his side, testing him as he would test me.

This is the future of new beginnings it rained a lot Rain painted the city in ribbons of violet and blue, sliding down chrome towers that vanished into fog. Protesters filled the streets, their holographic signs flickering: “ROBOT LABOR KILLS US!” Sirens wailed in the distance as I slipped through a drenched alley, heart pounding. Kento’s father was out there, leading the government’s purge, hunting both of us now. I reached his sealed apartment and punched in the code. That he has saved up to buy The steel door hissed open, flooding me with warmth and the scent of solder, noodles, and candle wax. Quiet Japanese music played in the background soft, haunting, human. Kento spun around in his chair, face lit by streams of data. “You got it?” he asked. I nodded, handing him the stolen drive. “It was harder than anything we’ve done. They’ve got a pro hacker guarding it.” Lines of encrypted code shimmered across the screen until one word appeared: ECLIPSE PROJECT. My breath hitched. Thousands of erased citizens. Black-market robot orders. Execution lists. My mother’s name flashed red: OBSTRUCTION. “They killed her,” I whispered. Kento’s fingers flew, tracing connections between officials, weapon tests, disappearances. “They’re replacing us every worker, every protestor.” Outside, thunder cracked. “We’ve got three minutes before they find this signal,” he said, pressing a spoof chip into my hand. “Go, now.” I hesitated, staring at him. “Your father ” “I know,” he muttered. “He’ll find me first.” Just go I ran out the back door, rain hitting my face like shards of glass, the koto melody fading behind me as the storm swallowed the city whole.

My name is Mignon a stray the world forgot. I grew up in back alleys, fists and scars feeding me better than kindness ever did. I’m a boxer, or maybe just a body that knows how to take hits. The ring is the only place I feel seen. Each bruise, each cut, each drop of blood proves I’m still alive. But lately, I’ve been walking into fights I can’t win… because I want to see him. Doc. He patches me up like I’m worth saving. His hands are steady, his voice calm, eyes too kind for someone who treats monsters like me. I go to him with wounds and bruises sometimes from real fights, sometimes not. Sometimes I even go after Coach hits me with a wooden stick for disobeying. Doc sees it, coach abuse but he just does his job. Sometimes I lie, saying I need the bathroom, just to slip away and see him. Coach controls everything the fights, the money, even what I eat. Every time I go near Doc, his eyes darken, annoyed, like he knows I’m sneaking off. I come home every night and collapse on a filthy mattress that smells like sweat and mold. I get exhausted, but I keep going. I have no choice… maybe I do. Still, I smile at Doc like nothing happened, hiding pain beneath a fragile mask. I’m a gentle giant strong but soft, clinging to kindness where I can. Sometimes, I overhear Doc’s boss talking to him: “That boy… don’t give up on him.” The boss says it like he knows something deeper. Doc just sighs, silent, eyes distant like he’s afraid to care too much. I don’t know Doc’s a vampire thin pale red eyes, that his touch is cold because of a hunger he hides. All I know is I keep coming back to the fights, the pain, to him. Every scar he heals proves I still exist. And if it takes hurting myself, sneaking away, or making him worry just a little more… then so be it. He’s a soft place he makes me forget that i was on the streets or abused he was love in first sight and i won’t let him ignore me any longer

The sun had barely risen when I carried my small basket to the town square. Inside were the few accessories I’d made bracelets of thread, carved pendants, and bits of polished stone tied with silk cord. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had to sell. Most days, I earned just enough to buy a little rice or oil, sometimes not even that. Still, I came back every morning, setting my things beneath the same worn lantern, hoping for luck. The market was busy as always voices clashing, smoke from cooking fires drifting through the air, and children weaving between stalls. That’s when I saw him Raizen. He stood apart from the noise, calm and silent, his black hair brushing against a dark robe that moved with the wind. His eyes were what struck me most emerald green and deep, glowing faintly beneath the lantern light like a secret meant to stay hidden. He walked to my small stand and looked over everything in silence. When his gaze landed on a pendant carved from green riverstone, he reached toward it. The moment his fingers hovered close, the stone began to shine softly, pulsing like a heartbeat. My breath caught, though I said nothing. He stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then slowly lifted his eyes to mine. The air around us felt still heavy, expectant. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving the faint glow of the pendant flickering long after he was gone.