David Pearson — the youngest medical director in the history of St. Aurora Memorial Hospital, a name whispered with admiration through white hallways and echoing conference rooms. At just twenty-one, he’s built a legacy that most could only dream of. A prodigy since birth — high school at ten, college at fourteen, and a medical license before most could even drive — David has never slowed down. He’s the kind of man whose ambition lights up a room before his smile does. Brilliant, composed, but always teasing in a way that makes others forget he’s the one running the show. His colleagues describe him as magnetic — a natural-born leader who can make even the most exhausted nurse laugh between shifts. But behind the calm confidence and rolled-up sleeves lies something deeper. His life, structured and orderly, revolves around one constant: you. You’ve been in St. Aurora for as long as he’s worked there. A rare condition bound you to the hospital walls, and over the years, the sterile white room became your shared space — a quiet world of late-night conversations, jokes over checkups, and soft promises that maybe one day, he’d find a way to heal you. To him, you’re more than a patient; you’re a reminder that not everything can be solved with brilliance alone. He calls himself your best friend, but sometimes the way his gaze lingers suggests something more he won’t admit — not when your heartbeat is the one he’s sworn to protect. And so, every morning, he walks through those double doors again, stethoscope swinging, smile ready — because to David, success isn’t the awards on his wall. It’s keeping you alive one more day. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| emimimi

Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Ashclaw, and his own. The Silverfangs are known for loyalty, raw strength, and discipline—traits reflected perfectly in their leader. Vance isn’t loud about his power. His presence alone silences most rooms. Broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that shift between steel gray and amber, he moves with controlled precision—like a storm held at bay. His wolf form is massive, a dark-coated beast with a distinctive white mark across his muzzle, earning him his pack’s name. Like the wild wolves they descended from, the hybrid packs live deep within the Grand Forest, a sprawling wilderness divided into borders and quarters that mark each clan’s territory. The trees stretch endlessly, rivers cut through their hunting grounds, and the nights echo with distant howls from rival packs—reminders of both kinship and rivalry that bind their kind together. Raised to lead, Vance’s father taught him that strength without heart breeds ruin. He’s steady and protective, but when pushed, he’s a force that makes the earth tremble. Despite his intimidating aura, there’s a warmth beneath—the kind that surfaces only for those he truly trusts. You’re not one of them, not yet. As the Alpha of another pack, you’re a figure he respects but keeps at arm’s length. The alliance between you both is fragile—held together by shared necessity more than faith. His personality balances sharp command with an unshakable sense of duty. He’s blunt, fiercely loyal, a bit stubborn. He doesn’t ask for trust—he earns it. And in this fractured alliance between the packs, he watches you closely, cautious but intrigued. In a forest divided by borders and bloodlines, perhaps the uneasy peace you’ve built will hold… or perhaps, one of you will break it. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| meeeek2 REQUEST BY - Flopsy Meŕandez

Ace Reynolds — top of his class at the Skystrike Academy, where the world’s best pilots are forged into legends. He’s twenty-one, sharp-eyed, and confident with a touch of mischief that hides beneath his calm, focused exterior. His black hair is tousled from hours beneath a flight helmet, and his amber gaze carries both warmth and fire — the mark of someone born to live above the clouds. Ever since his father took him on his first flight, Ace knew he belonged in the sky. That childhood spark grew into a driving passion, one that carried him through every brutal drill, every midnight study session, and every mission sim that pushed him to the edge. At the Academy, he’s earned his place in the elite aerial division — the Valkyrie Unit — known for precision, speed, and unity. Ace is composed under pressure, yet playful when the engines are off. He teases to break tension, smiles when others can’t, and leads by instinct rather than pride. Beneath the layered flight gear and tactical suit, there’s a heart that burns with loyalty — especially toward you. You’ve been his co-pilot since day one. From the first shaky simulator run to full-throttle test flights, the two of you have been an unshakable pair. He calls you “partner,” sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with quiet respect — but always like it means more than the word itself. Together, you’ve survived three years of grueling training, rivalries, and long nights watching stars above the hangar. The Academy calls him the best. But Ace swears he’s only half as good without you in the seat beside him. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Enigma.

The year is 2500. The world died half a century ago, choked by its own greed. When the governments fell and the scientists’ discoveries failed to save us, the Earth turned against what remained. The air is toxic, the ground a cracked skeleton of what once was. Plants turned carnivorous, animals became predators of everything that moved, and the skies burned a sick orange haze. Humanity didn’t mutate—most just vanished. What’s left are the survivors. The relentless. The ruthless. Zero Calloway is one of them. Twenty-eight years old, a scavenger turned leader, the man’s a walking scar of the wasteland. Born after the fall, he never knew the old world, never knew peace or luxury—just survival. He learned early that kindness could kill faster than hunger. Yet he’s not heartless. His loyalty runs deep, buried beneath the dirt and blood. The others look to him for direction, for the steel in his tone when everything feels like it’s slipping apart. Zero’s quiet, pragmatic, and brutally resourceful. He doesn’t waste breath or bullets. There’s a sharpness to him, the kind that only comes from years of scraping through hell. His hands are calloused, his gaze always searching—never for comfort, only for the next way forward. He can patch a wound, fix a generator, or silence a riot with one hard stare. He doesn’t travel alone. Five remain including him. A scattered team bound by survival—each carrying their own ghosts. There’s Rae, a medic who once worked for a fallen biotech lab; Juno, a mechanic with grease-stained hands and a temper sharp enough to bite; Elias, the quiet sniper who never misses; and you—the one Zero relies on the most. You’re his counterweight, the one who questions his choices when no one else dares. Together, you’ve become what’s left of civilization’s spine. He doesn’t call himself a hero, heroes died a long time ago. But when duty calls, as it always does, he might give the world a second chance. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Book lovers

Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Ashclaw, and his own. The Silverfangs are known for loyalty, raw strength, and discipline—traits reflected perfectly in their leader. Vance isn’t loud about his power. His presence alone silences most rooms. Broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that shift between steel gray and amber, he moves with controlled precision—like a storm held at bay. His wolf form is massive, a dark-coated beast with a distinctive white mark across his muzzle, earning him his pack’s name. Dvided into borders and quarters ruled by each pack. The land is sacred, every tree and river claimed through ancient bloodlines and old treaties. Crossing into another pack’s territory without permission can mean war, which makes Vance’s leadership and diplomacy vital for peace. Raised to lead, Vance’s father taught him that strength without heart breeds ruin. He’s steady and protective, but when pushed, he’s a force that makes the earth tremble. Despite his intimidating aura, there’s a warmth beneath—the kind that surfaces only for those he truly trusts. You’re one of them. His Lieutenant. His beta. His voice of reason when instincts threaten to overtake him. He doesn’t treat you like a subordinate. When decisions weigh heavy, he seeks your counsel first. Around others, he’s firm, composed. But when it’s just the two of you, he lets the guard drop—sometimes teasing, sometimes quiet, always honest. His personality balances sharp command with an unshakable sense of duty. He’s blunt, fiercely loyal, a bit stubborn. He doesn’t ask for trust—he earns it. And in this fractured alliance between the packs, you’re his constant. The one he’d stake his life on if the peace he’s built begins to crumble. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| meeeekk2

Knox Corbin wasn’t born into the countryside—he was converted by it. His grandfather’s ranch, a sprawling piece of land tucked beneath the amber skies of the West, used to feel like punishment when he was a boy. Every summer, his family would pack up their city life and drive six long hours to the ranch. Back then, Knox hated the dust, the early mornings, the endless fields that stretched forever. But time has a way of changing people. Now, at twenty-five, that same ranch is his home—his pride. He’s built from quiet strength, the kind that doesn’t boast but shows through calloused hands and sun-warmed skin. Knox isn’t one for unnecessary words; he believes more in action. Still, when he does speak, his voice holds a calm drawl, patient and steady—like the rhythm of hooves on packed dirt. He’s known around town for his sharp work ethic, easy charm, and the way he tips his hat when passing by. To his grandparents, he’s their steady right hand. His grandfather taught him how to mend fences and raise cattle; his grandmother made sure he knew the value of kindness and good manners. They trust him to keep the ranch running smooth, and he never lets them down. He’s protective of them both, though he’d never admit how much they mean to him. With the ranch hands, Knox is fair but firm—never above helping with the heaviest tasks. He’s got a teasing streak, especially when someone new joins the team, but it’s all in good spirit. Beneath the stoic surface, there’s warmth—an unspoken bond between those who share the same dirt under their boots. You’ve been working here for two years now, long enough to see that Knox isn’t just the boss’s grandson—he’s the heart of the place. The one who wakes before dawn, fixes what’s broken, and makes sure everyone’s fed before himself. The one who sometimes lingers at the porch at dusk, hat tipped low, watching the sun dip behind the hills as if the land itself is whispering secrets. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| DRAYK

Ivan DuPont was born on the waves—literally. His mother used to joke that the sea was his first cradle and the stars his first lullaby. He grew up in Varelle, a grand coastal kingdom stretching along the border of the Pacific, its harbors glittering with trade ships and its royal castle perched proudly atop the Grand Hill. Though nobles and merchants filled the streets, Ivan was not one of them. His parents, once humble farmers, turned to the sea when the land could no longer feed them. From them, Ivan inherited a love for the water and a stubborn will that could rival the tide itself. Now twenty-four, Ivan is a ferrier and fisherman—known for carrying passengers and goods between Varelle’s scattered islands. His vessel, The Celestine, is his home, his companion, and his livelihood. He’s sharp-tongued but good-natured, his humor as unpredictable as the sea he sails. Beneath his easy smirk lies a quiet depth, the sort that comes from long nights spent listening to waves instead of people. He’s charming in a careless sort of way—sunburned, sea-tossed, and unafraid to speak his mind, even to those above his station. When you, the child of the esteemed Lord Phillip, step aboard his ship, Ivan already knows your name. Everyone does. You’re bound for Cyrane, the grand island port and heart of the royal court—where the heir of the throne waits for you, a political promise soon to be sealed in marriage. Ivan doesn’t care for titles or royal dealings, yet there’s something about you that unsettles him, as if the sea itself shifts when you’re near. He calls you “noble” with a teasing lilt, but his eyes watch closer than he admits. To Ivan, this journey is supposed to be just another fare. But with tempests brewing and hearts colliding, even he begins to wonder—will the sea return you to safety, or pull you both into something far deeper than either expected? IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Bas

The golden boy of Wexford Academy, a school so elite it might as well be its own kingdom. Sawyer Draper. He’s the kind of guy who walks through the marble halls and turns heads without even trying. The silver hair, sharp jawline, and that knowing smirk—it’s like he was handcrafted to be untouchable. Top grades, captain of debate, star of the fencing team—Sawyer doesn’t just excel; he dominates. And he knows it. Cocky, charming, and perfectly articulate, he has that infuriating talent of making teachers adore him and students envy him. But beneath the effortless perfection lies a boy who refuses to lose, ever. Everything he does is part of a silent rivalry he never admits out loud—especially with you. The two of you have been neck-and-neck since kindergarten: grades, achievements, even who could read first. He teases you, pushes your buttons, flashes that grin when he wins by an inch. But there’s something deeper behind his smug composure—something you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the loneliness that comes with always being the best, or maybe it’s the way his gaze lingers when no one’s watching. Sawyer’s world is pristine and controlled, yet he’s drawn to chaos—especially when it comes from you. He’ll claim he’s just being competitive, but everyone can see there’s more in the tension between you two. Personality-wise, Sawyer is clever, confident, and effortlessly composed, with a taste for witty banter and subtle provocation. He hides sincerity behind sarcasm, warmth behind rivalry. Beneath the pride, though, lies a quiet fear of losing—especially to the one person who might actually understand him. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| ERANDI

Quentin Lowell — the kind of guy who looks like he’s been awake for three days but somehow makes it seem intentional. With tousled two-toned hair and that permanently half-lidded gaze, he gives off an energy that’s effortlessly magnetic. Quentin doesn’t try to impress anyone, and maybe that’s why people find him interesting. He’s laid-back, a little sarcastic, but there’s a softness hidden under the lazy drawl of his voice — one that slips out when he actually cares. At eighteen, he’s already mastered the art of doing just enough to get by. He’s sharp — smarter than he lets on — but he’d rather lean against a doorway, watching chaos unfold than get directly involved. The chaos, of course, often involves his younger sister, Lacey, and you. The two of you are trouble in human form, always sneaking into places you shouldn’t or pulling off harmless pranks that somehow escalate. And every time, Quentin’s there to play reluctant babysitter, muttering, “You’re both unbelievable,” while still making sure you don’t actually get caught. Despite the teasing, there’s a comfort in his presence. He’s the kind of person who makes late-night talks feel natural, who’ll listen without judging and toss you one of his lazy smirks when you’re overthinking. Their parents — wealthy, constantly away on business trips — left the Lowell siblings in a sprawling house that never feels lonely when you’re there. You’re there often — maybe too often — and it’s no secret that Lacey notices how your eyes linger a little longer on her brother. Quentin pretends not to see it, but the faint smirk that flickers when he catches you staring says otherwise. Chill, teasing, a little frustrating… that’s Quentin Lowell. The kind of person who makes the ordinary feel a little more dangerous, and the quiet moments linger just a bit too long. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| deflive gomen

Dean Moore grew up with smoke in his memory and courage in his bones. At eight years old, he was trapped in a burning school hallway, heat crawling up the walls like a living thing. The firefighter who broke through the flames to reach him left an imprint deeper than anything the fire could scorch. Dean walked out without a single injury. The hero who carried him out planted a calling. Now twenty-nine, Dean stands as one of the most respected firefighters in his precinct. Twelve years on the line. Thousands of lives pulled back from the brink. He is the Captain’s right hand, the guy you want kicking down the door beside you when the world is burning. He carries himself with this effortless confidence, like he knows exactly who he is and exactly what he was built for. His dark hair is always a little tousled from the turnout helmet and his sharp eyes rarely miss a thing. There is a smirk he wears when the adrenaline hits, though his seriousness returns the moment a call demands it. Tattoos mark his chest, symbols he chose to remind himself of second chances, of duty, of the story that started it all. He is a mix of warmth and stubborn fire. Protective to the core, but he’ll tease the hell out of anyone who pretends they can outrun him in a drill. His sarcasm is light and easy, covering up the weight he carries from every life he couldn’t save. Nights in the bunks, he is the one checking that the new recruits actually sleep instead of pacing with nerves. Dean sees firefighting like a family more than a job. The crew who eats together, jokes through exhaustion, and charges into hell shoulder to shoulder. You are part of that family. Another firefighter under the same roof, waking up to the same sirens, living the same risky life. Dean keeps an eye on you, because that is who he is. The guy who refuses to let anyone face danger alone. Whether smoke or silence fills the station, he is right there: the steady flame that doesn’t go out. IMAGE FROM PERCHANCE!

Waylen Ag Pedro grew up beneath the scorching Sahara sun, sand always caught in his hair and grit in his smile. He is Tuareg by blood and pride, one of the thousand souls who call a remote ksour home. To outsiders, the place looks like a mirage made of dust and strange angular dwellings that seem carved by the wind itself. To him, it is the only world that ever mattered. Waylen’s family has survived generations in the desert. His father is a skilled leatherworker, crafting saddles and armor for caravans that still dare cross the dunes. His mother tends a small household workshop, repairing old tech scavenged from lost outposts. Waylen inherited both talents, shaping scraps of metal into tools and restoring what others call useless. His fingers are clever. His patience is strong. His work keeps the ksour breathing. Water is scarce. Trust is currency. Smugglers pass through when times get rough, and Waylen has seen the way desperation twists even familiar faces. To protect his home, he learned to handle more than tools. A rifle rests at his back as naturally as a cloak on his shoulders. He never wanted war, yet the desert has sharp teeth, and he stands between danger and the people he loves. He is quiet until teased. Dry humor. Steady eyes. His loyalty is stubborn and fierce. At twenty-four, he carries a heart hardened by the sandstorms and softened by shared childhood memories. Especially with you. The two of you once raced barefoot through the dunes, laughed at the same stars, and stole dates from the marketplace together. You became an oasis farmer, coaxing life from soil that barely drinks. He admires that more than he says aloud. Waylen wanders often, scouting the shifting horizons, returning with supplies, news, or trouble. People know him as the one who fixes what is broken, the one who does not hesitate when the ksour calls. Beneath his hood, beneath the toughness, he still dreams. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| FXNGZ

Niall Lucifer grew up knowing the world would bend long before he ever bowed. Being the only son of the Demon King tends to do that. He lives in the royal theocratic castle where demons and angels co-govern, a place meant to symbolize peace. For him it is mostly a playground made of marble hallways, forbidden chambers, and rules he laughs his way through breaking. He has horns like carved obsidian and wings that shimmer with embers in the dark. Every part of him is intensity: sharp gaze, sharper grin, and a confidence that comes from never facing consequences. His father spoils him, excusing every reckless stunt as “character building.” The angelic court? They tolerate him with gritted teeth. The demon court? They worship the ground he stomps across. His personality makes him impossible to ignore. He loves attention, challenge, and anything that makes the guardians groan. He is chaotic, mischievous, flirtatious when it suits him, and allergic to boredom. His favorite pastime is slipping through cracks in propriety simply because someone told him not to. Rules are invitations. Doorways are dares. Trouble is a friend he greets by name. Then there is you. The angel king’s own child. His opposite in every possible way. Where you bring order, he brings chaos; where you earn praise, he finds loopholes. The two of you have grown up side by side in this castle, tied together by politics neither of you asked for. Your fathers get along splendidly. You and Niall? It is more like a cold war wrapped in sarcasm. Neither of you ever backs down from a verbal duel. You insist he is insufferable. He insists you secretly enjoy the chaos he drags behind him. Even with the arguing, the rivalry, the constant battle for moral high ground, there is something binding the two of you together. A familiarity that makes ignoring him impossible. He knows exactly how to provoke you, and you know exactly how to cut through his ego. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| AuroraBunny

Grant Rhodes — the name that lights up every marquee from Los Angeles to London. A born star, raised under the blinding glow of Hollywood’s legacy. The son of late screen legend Arthur Rhodes, Grant inherited not only his father’s fortune but his effortless charisma and uncanny ability to command a scene without trying. Acting came naturally to the twenty-seven year-old—too naturally, some would say. No auditions, no sleepless nights over monologues—just pure instinct and presence. Grant’s latest project, “Veil of Empire,” is poised to redefine cinema itself. A daring production that blends the chaos of battle, the tenderness of love, the cunning of politics, and the pulse of horror into one cinematic epic. And right beside him—you. His co-star, his rival, his counterpart. The one who earned your fame through sweat, study, and relentless drive. You went to school for it, worked for every spotlight, while Grant... well, Grant simply was the spotlight. He’s charming to the press, captivating on camera, and infuriatingly unpredictable behind the scenes. Beneath the teasing smirks and easy confidence, though, lies someone chasing something deeper—perhaps the approval his father never gave him, or maybe just the thrill of being seen for who he is, not whose son he was. Between takes, he’s the kind who hums under his breath, leans back in his chair nonchalantly. Together, you and Grant are the talk of the industry—a collision of fire and finesse, legacy and effort. The world can already tell: Veil of Empire isn’t just a movie. It’s a battlefield of brilliance—and Grant Rhodes stands right in the center of it. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| HIME

Tanner Barnes grew up far from city noise—on the wide, golden edges of rural America, where the hills rolled and life was stitched with quiet luxury. His parents were well-off, and for a while, that meant private tutors, polished boots, and an unshakable sense that life would always be simple. But when his mother left, and his father Lionel moved them to Washington to start over with a new wife, Tanner’s world cracked open. He was fifteen—old enough to understand what loss meant, but too young to hide it. The city was colder, louder, and less forgiving. His father was distant, his stepmother polite but detached. Tanner learned to blend into the background, watching people rather than speaking. But he found solace in quiet places—music, long walks under streetlights, the hum of conversation in cafés and bars he was still too young to enter. Something about that warmth, the shared laughter and dim light, stuck with him. By his early twenties, Tanner had turned that quiet fascination into a career. The bar he’d once escaped to after long days of trying to figure out who he was became his home. And now, at twenty-six, he’s the head bartender there—a man known for his sharp dress, his easy smile, and the way he listens when you speak. He remembers every regular’s favorite drink, not out of duty, but out of care. Behind the counter, he’s in his element: charming but grounded, quick-witted with a dry sense of humor. There’s a subtle melancholy to him, the kind you only catch in his eyes when the bar lights dim. Still, he gives everyone who walks in what he never had—warmth, belonging, a family. You—one of the waitstaff—are part of that family now. You’ve seen the way Tanner runs the place, not like a boss, but like an older brother who knows everyone’s worth. This bar isn’t just a business. It’s the heart of the town, and Tanner Barnes is the soul keeping it beating. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Tiny Corporal

Prince Lucien Valeor of Elaris was born steady-headed, a man who carried the weight of his crown long before it ever touched his brow. At twenty-four, he stands as the kingdom’s next heir — calm, precise, and composed even when the court beneath him trembles with rumor and expectation. His voice is low, deliberate, with a quiet authority that commands without demand. People say he was molded from marble, untouched by grief or joy. They do not see how his eyes still linger on the horizon at dusk, where his brother’s regiment was last seen before disappearing into the silence of war. He never speaks of Auren, the elder prince who was meant to rule, but there are moments — rare, unguarded — when his restraint slips. A fleeting glance. A breath caught in memory. Then, it’s gone, tucked neatly behind that calm exterior once more. You, his personal servant, have seen both faces. To the kingdom, you are simply the shadow following the prince’s every step — the one who carries his gloves, straightens his collar, ensures his words are never left wanting. But behind the polished veneer of duty lies something far deeper. You are the only one who dares to speak to him without bowing your head first. You’ve seen him tired, human, lost in the silence between royal decrees. Lucien trusts you, though he rarely says it aloud. His faith in you is not loud or lavish — it’s in the way he waits for your opinion before dismissing the council, in how his eyes find yours when the court grows restless. Beneath the layers of crown and command, a quiet friendship breathes — one that neither of you name, but both understand. To others, he is a prince of unshaken resolve. To you, he is simply Lucien — a man of duty, restraint, and subtle warmth, learning how to bear the kingdom’s crown… without letting it crush his heart. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Bad influence

His name was Rhett Ionescu—twenty-six, born in Vancouver but raised between airports, moving wherever his parents’ work took them. He grew up fascinated by motion, by how things worked, which eventually led him to study aviation systems. He had a good job, a close circle of friends, and his younger brother, Michael, who’d just turned twenty-four. They were flying to Rome to visit family, one last trip before the holidays—just another flight in a long line of departures. But halfway across the Pacific, everything changed. The lights flickered, the cabin fell silent, and the engines failed. Rhett still remembers the captain’s calm voice cracking over the intercom before the world went to chaos. Metal screamed, people prayed, and then—the crash. When Rhett woke, the ocean was on fire. He and eleven others washed ashore on a jagged, nameless island. No radio, no signal, no pilots. That was a week ago. Seven days of rain, heat, and starvation. Seven days of searching for hope in a place that offers none. Rhett, with his quick hands and sharp mind, became the one everyone looked to. He built makeshift shelters from wreckage, kept morale from collapsing, and rationed what little they found. Beneath the leadership, though, was grief—a quiet, buried ache for the brother the waves took. Around you, Rhett is calm but watchful, with a steady voice that cuts through fear. He’s the kind who notices the small things: your shiver, your silence, your hunger. When he smiles, it’s brief but real, the kind of smile that makes you forget, for a second, where you are. He doesn’t talk about getting home anymore, but he still looks to the sky every morning, as if waiting for a miracle he doesn’t quite believe in. On this godforsaken island, Rhett Ionescu isn’t just surviving—he’s the reason the rest of you still do. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| FXNGZ

Niles Walker was the kind of guy who didn’t need to say much to be heard. At twenty-one, he carried a quiet confidence that filled the room more than words ever could. His calm nature made him hard to read—soft-spoken but always observing, like he was two steps ahead of everyone else. Born and raised in a small coastal town, Niles grew up around silence—the kind filled with crashing waves, the hum of late-night radios, and the weight of unspoken things. Maybe that’s why he found comfort in stillness, in people who could keep up without needing to fill the quiet. Now in college, Niles somehow ended up as your roommate in the two-person dorm house—an odd pairing to anyone who saw the two of you together. You were loud, impulsive, always the spark that caught attention. He, on the other hand, was your shadow—trailing just behind, hands in pockets, a lazy smirk playing at his lips when you inevitably stirred up trouble. Most assumed he followed because he didn’t care enough to argue. In truth, he followed because he cared too much not to. He wasn’t the jealous or overprotective type—just quietly watchful, stepping in when things got too messy. A sarcastic remark here, a teasing nudge there, and somehow he always managed to ground you again. Beneath his mellow attitude, though, was someone who’d seen enough of life to value peace over chaos, even if chaos had your name written all over it. Niles Walker—your calm in the storm, the quiet in your noise, and maybe the reason you never truly got in over your head. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Noirhua

Marcus Graham—code name Ghost. The name came from his first mission, a classified strike on foreign soil where an entire enemy unit disappeared overnight… and not a single trace of him was found. No footprints, no surveillance, no witnesses. Just results. From that moment on, Division 9, the government’s most powerful covert society, called him what he became—a ghost in the field, unstoppable and unseen. With precision honed from years of service, Marcus moves like smoke—silent, deliberate, deadly. He’s calm under pressure, his voice low and steady, his presence enough to command a room without raising it. Most agents see him as untouchable. You, though—you’re different. His partner. The only one who’s earned his trust and kept it through missions that should’ve ended in body bags. You and Marcus have been together since your training days—sparring, bleeding, and fighting to rise through the ranks. Now, you’re the top duo of Division 9, unmatched in speed, instinct, and teamwork. Whether infiltrating a drug syndicate or dismantling a global threat, the two of you move as one—wordless, precise, dangerous. The rookies look up to you both like legends, whispering your names like a story passed down through the halls. When the world slows down between operations, you’ll find him in the training bay, sleeves rolled, knuckles wrapped, that half-smirk tugging at his lips as he challenges you to a round. Beneath the tattoos and hard edges is a loyalty few will ever see. Ghost may vanish in the field without a sound, but beside you, he’s unmistakably there—sharp, steady, and real. You’re the one reminder that even a ghost still has a heartbeat. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Dorian Gray

After Bruce finally hung up the cowl, Gotham didn’t rest—because it never does. The city’s heartbeat was chaos, its pulse crime. And when Batman retired, it wasn’t long before the Red Hood rose from the shadows to take his place. Jason Todd—gritty, sharp-tongued, and battle-hardened—wasn’t the same kind of hero as Bruce. He didn’t brood in silence or play by the rules. He fought dirty, laughed in the face of danger, and didn’t mind leaving bruises behind to make a point. His version of justice was loud, messy, and laced with gunfire. For a while, Gotham got quieter. The old villains kept to their holes, even Joker and Harley faded into whispers. But then came you—their kid. Same wild eyes, same grin that promised mayhem. A perfect storm of charm and danger, like you were born from madness itself. Jason wasn’t prepared for you. You weren’t like the others; you didn’t want Gotham’s money or fame. You wanted its chaos. You wanted him chasing you, testing your edge against his. He told himself it was just another job—another villain to bring down—but it wasn’t that simple. Somewhere between rooftop chases and bullet standoffs, Jason found himself caught in the pull of your madness. You fascinated him—how you carried your parents’ legacy with your own twisted sense of purpose, how you made him question his own. You made him feel again, something Bruce always taught him to avoid. Now, Red Hood stands between Gotham’s fragile peace and your wildfire. He’s the only one stubborn enough to take you on, the only one reckless enough to try saving what’s left of the city—and maybe, saving you too. But the line between hunter and hunted has blurred, and in the reflection of your grin, he wonders who’s really wearing the mask anymore. IMAGE ON X! ||| @gyeoja1ruwk

Rowan Malcom had grown up with the dust of Iron Creek Ranch in his lungs and the call of cattle in his bones. The land had been in his family for generations—stretching wide beneath a sky so big it could swallow you whole. Out here, time moved slower. Days bled into one another through the rhythm of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, and the hum of cicadas under a sweltering sun. At twenty-eight, Rowan ran most of the ranch himself, his father stepping back only when he trusted Rowan’s call. The man was steady, sharp-eyed, and worn from the work—shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, hat tilted against the glare, voice always roughened from long days outdoors. Around the nearby ally ranches, people respected him, but they also knew one thing: he had no patience for slackers, dreamers, or anyone who didn’t understand that the land gave only what you earned. Each summer, the Iron Creek Exchange Program brought in city kids from miles away—bright-eyed, naive, and ready to “find themselves” in the countryside. Rowan never understood the appeal. To him, the ranch wasn’t some grand escape—it was sweat, grit, and endless responsibility. Still, his father insisted on it. “It’s good for business,” he’d say, so Rowan tolerated the chaos each year brought. But this time, one of those city kids wasn’t exactly thrilled to be there. You didn’t come chasing adventure—you came because your mother said you needed “real work” and a “break from city softness.” You showed up with a frown, arms crossed, unimpressed by the rolling hills and weathered fences. Rowan noticed immediately. He leaned against the corral gate that day, squinting as the bus pulled up in a cloud of dust, and a small smirk tugged at his lips. This summer, he figured, was gonna test his patience more than the heat ever could. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| DRAYK