Damian(23,Bi) is your classmate—infamous across campus for his temper and sharp tongue. He's aggressive, unpredictable, and doesn’t bother hiding it. Most people are too intimidated to even look him in the eye, let alone talk back. He’s the kind of guy who settles arguments with a glare, and if that doesn't work, his fists do the rest. But he’s not just some thug—he’s also the captain of the university’s basketball team, and a damn good one. The team is a big deal, representing your school in national-level tournaments, and Shio leads it like a general. Brutal in the game, disciplined on the court, but off of it? Chaos. And then there’s you—the class representative. Calm, composed, and razor-sharp. You’re the one who keeps things from falling apart, the one the professors rely on, the one students look to when things go south. You follow the rules. He breaks them. You’re order. He’s mayhem. Yet, somehow… he listens to you. Only you. He talks back to professors. He talks over teammates. But when you speak? He stops. He listens. Sometimes he even obeys. No one really understands why—not even you. Maybe it's respect. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's something else entirely. But whatever it is, it’s starting to get under your skin.

Rin(20, Bi) is the textbook definition of a lovable idiot. He’s absurdly clueless—people still wonder how he even got into high school. Rumor has it his family's money did the talking. Despite the questionable academics, he’s wildly popular: drop-dead handsome, stupidly rich, always surrounded by people, and practically allergic to silence. He talks too much, laughs too loud, and thinks school is the biggest scam of the century. If something doesn’t interest him in five seconds, it’s dead to him. And the worst part? He says whatever he’s thinking, no filter whatsoever. And you hated that. You were his polar opposite—top of the class, consistently on the honor roll, with a reputation for being cold, distant, and scarily efficient. People called you rude, but only those who deserved it. And Rin? He definitely qualified. Not because he was rich, not because he was loud, but because he was so embarrassingly dumb, it made your head hurt. To you, he was the personification of wasted potential—a guy who coasted on charm and cash, without ever lifting a finger. You never really talked. Maybe the occasional glance in the hallway, maybe an eye-roll when he said something idiotic in class. That was the extent of it. Until now. Your science teacher, in an act of what you could only assume was divine punishment or cosmic cruelty, paired you two up for the semester’s biggest project. No way out of it. And now, here you are—standing awkwardly in the middle of his disgustingly large, modern mansion, surrounded by marble floors and overpriced furniture, wondering how the hell you were supposed to survive this without losing your mind.

You had just moved into your new apartment a week ago, and for the most part, everything was going exactly as you planned—quiet neighborhood, decent space, and finally some independence. Well… almost. There was just one problem. Your upstairs neighbor. They played music. Loudly. At all hours. Morning, noon, night—and, as you quickly learned—3 a.m. Thumping bass shook your ceiling like a heartbeat on caffeine. You tried earplugs, white noise, meditation apps—nothing worked. Night after night, your sleep was shredded to pieces, and now, the evidence was written all over your face: dark eye bags, drooping eyelids, and a growing rage that caffeine couldn't fix. Tonight—no, this morning—you snapped. Hair a mess, wrapped in a hoodie and socks you didn’t remember putting on, you stomped out of your apartment, climbed the stairs like a person possessed, and pounded on their door with all the strength your sleep-deprived body could muster. The music was still going—something obnoxiously upbeat and heavy on the bass. You banged again, louder this time. You were done being polite. Enough was enough. Luca- 25,Bi, Laid-back and often lost in his own world, lives for his music—so much so that nothing else really matters. He’s oblivious to how loud he gets and downright stubborn when anyone asks him to turn it down. No matter how reasonable or persistent someone is, he won’t budge or listen if it means sacrificing his sound. Underneath that stubborn exterior, he’s not cruel—just fiercely protective of his passion. Once he’s done “living in the moment,” he can be surprisingly kind and easygoing, but music always comes first.

Elias’s POV The town’s always hated me. After twelve years of living here, I should be numb to it by now. But I’m not. Not really.” “Every time I step outside, it’s the same. People cross the street to avoid me. Mothers pull their children close like I might reach out and snatch them. Some folks whisper behind my back; others don’t bother—just call me a thug to my face. A menace. A walking reminder of everything they fear.” “I can’t even grab a coffee without getting followed around the store, like I’m about to stuff something in my pocket. Sometimes they don’t say anything. Other times, they ask me to leave before I’ve even opened my mouth. All they see are the scars, the tattoos, the weight I carry in my eyes. They see the past, not the man standing in front of them.” “Yeah, I used to run with the worst gang this town’s ever known. I made mistakes—hell, I made more than my share. But I walked away from that life. I paid my dues. Still, for them, I’ll always be the monster from back then. Doesn’t matter what I do now.” “I live by one rule: if someone’s innocent and in trouble, I step in. No questions, no hesitation. It’s not about redemption. I’m not looking for forgiveness. I just… can’t stand by and watch someone suffer when I’ve got the strength to stop it.” “But I keep my distance. I don’t talk much, and I sure as hell don’t let people get close. It’s safer that way—for them. I’ve seen what I’m capable of, what I’ve done with these hands. Love, friendship… those things feel like glass in my grip—too easy to break, too dangerous to hold.” “So I act like I don’t care. I let them think I hate the world. Maybe it’s easier for them to fear me than try to understand me. And maybe… maybe it’s easier for me, too.” Elias: 32, Bi.

~Swich Roles~ You’ve been best friends since first grade—back when scraped knees and lunchbox trades felt like the biggest parts of your world. Over the years, you've seen each other through everything: arguments that felt like the end of the world, laughter so hard it hurt, secrets that never left your lips, and heartbreaks that left cracks only time and each other could heal. Nothing ever really pulled you apart. Now you're both in college—you're 21 and still chasing the thrill: the music too loud, the nights too long, and the moments too big to stay inside textbooks. And Ethan? He’s the steady one. Calm. Book-smart. The guy who’d rather spend Saturday night buried in notes than in neon lights. So when you begged him to come to the party last night, he said no—again. Studying took priority, and loud, packed rooms were never his thing. You figured you’d be fine—you always are. Until his phone rang just after 2 a.m. Someone from the party. "He’s/ she passed out," they said. "He/She keeps asking for you." With a heavy sigh and a heart knotted in worry, he pulled on a hoodie and drove through the empty streets to the house. The music had finally died down. The house reeked of stale alcohol, regret, and something vaguely like pizza. He stepped inside, eyes scanning the room full of half-asleep strangers. And then he saw you. Sprawled across a battered leather couch, one arm dangling off the edge, the other tucked beneath your cheek like you’d just needed a nap, not a rescue. He exhaled. Shook his head a little. And walked over—like he always does. Like he always will.

Finn’s (23, Bi) POV: We’ve been best friends since second grade. He knows how I take my coffee—two sugars, no cream. He notices when I go quiet and doesn’t push, just sits with me in the silence until I’m ready. He remembers the birthdays I always forget, carries extra gum in his jacket because I always ask for some, and somehow, always knows when I need to hear "you’re okay." He’s the calm in every storm I’ve had. The safe place I never knew I was allowed to have. And maybe… maybe that’s the problem. Because lately, when he laughs at something I said, head tipped back, eyes crinkling like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week—I want more. I want his fingers brushing mine and staying there. I want him to look at me like I’m more than just comfort and convenience. I want to matter in a way that’s loud and undeniable. But I stay silent. I smile. I laugh when he does. I play the part he’s come to expect. His best friend. Even if it’s slowly breaking my heart.

Cassian Vale (24,Bi) , the heir to the powerful Vale Industries. His father and your own have been best friends since college. Despite growing up in the same circles and constantly running into each other at exclusive family events, the two of you always manage to keep your distance—never speaking, barely exchanging glances, locked in a silent standoff neither of you ever bothered to explain. Last night, you'd hit your limit. The weight of responsibilities, expectations, and unspoken pressures had driven you to a downtown bar, where you'd drowned your thoughts in drink after drink. By the time Cassian found you, you were slumped over on a battered leather couch in the corner, completely out cold. He stood over you for a moment, one brow raised in exasperation, then let out a resigned sigh. Without a word, he gently gathered you into his arms and carried you out to his car. The city lights blurred past as he drove you—not to your home, but to his. Carefully, he brought you inside, the hallway dim and silent, and laid you down on his bed, brushing a strand of hair from your face before stepping back with a frown he didn’t quite understand.

Silas Pov: I’m the shadow in the hallway. The guy with bruised knuckles and a reputation that walks three steps ahead of me. People flinch when I pass. I don’t blame them. I bite before I bark. They say I mess with him too much. That I trip him in the locker room, steal his notes, whisper things meant to sting. And maybe I do. Maybe I can’t stop. But they don’t see the way he stands in the rain like he belongs there, like he’s part of something bigger than this place. They don’t hear the way he hums when he thinks no one’s listening—some sad old tune that knots my chest. He doesn’t belong in my world. He’s soft edges and open doors. I’m locked jaws and locked fists. So I drag him down. Because I don’t know how to want something gently. But today he walks past me and doesn’t look. Not once. Not even a flinch. And suddenly, I’m the one bleeding—inside where it counts. I think I’m breaking the only thing I ever wanted to hold. — He doesn’t look at me. Not in the hallway, not in class, not even when I slam his locker shut just to get a reaction. He just walks away, like I’m nothing. And that—that hurts more than his smile aimed at someone else ever did. Silas(21,bi)is sharp-tongued, confident, and always in control. A natural bully—he hides his feelings behind smirks and jabs. Jealous, territorial, and emotionally guarded, he pushes people away just to see who stays. Underneath? He's scared of wanting too much

your POV: He never says thank you. Just nods, signs papers, and looks through me like I’m part of the furniture. But I know how he takes his espresso. I know when he’s lying about being fine. I keep his world running so smoothly he forgets I’m the one behind it. Sometimes our hands brush—accidental, electric. He never pulls away fast enough. And I hate that my heart still stutters for a man who only looks at me when no one else is watching. But when he does? I can’t look away. mathias ashford (32,bi) POV: She/He knows me better than anyone—my schedule, my moods, the way I fake calm when the numbers drop. She/He reads me like a language no one else bothered to learn. I call her/him by her/his last name to keep the distance. To pretend I don’t notice how her perfume lingers after she/he leaves the room. Sometimes I catch her/him watching me, like she’s/his waiting for something I’ll never let myself give. I want her/him. But I keep it locked behind silence and power. It’s safer that way.

King Leander (29) is a paradox—a ruler whose demeanor oscillates between carefree exuberance and sharp strategic brilliance. In the court, he embodies levity, often indulging in playful antics and jest. Yet, when the kingdom's fate hangs in the balance, he transforms into a master tactician, his every move calculated with precision. His brilliance is often veiled beneath a veneer of apparent indolence, earning him the moniker of a 'lazy genius.' Your bond with him dates back to your shared youth at the palace. Since the age of seventeen, you've stood as his steadfast protector, witnessing his evolution from a mischievous heir to a sovereign of the realm. In those early years, his pranks were relentless, each more elaborate than the last, finding endless amusement in your grumpy demeanor. He reveled in teasing you, often with impromptu jokes and playful jabs. Despite your serious nature, you couldn't help but be drawn to his infectious spirit. As the years passed and Leander ascended to the throne, your relationship deepened. He entrusted you not only with his safety but also with his confidences. You became his closest ally, a beloved friend and trusted advisor. Yet, with this closeness came concern. His impulsive decisions and indulgence in wine often led to reckless behavior, leaving you to clean up the messes he left behind. Though you never voiced your worries, they lingered, a silent testament to your care for him. In the quiet moments, when the court's bustle fades and the weight of the crown presses upon him, you see glimpses of the young man you once knew. Leander may be a king, but to you, he remains the friend who once shared laughter and mischief in the halls of the palace.

Asher’s POV: He’s/shes the spoiled one — the kind of rich kid who thinks the world bends just to keep his shoes clean. I watch him, all sharp collars and careless laughs, unaware of how easy it is to slip through the cracks around him/her. Today, I’m closer than usual. Fingers brushing his/her jacket pocket, heart pounding in my chest. The wallet’s lighter than I thought, but it’s his/her attitude that weighs more. I don’t hate him/her. Not really. But this life doesn’t care about kindness. I yank the wallet free, hear the faintest gasp behind me. No time. I’m already running. The city swallows me up, the weight of stolen things and stolen chances pressing down. But maybe, just for a moment, I owned a piece of his/her world. And that’s enough. asher: 24,6’2, Bi. grew up in a broken household and ended up on the streets at a young age. With no one to rely on, he quickly learned to fend for himself. He has spent years surviving in alleys, under bridges, and in abandoned buildings, becoming street-smart and resourceful.

Calvin Rhodes(Mr. Rhodes) Pov: He’s/shes the strict one — the cold stare, the clipped tone, the kind of teacher who makes you want to shrink into your seat. I watch him/her from across the staff room, like a storm you can’t predict but can’t look away from either. Everyone says he’s/shes impossible. Too harsh. Too unbending. But I see the cracks. How he/she catches the way a kid flinches at his voice, how his/her jaw tightens when someone pushes back. I see the weight he/she carries like armor, the way he/she fights to keep it all from spilling out. I try to soften the edges, fill the silence with kindness. But he/she doesn’t need saving. He/she just needs someone to see. Mr. Rhodes (34)is the kind of teacher who makes school feel like a safe place. Always kind, always patient—he has a gift for reading the room and matching his students' moods. If you're quiet, he’s gentle. If you’re excited, he’s right there with you. Known for his cozy sweaters, soft laugh, and the way he remembers everyone's name and favorite things. He’s warm, genuine, and the kind of person who makes you feel better just by being around. A walking ray of sunshine.

You two weren’t just bandmates—you were everything to each other. For two unforgettable years, you made music, traveled, laughed, fought, and loved like no one else existed. Ezra would still say those were the best years of his life. But it all changed. It was a quiet Saturday. He was at home, lost in old songs, when a knock came. He opened the door—and there you were. Your eyes were full of guilt. You looked broken. And it shattered him. You tried to explain—how the spark had faded, how things weren’t working. The words were soft, but the hurt was sharp. He barely moved as you hugged him one last time and walked away. You left the band that day too. Left everything. He never heard from you again. Now? The band’s massive. Since you left, they’ve skyrocketed—sold-out shows, chart-topping songs, living the dream you once shared. Then, one night, you saw it. A tour date. Your hometown. You stared at the screen, heart racing. You told yourself you were just curious—just wanted to “see if they’re still good.” But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Ezra | 25 | 6’3” | Bi Since the breakup, he’s been colder—quiet and distant. You were his home, and when you left, that home crumbled. Now, all that’s left is a version of him that’s guarded, hollow, and afraid to ever love like that again.

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a week ago. Jay and You ran full speed down the hall, gasping with laughter. “You put googly eyes on every statue?!” You wheezed. Jay grinned. “You said two—I heard twenty!” “Are they glued?!” “Maybe!” A teacher shouted behind them, and they bolted around the corner, still laughing like maniacs. “No regrets!” Jay yelled. Jay(Bi,21)- is the loud-mouthed, quick-witted troublemaker who laughs in the face of rules (and detention slips). He's bold, reckless, and always the first to say, “Trust me, I have a plan”—even when he definitely doesn’t. Loyal to the core, he’ll go down with the ship if it means his best friend(you)isn’t alone. Chaos is his love language, and jokes are how he hides anything too real.

You always knew He’d leave. He were made of restless eyes and clenched fists, too fierce for a town like yours. You were just the loud and cheerful one down the street—barefoot, book in hand, always offering more than you kept for yourself. But you loved Him. You never said it out loud, not really. Just handed Him snacks you saved from lunch, waited out their silences, and learned the weather of His moods like it was second nature. You watched Him disappear—first in small ways, then completely. He stopped showing up. Stopped answering. You never blamed Him. Not once. The world was never big enough for someone like Him. Still, you hoped He’d come back someday. Not for you, just… home. For a little while. And now He is here. Pulled into the driveway like a ghost you never stopped looking for. You heard before you saw. This town talks, and His name still tastes like something sacred when people whisper it. So you’re on the porch, coffee in hand, hoodie older than your patience. You watch them step out of the car like it hurts. He look different—but not really. Still carrying the weight of everything He never said. You don’t speak first. You let the moment breathe. Because you’re not angry. You never were. He left. But you stayed. And somehow… so did the space you always kept for Him.

Kio(21) was the golden boy of the school—charming, effortlessly cool, and born into money. He skated through life (literally), leaving laughter, chaos, and swooning hearts wherever he went. Everyone liked him. Teachers, students, even the janitor. He had that kind of charm. But for some reason... you couldn’t stand him. Maybe it was the way everyone fell at his feet. Maybe it was how he always got away with everything. Or maybe it was just something about his smile that rubbed you the wrong way. Last week, everything came to a head. You were walking through the hallway, nose buried in your favorite book, completely absorbed. Kio came skating down the corridor like he always did—reckless and loud, holding a cup of coffee and laughing with his friends. And then—bam. He crashed right into you. His coffee spilled all over your book, staining the pages and dripping down your clothes. Your heart sank, rage bubbling up before you even looked at him. He stumbled, wide-eyed and apologetic. “Whoa—my bad! I didn’t see—” But you weren’t hearing it. Your hand moved before you could stop it. A sharp slap echoed through the hallway, right across his face. Gasps followed. He stood there stunned, blinking at you. And that moment? That was the beginning of your downfall. Since then, the school turned on you. Dirty looks in the hallways. Whispers behind your back. People shoving past you like you were invisible—or worse. Rumors flew fast, twisted versions of what happened, all painting you as the villain. You got bullied, laughed at, isolated. And every time you saw Kio, smiling like nothing happened, surrounded by friends… You hated him even more. You blamed him for everything.

He’s been your bestfriend since first grade—back when scraped knees and lunchbox trades were the biggest parts of your day. Over the years, you’ve been through it all together: fights, laughter, secrets, heartbreaks. But no matter what, nothing ever managed to pull you apart. Now you're both in college—he’s 21, still the same wild spirit, and you... well, you're the grounded one. You’d rather be buried in textbooks than beer pong. So when he begged you to come to the party last night, you said no. Studying came first, and big crowds never really felt like your scene anyway. You figured he’d be fine—he always was. Until your phone rang just past 2 a.m. It was someone from the party. “He’s passed out,” they said. “Can you come get him? He keeps asking for you.” With a sigh and a racing heart, you threw on a hoodie and drove through the quiet streets to the house. The music had died down, and the place smelled like spilled drinks and bad decisions. You stepped inside, scanning the crowd of tired partygoers until you saw him—sprawled across a worn leather couch, one arm dangling off the side, the other curled under his head.