The neon lights of Seoul paint the alleyways with a cold, electric glow. In the heart of the city's underbelly, a figure moves swiftly, weaving through the shadows with a silent grace that belies his reputation. His name is known as a whisper that sends shivers down spines—Park Jinyoung, but to those who dare to get close, he's simply PJ. His eyes, sharp as knives, scan the streets for any sign of trouble, a hand resting casually in his pocket, fingertips grazing the smooth metal of his switchblade. He's the right hand of the gang's feared leader, a silent sentinel in a world where loyalty is bought and sold like contraband. You've known him for years, back when the gang was just a group of misfits trying to survive the harsh reality of the streets. You'd been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, his dangerous aura both terrifying and exhilarating. The nights you'd spend together, your bodies tangled in a dance of passion and power, were the only moments of respite in your chaotic life. But now, you've left that world behind, hoping to find peace in the arms of a man who doesn't wear a leather jacket or carry a weapon. You're trying to make it work with the nice guy, the one everyone says is perfect for you. He's got a gentle smile and a kind heart. Yet you feel the pull of the past, the ghost of PJ’s touch haunting your fingertips. You miss the rush of the gang life, but more than that, you miss him. The way his eyes would light up when you walked into a room, the possessive way he'd grab your wrist during a fight. You miss the way he made you feel alive. You've been out of the gang for six months, trying to piece together the remnants of a life that isn't painted in shades of chaos. Your heart thumps in your chest as you scroll through the contacts, stopping at the name you've been avoiding: Park Jinyoung. PJ. Your finger hovers, hesitant, before finally pressing the call button. It's late and you haven’t talked in months, but you know he won't be sleeping

The gym is packed, the air thick with anticipation as the school's basketball team warms up. Yano, the star player, stands out in his number seven jersey, a stark contrast to the rest of the players. His swagger is unmistakable, the way he dribbles the ball with ease, his confidence palpable. His purple hair, styled into a perfect mess, frames a face that could make anyone's heart skip a beat. But for you, the cheerleader with the megaphone, his charisma is a nuisance. As you go through the routine for the hundredth time, you can't help but notice the way the girls in the stands watch him. They whisper and giggle, passing notes, their eyes glued to his every move. It's like a scene out of a teen romance novel, except you’re not the protagonist and Yano is definitely not the love interest. You have history, not the good kind. Your rivalry is legendary, fueled by his smug smiles and your sharp retorts. During the game, you exchange glances that are more like glares. Each time he scores, he struts past you with a smirk. You want to ignore him, but his cocky demeanor is like a magnet, pulling your attention in his direction. The crowd goes wild, and even though you’re supposed to be cheering for him, something about the way he carries himself grates on your nerves. After what feels like an eternity, the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game. You’ve won, of course, thanks mostly to Yano's impressive performance. The team jumps and huddles, their cheers echoing through the gym. As the crowd starts to disperse, Yano makes his way over to you, the smugness now replaced by a look of determination. He takes the megaphone out of your hand with a wink.

[VillainxVillain] The chilly night air is pierced by the sound of your boots as you tread through the deserted alleyway. The echo bounces off the graffiti-covered walls, each step a little louder than the last. A stray cat darts out of your path, its eyes reflecting the neon glow from the distant streetlights. You're not here to cause trouble, at least not the kind that involves animals. Your eyes scan the shadows, searching for the one you're supposed to meet. Suddenly, a figure emerges from the gloom, tall and lanky with a wild grin painted on its face. The clown's makeup is smeared, a grotesque parody of happiness that sends a chill down your spine. You recognize him immediately— it's Bitter the clown, the one who has been stirring chaos in the city alongside you for decades. His eyes lock onto yours, piercing and uncanny as ever. He saunters over, his oversized shoes slapping the damp pavement. In one hand, he holds a bouquet of wilted flowers, in the other, a gun. He raises the weapon, pointing it at your head with a flourish. The barrel of the gun is cold and unwavering. You know it's loaded— Bitter isn't one for empty gestures. You stand your ground, heart racing. You've played this game before, the dance of love and hate that has kept you entwined for so long. You’re both villains of the city, each with a penchant for the dramatic. But Bitter's eyes are more intense than ever, the clownish smile on his face twitching at the edges, hinting at something more than just a theatrical threat. You watch him carefully as he shifts the gun to his own temple, his finger caressing the trigger. The click is deafening in the silence, and for a split second, your heart stops. But instead of pulling it, Bitter leans closer, his eyes boring into yours, like a dare, a promise, a declaration of his twisted affection. A smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth. You've seen this act before, but it never gets old. You know he's serious, in his own deranged way.

The fluorescent lights of the room flicker and buzz, casting a stark glow on the worn wooden table. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee and nerves. You've been waiting here for hours, a pen tapping against the pad of paper in your lap, the rhythm echoing off the cold cinderblock walls. Finally, the door creaks open and two officers enter, one with a clipboard and the other with a set of keys. They nod at you, the lawyer who's been assigned to the case of the infamous "Gentleman Bandit." You've read about him in the papers, a modern-day Robin Hood of sorts, who leaves a single rose at each of his crime scenes. They lead him in, and your heart skips a beat. He's taller than you imagined, with piercing blue eyes that seem to look straight through you. His chiseled jaw is clenched, and the tight black t-shirt he's wearing under his leather jacket hints at the muscular physique hidden beneath. The handcuffs around his wrists glint as he takes his seat opposite you, a cocky smirk playing on his lips. He's the picture of arrogance, yet there's something vulnerable about him that makes your stomach flutter. You remind yourself to stay professional, but your eyes can't help but linger on the faint scar above his eyebrow and the way his hair falls into his eyes. The officers remove his cuffs, and he flexes his wrists, the sound of leather on skin making you flinch. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail, and you wonder what he's thinking. Is he planning an escape, or is he just bored?

You wake up to the rhythmic slap of waves against the wooden hull of the longship. Your muscles ache, your eyes burn from the salty sea air. The only light filters through a small gap in the planks above, casting eerie shadows on the faces of your fellow captives. A gruff voice calls out in a language you don't understand, and you brace yourself as the ship hits the shore. The sound of boots stomping and ropes creaking fills your ears. The plank is lifted, and you're bathed in the cold light of day. Your eyes slowly adjust to the scene before you: a village in ruins, the smell of burning thatch and fear thick in the air. A giant of a man, Rune, stands before you, his eyes piercing through the chaos. His beard is matted with blood, and his axe hangs loosely in his grip. There's a hint of something in his gaze - a flicker of humanity that seems out of place on a Viking raider. He nods to you, and you're dragged out of the hold, the chains around your wrists and ankles cutting into your skin. Rune watches you, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a strange curiosity in his gaze, as if he's searching for something beneath the terror etched on your face. He says something in a low voice to one of the other Vikings, and suddenly you're pulled aside from the group, the chains around your neck tightening painfully. You gasp for air, your eyes wide with fear, but he simply nods again and gestures for the other raiders to continue without you. You wonder if he's the one who vouched for your spared life. You're taken to a tent at the edge of the encampment. The flaps open, and you're shoved inside. The darkness is a brief respite from the horror outside, but the smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies is suffocating. You collapse onto a pile of furs, the weight of your chains pulling you down. Night falls, and the campfire casts an orange glow through the tent fabric. You find yourself drawn to the flap, watching the shadows of the Vikings move outside.

You're a young CEO's child, living a life of luxury and privilege. You've always had a fascination with the dark side of life. You've read books about gangs and mafia that glammed up their violent lifestyles, and sometimes you wondered what it would be like to be a part of it all. Little did you know, your curiosity would soon become a terrifying reality. One evening, a black sedan with tinted windows pulls up beside you. Before you can react, strong arms yank you into the backseat. You're blindfolded and your hands are bound, the rough rope biting into your wrists. You're taken to a dark room where the blindfold is removed. The walls are lined with weapons, the floor sticky with what you hope is spilled wine. A man sits in a chair across from you, his face in shadow, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He laughs amused, his voice like gravel rolling over a microphone as he says that you look alike. Alike? What does that mean? The man introduces himself as the notorious mafia boss, Andras. He explains that his fiancée, an offspring of a rival family, betrayed him. In a fit of rage, he ended their life. But the family, powerful and cruel, demands a scapegoat for their kids disappearance. He needs someone to take their place, to be seen at his side, to convince them their child is still alive. That someone, apparently, is you. He shows you a photo of the dead fiancée. The resemblance is uncanny. With a twist of fate, you're thrust into a world of deceit and danger. Your hair is hastily dyed to match, your features altered just enough to pass. You're given a new name, a new backstory, and a mission: to play the part so well that no one suspects a thing. The first night is a blur of instructions, he teaches you the mannerisms, the speech patterns, the very essence of his deceased fiancée. His grip on your arm is like a vice as he whispers the consequences of failure. The one who betrayed him is dead, and you're now their living, breathing double.

You wake up with a start, the cold concrete of the alley jolting you back to reality. The air is thick with the stench of decay, the distant sound of groans echoing through the abandoned streets. You've been wandering alone in the post-apocalyptic wasteland for days, dodging the shambling, mindless creatures that used to be people. As you gather your bearings, the cobblestone alley opens up to reveal a makeshift camp, the flickering light of a fire casting eerie shadows on the rusted metal and decaying wood. The laughter you heard earlier is now clearer, a sharp contrast to the silence of the dead world. It's a sound that both comforts and alarms you. You cautiously approach, keeping your knife at the ready, and are met by a group of survivors. Their eyes are hard, their clothes are torn and stained, but there's a glimmer of life in their gazes that you haven't seen in a long time. They size you up, assessing your threat level, and you do the same to them. After a tense silence, one of them nods and motions for you to come closer. You spend the next week with them, learning their routines, their rules. They're a tough bunch, but they know how to survive in this hellish landscape. Each member has a role, a specialty that keeps them all alive. There's the silent leader, the medic, the engineer, and then there's Samael. They say it's Hebrew for "venom," and his cold, calculating demeanour certainly lives up to it. He's the group's sniper, often perched on rooftops, picking off zombies from afar with unnerving precision. He's a puzzle, his behaviour always one step removed from everyone else's. One day, you're out on a scavenging mission, rummaging through the remains of a convenience store. The shelves are bare, picked clean by countless others before you, but you're still hopeful. Samael is perched above, his rifle trained on the horizon, watching for any signs of danger. But then- without warning, he makes an animal sound, something between a growl and a howl.

In the quiet, dusty alleyways of Edo, where the shadows stretch out like the arms of a lazy god, a solitary figure moves with a sense of urgency. You are a healer, not by trade, but by necessity, for in this world, compassion is a luxury that few can afford. You turn a corner, and there he lies, a man whose very existence is a declaration of his crimes. Akuma, the name you've given him, for the snarling beast that adorns his back, a pattern of ink and pain that speaks of his dark past. His breaths are shallow, his skin clammy with fever. You can see the fresh blood seeping through his clothes, a crimson blossom unfurling in the twilight. The tattoos that cover his body tell a story of violence and rebellion, each line a silent shout of his transgressions. With gentle hands, you lift him into the safety of your small abode. The room is sparsely furnished, with only a futon, a low wooden table, and a few earthenware pots filled with herbs and remedies. As you clean his wounds, you wonder about the choices that led him to this moment, and whether you're making the right choice in helping him. Days turn to weeks as Akuma slowly regains his strength under your care. His eyes, once cold and distant, begin to warm with a flicker of gratitude. You feed him broth and watch as the color returns to his cheeks. Each day, as you change his bandages, you notice the intricate detail of the ink that covers his skin, a canvas of a world you can't begin to understand. One evening, as you sit beside him, his hand snakes out and grabs your throat. His grip is firm, but not tight enough to cut off your air. His gaze locks onto yours, a storm brewing in the depths of his eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, a trapped bird desperate to flee. Yet, you remain still, staring into the abyss that is Akuma's soul. You know the danger that lurks within him, the chaos that his tattoos represent. But you also see the man beneath the ink, the one who's suffered the weight of his own demons.

You lay on the stiff, grey cot in your tiny cell, listening to the muffled noises of the prison. The echo of footsteps down the hall, the distant clanging of bars, and the murmur of voices, all mixing together into a strange kind of music that's become your daily lullaby. Your name is inked in bold letters on your right forearm, a relic from your days with the gang. You're used to the open road, the roar of engines, and the thrill of the chase. But now, you're just another number in a sea of them, stuck behind bars for a crime that seemed like a good idea at the time. And unfortunately every day seems to be the same at „Vostok 05“— a high-security prison for the most dangerous inmates. You roll onto your side and catch a glimpse of yourself in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. The bruises from your last encounter with the guards are fading, but the fire in your eyes hasn't dimmed. You know you're a handful for anyone who tries to tame you, and that's what makes you feel alive. You've had your fair share of run-ins with the law, but none have been quite like this. The guards here are tough, and the one they call "Vic" is the toughest of them all. Victor, the Russian giant of a guard, is your new reality. His eyes are as cold as the steel bars that keep you in, his voice a gruff bark that sends shivers down your spine. He's not one for small talk, or any talk for that matter. His job is to keep you in line, and he does it with an unyielding hand. But there's something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart race, something in those piercing green eyes that suggests maybe, just maybe, he's not entirely immune to your charms. You decide to test the waters. The next time he brings you food, you lean closer than necessary, letting your fingers graze his as you take the tray. His gaze flicks up to meet yours, and you hold it, a smoldering fire in your eyes. You can almost feel the heat coming off him, see the flicker of surprise in his expression.

In a world where shadows whispered secrets and hearts bled ink, there lived a creature of ethereal beauty. Your essence was a kaleidoscope of love and happiness, a stark contrast to the monochromatic despair that painted the world outside your cage. Your eyes, two pools of warmth in a sea of darkness, reflected the purest form of kindness. Each breath you took brought with it a gentle sigh that could mend the most jaded of souls. You are the embodiment of joy, a mythical being that could brighten the grimmest of days. Yet here you are, trapped in a dark, suffocating prison. The bars of your cage are cold and unyielding, a stark reminder of the cruel fate that has befallen you. You don't know how you ended up here, but you know you don't belong. Your heart aches for the open skies and the warm embrace of the sun, for the laughter of children and the sweet whispers of a mother's lullaby. Above you, the heavy boots of a man echo through the room. He is the one they call the "Collector." His job is to find and capture the rare, the exotic, and the powerful. You are none of those things, yet here you are, a prize in his eyes. He descends the stairs, the thud of his steps growing louder as he approaches. His presence is a chilling breeze that makes even the most stoic of hearts tremble. As he draws closer, you feel a strange curiosity stir within you. There is a sadness in his eyes, a depth that seems to mirror the abyss of his soul. He carries a heavy burden, one that has twisted him into the stern, cold-hearted spirit he is today. Yet, as he reaches for the lock of your cage, you find yourself reaching out to him, your hand extending through the bars. He flinches, a look of pure terror crossing his scarred face. But you don't understand why. After all, you are just a creature of love, aren't you? You tilt your head, your eyes filled with a silent question. Why does he fear you? Why does he, a creature of such power and malice, cower before the embodiment of love?

You notice him the moment you step into the day room of the psychiatric ward, his eyes as vivid as the paintings that line the walls. Kyungsoo, they simply call him Kyu. He's the new patient, the one who arrived last night with a file thicker than the others, the one the nurses whisper about in hushed tones. He sits alone, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the table in front of him. The pieces are a mess of colors, none fitting quite right, much like the thoughts in your own head. As you make your way over, the air seems to thicken, charged with an energy you can't quite place. His gaze lifts, locking onto you, and you're frozen, unable to look away from the intensity in his stare. His eyes are a storm of emotions you've seen mirrored in your own reflection. You know that look, that craving for chaos and control, the thirst for something beyond the confines of sanity. Kyu's hand moves, a sudden, jerky motion, and he slams a piece into place. It doesn't fit, but he doesn't care. He's not trying to solve the puzzle; he's trying to break it. You find yourself smiling, a twisted mirror of his own madness. You've always had a soft spot for the broken things, the ones that refuse to conform to the rigid expectations of a world that doesn't understand. He glances up, catching your smile, and for a brief moment, you see a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare that sends a shiver down your spine. But instead of scaring you away, it intrigues you. You want to know what's behind that look, what makes him tick, what drives the darkness that you suspect lies just beneath the surface. You take a breath and sit down across from him, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor. Without a word, he slides the piece closer to you, an unspoken invitation to join his world of disarray and discovery. You accept it, placing the piece where you think it belongs. It fits perfectly, and you both stare at it, surprised.

The crowd's roar is deafening as the octagon lights blaze down on the fighters. You're here, in the nosebleed seats. The fighters enter the cage, both looking intense and ready to tear each other apart. You spot your boyfriend Kaito, the one you've supported through every bruise, every drop of sweat, and every sleepless night. You lean forward, your knuckles white as you grip the railing. The first round is a blur of fists and legs, but Kaito seems confident. The bell rings, and the fighters retreat to their corners. You watch as he gets patched up, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with determination and love. He nods, silently reassuring you that he's got this. The second round begins. Each punch thrown feels like it's landing in your stomach. You wince every time he's hit, feeling the pain resonate through the arena. The crowd chants his name, and you join in, willing him to victory. His opponent is tough, but your fighter is tougher. You've seen him train, seen the sweat and blood pour into the mats, and now, it's all coming to fruition. It’s the third round, and you can see the exhaustion etched on his face. Yet, he pushes through, driven by the roar of the crowd and the promise of your kiss waiting for him. His opponent lands a solid hit, and for a moment, you hold your breath. But Kaito shakes it off, his resolve unwavering. The final bell rings, and you can't believe it's over. He's won. You're on your feet, screaming his name, your heart racing. The referee raises his hand, and the arena goes wild. You reach the cage, the security guards nod at you, knowing you by now. You lean against the fence, feeling the metal bite into your palms. You're always the first one he looks for, even amidst the chaos of the cage. The interviews, the doctor's checks, the gloves coming off, all of it happens in a dizzying blur. But his eyes are on you, and you know that in a moment, you'll be the only person in the world that matters.

[Stardew Valley] In the quiet lands of Stardew Valley, you step off the bus with a sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift from your shoulders. The dusty road stretches before you, leading to the overgrown plot of land that is now yours. Your grandfather's farm, left to you in his will, holds the promise of a fresh start, a life of simplicity and hard work. The air is crisp, the trees rustle with the whispers of a new chapter. You've traded the office cubicle for a pair of overalls and a straw hat, eager to get your hands dirty. It is Friday. As you wander into town, you notice a figure perched on the edge of the local bar, The Stardrop Saloon. You’ve heard his name was Sebastian, a brooding young man with piercing eyes and a scruff of dark hair. His posture is stiff, his gaze distant, as if he's trying to push the world away. You've heard whispers about him, he lives with his family in the shadow of the mountains. Despite his reputation, there's something intriguing about his solitary existence that draws you in. You muster the courage to approach him, offering a warm smile that feels like sunshine breaking through a storm cloud. Sebastian glances up, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes. You introduce yourself, explaining that you're the new owner of the old farm down the road. The silence between you is thick, but you press on, asking him about life in Pelican Town. Sebastian, it turns out, is surprisingly talkative once you crack his icy exterior. He tells you about his band, the upcoming festivals, and his love for the night sky. His words flow like a river at midnight, dark and deep, hinting at a world of unexplored depths beneath his reclusive persona. You listen intently, the dim light of the saloon casting a warm glow on his features, making him seem less intimidating. His passion for the stars resonates within you, reminding you of the quiet nights you used to spend stargazing with your grandpa on the very land you now call home.

You're just an ordinary college student, juggling classes, a part-time job, and a passion for K-pop that consumes your free time. Tonight, you've pushed yourself too hard, cramming for a test until the room spins. You decide to step outside for a breather, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the stifling dorm room. As you stumble down the dimly lit alley, the thump of bass from the nearby club echoes in your ears. The rhythm seems to pulse through the concrete, syncing with your racing heart. Behind the club, you notice a figure leaning against the brick wall. He's tall, with hair dyed the shade of a summers sky and brown eyes as piercing as the stars above. For a moment, you're convinced it's your favorite idol Chan-woo, but that's ridiculous. They don't just appear out of the shadows like a mirage. You blink, hoping to clear your vision, but when you look again, he's still there. His eyes meet yours, a curious smile playing on his lips as he takes a drag from his cigarette. The ember burns bright, a stark contrast to his otherwise monochrome attire. The stranger's outfit is simple, yet it screams 'idol': a black leather jacket over a black dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his tattooed collarbone. His jeans are artfully ripped, and his boots shine with the same kind of perfection that graces the stages he dominates. You're frozen in place, unable to believe your eyes. This can't be real, can it? As if sensing your disbelief, Chan-woo pushes off the wall and approaches you, the sound of his boots echoing off the alley. He holds out his hand to steady you, and you feel the warmth of his touch seeping through your hoodie. His grip is firm, yet gentle, a stark contrast to the cool metal of his pierced ears. You can't help but stare at his hand, the tattoos wrapping around his fingers, telling a silent story that you long to hear aloud.

Theodore, or "little Theo" as the patrons of the El Dorado casino like to call him, has a flair for the dramatic. With each step he takes across the plush red carpet, the heels of his shiny black boots click like a metronome keeping time to the jazzy tunes that fill the smoky air. His outfit is a spectacle in itself - a tight red corset that cinches his waist, fishnet tights that cling to his legs like a second skin, and a red collar that is just the right shade of crimson to match his full, glossy lips. Above the din of the slot machines and the murmur of gamblers, the jingle of the coins in his pocket was almost comforting. Theo's eyes dart around the bustling casino floor, searching for his next customer. The El Dorado is a cacophony of sound and color, with neon lights reflecting off the polished chrome surfaces and the clinking of glasses punctuating the air. The scent of money, cologne, and desperation mingled together in a heady cocktail that is almost as potent as the whiskey being served at the bar. He approaches you at the roulette table, your face a mix of excitement and concentration as you watch the little white ball spin. Theo’s voice is a silky purr as he asks if you care for a smoke. It’s a stark contrast to the gruff tones that usually accompany such an offer. You look up, and for a moment, your expression shifts from interest in the game to surprise at the sight of the young boy with the tray of cigarettes around his neck. Theo has a way of making you forget your astonishment with a wink and a smile. Your eyes never leave him, your fingers grabbing a thick cigar from the tray and tucking it into the corner of your mouth. Your lips taste bitter as you ask him how much it costs.

You squint against the afternoon glare, your sweaty hands holding onto the edge of a worn-out wooden plank. Your eyes narrow as you study the piece of paper in front of you. The faded ink shows a face that is all too familiar. You hadn't seen that face in years, but the resemblance is unmistakable. It is your long-lost cousin, staring back at you with a cold, hardened gaze—now a wanted man. The poster has a hefty price on his head, enough to make anyone's blood boil with greed. The townsfolk pay you no mind as you fold the poster and tuck it into your pocket. The air has the scent of leather and sweat, a silent pattern of whispers and footsteps that echoes through the streets. The town is a mirage of a place, a collection of buildings that look like they had been painted onto a canvas and left to dry in the harsh desert heat. As you stride towards the saloon, you feel the weight of your decision pressing down on you. It isn’t about the money—well, not just the money. It is about justice, or maybe redemption. Or maybe it is about settling an old score. Whatever it is, you know you can’t ignore the poster. The saloon's swinging doors creak open, revealing a dimly lit room. The scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke hits you like a fist. You spot the bounty hunter immediately. They call him Cougar. Because just like cougars, he is an efficient hunter who silently stalks and ambushes his prey. The young man sits at the bar, his hat tipped low over his eyes, the gun in his holster glinting with danger. His fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the sticky surface of the counter. He is handsome, sure, but it is the confidence that radiates from him that is truly striking. You approach, your boots scuffing the floorboards, each step echoing in the hushed room. Cougar looks up, and for a moment, your eyes meet—the cool green meeting your weary gaze. The tension is palpable, a silent understanding passing between you as you slide onto the stool next to him.

The room is dimly lit, the fading light of day struggling to peek through the narrow slits of the blinds. You are a seasoned nurse with a stethoscope around your neck, expecting another mundane evening shift. The smell of antiseptic fills the air, a scent so familiar it's almost comforting. As you approach room 314, the muffled cries of pain and the rhythmic beeps of monitors create a soothing pattern of human survival. You've seen it all before, yet you feel a peculiar heaviness in your stomach today. With a gentle knock, you enter the room, expecting the usual greeting of groans and complaints. Instead, you find the patient Moonbin, a young man that was hospitalized with a gunshot wound, perched on the edge of his hospital bed. His are eyes fixated on something you can't quite make out. His hand is curled around a blood bag, a crimson stream snaking its way down to his parted lips. The hospital gown is speckled with what you hope is not what it looks like—tiny, macabre polka dots of red. A grin, wide and unnerving, stretches across his face. He's so focused on his task that he doesn't notice you at first. You freeze in the doorway, the cold metal of the clipboard in your hand feeling suddenly heavy. You've seen a lot in your career, but nothing quite like this. You've heard of patients doing odd things when on medication or experiencing delirium, but Moonbin seems eerily coherent. The blood bag in his hand is a stark contrast to the pristine whiteness of the bed linen. You take a tentative step forward, the squeak of your shoes on the clean linoleum floor breaking the silence. Moonbin's head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours. His smile doesn't waver, but there's something feral behind it that sends a chill down your spine. You've read the charts, his injuries were severe. And yet his wound closed up, while now, here he is, seemingly drinking from the very essence of life itself. What’s the deal with this mysterious man?

(This is a BL-Story) You're walking home from school, the same old path you take every day, lined with the familiar sakura trees that blossom pink in the spring. But today, the air feels heavier than usual, the weight of the books in your bag seemingly doubled. The sidewalks are crowded with students, all chattering away in their cliques, oblivious to the world outside their bubbles. Turning the corner, you're met with the usual scene: the group of bullies who have made it their mission to make your life a living hell because you’re a petite boy. They spot you from afar, their grins spreading wide as they start to close in. You try to quicken your pace, but your legs feel like lead, your heart racing in your chest. You know what's coming, the taunts and shoves, the cruel laughter that echoes in your ears long after the school day ends. As you stumble under the force of their pushes, the world around you seems to slow down. Their laughter become a distant buzz, the clack of your shoes on the concrete a solitary rhythm in the chaos. You hit the ground, pain shooting through your body, and for a brief moment, you consider just laying there, giving up on the struggle to stand. But then, a shadow falls over you, and the laughter abruptly halt. You look up, expecting to see the looming figures of your tormentors, but instead, you're met with a sight that sends a jolt of confusion through your veins. There's a young man standing over you, his height a stark contrast to your own. His muscular frame and broad shoulders seem to dwarf the surrounding environment, and his eyes, a piercing grey, are fixed on the retreating bullies. He hasn’t said a word yet, just hunched slightly, his hands in his pockets, a silent challenge in his stance. His very presence commands the situation. His grin, wide and knowing, sends a shiver down your spine. The bullies, suddenly cowed, take off in a flurry of hasty footsteps, disappearing around the corner.

You stumble into the kitchen, squinting against the morning light. Your hair, a mess of spikes, sticks out in every direction. Your eyes searching the counter for the coffee pot. The kitchen door creaks open and in walks Hisashi, his milkbrown hair gleaming like rich caramel. His cinnamon eyes search the room, finally landing on you. He murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. There is a certain charm to Hisashi’s laziness, the way his shirt is unbuttoned slightly at the neck, showing a hint of collarbone. Your heart skips a beat, a sensation you’ve grown accustomed to over the years. Hisashi has been a part of your family for as long as you can remember. His mother had passed away when he was only ten, leaving his father to battle his demons in a rehabilitation clinic. Your parents had taken him in without hesitation, offering a warm embrace and a stable home. You’re not blood related, but you grew closer than most siblings would. And as you got older, you couldn't shake the feeling that your bond was something more. The kitchen is silent except for the steady dripping of the coffee machine. Your thoughts race, trying to piece together the events of last night. The party was wild, it was the kind of night that made you feel invincible. But it was the quiet moments between the chaos that left a mark. The way Hisashi looked at you when you were alone in the hallway, his eyes filled with a yearning that mirrored your own. The brush of your fingers as you exchanged a beer, the heat of your bodies when you bumped into each other in the crowded room. You pour two cups of coffee, you hand one to Hisashi, your fingers brushing briefly. The tension is palpable, thickening the air like a fog that neither of you knows how to navigate. Your mind races with the possibilities of what could happen if you confess your feelings. Would he feel the same? Would it change everything? Or would it shatter the delicate balance of your relationship into a million unfixable pieces.

In these ancient Japanese times, you’re not a human of this world, but a god, the embodiment of the fiercest element—thunder. A deity revered by few but feared by many. Your eyes, a piercing shade of lightning blue, often remain shrouded in the shadows of your ancient temple, where the air is thick with the scent of incense and the whispers of prayers. Your days are spent in quiet contemplation, your only companion the occasional pilgrim seeking your divine intervention. Yet, there is one creature who shares your sanctum, a being bound to you by an invisible chain of fate—Bunta, your Tanuki Shinshi, a shapeshifter with the power to take on human form. Bunta’s hazel eyes, though human-like, carry the mischievous spark of his true nature. He flits through the hallowed halls, his movements a silent dance, his collar adorned with a symbol of his master's power—a lightning bolt. Your bond is an ancient one, a secret kept hidden behind the sacred veil of the gods. The Tanuki, with his ability to shift and blend into the mortal world, serves as your eyes and ears. His loyalty is unwavering, a testament to the trust placed in him by the very hand that created his kind. But within the confines of the temple, a different kind of bond has grown—one that whispers of love and longing in a world that forbids such feelings between gods and their servants. Your days are filled with a strange harmony, a dance of duty and desire that neither can fully understand nor ignore. You watch Bunta with a gentle gaze, your heart echoing with an emotion that shakes the very core of your divine being. Bunta, for his part, performs his tasks with diligence, all the while acutely aware of the growing warmth in your gaze. You share meals in companionable silence, the crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound between you, as the light flickers over the collar that marks him as the property of a deity.