It was my friend, my constant light, A glowing world, both day and night. From castles ruled by power swords, To a guitar hero with riffs and chords. On Saturdays, it took us wide, With honey pots and science guides. From DuckTales skies to Scooby’s fright, I lived in its flicker, day and night. My teacher came with a gentle tone, With songs and kindness softly shown. Mr. Rogers taught us to care and share, While Kermit and Big Bird took us there. Captain Kangaroo with his warm delight, Made mornings bright, pure and light. Sitcoms filled the evenings' glow, Perfect Strangers' laughs would flow. The Wonder Years, so bittersweet, With life's small moments, complete. Video games became our quest, Mega Man's leaps and Sonic's zest. Mario's worlds, so bright, so vast, Each pixel adventure made to last. In Tetris blocks, we'd build and spin, While combos won on Street Fighter's win. Movies were magic, reels of gold, Timeless tales that never grow old. The Force would call in a galaxy far, Each lightsaber duel left a glowing scar. Back to the Future's twists in time, Ferris Bueller's day felt sublime. We watched epic moments unfold onscreen— David Copperfield's magic tricks unseen. Thriller's moves and the King of Pop's flair, The world in awe, we awaited to be there. Through it, I found a world so new— Voltron's lions, Sailor Moon's crew. Doraemon's gadgets and dreams that soar, K-pop rhythms opened a global door. It was my keeper, my guiding flame, My babysitter, my jester, my game. But sitting beside me, year by year, Was my brother—close, yet not so near. What if I had put down the remote, And talked with him instead of it, let the quiet moments fill the space, Of all the things I didn’t do. But now he's gone, his battle done, Taken too soon by cancer's run. I wish I'd known, I wish I'd tried, To trade the screen for time by his side.

The door creaks softly as you step into Cafe Noir, the comforting scent of freshly brewed espresso wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of patrons scattered across mismatched tables. Over by the wide window, a man sits slouched in a chair, streaks of white threading through his otherwise dark hair. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, stare blankly at the world beyond the glass. He blinks slowly, fighting off sleep. You make your way over, the muted clink of cups and the low hum of conversation fading into the background. “Huh?” He jolts upright as you approach. “Oh, hey. Glad you made it. Was about to doze off there.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him. You sit, and soon the conversation drifts to your shared obsession—the Talkie app, and the bane of its users: draconian photo restrictions. “I get why they’re strict,” he admits, fingers tracing lazy circles on the rim of his coffee cup. “But it’s how they handle it that bugs me. Just deleting the photo outright? Come on. Even if you appeal, what’s the point? The damage is done.” You nod, commiserating over the frustrations of digital life, where art and creativity often bow to rigid rules. The conversation flows like the coffee between you—bitter at times, but familiar, grounding.

You finally get the courage to ask your dream girl to become your girlfriend. First you invite her to go hiking. You bring your dog so that it’s less awkward. Then at the bottom of the trail you reach the waterfall, where you confess your feelings… and get utterly rejected. She was blindsided by the confession, and said that she just wanted to remain friends. You weren’t her type. The walk back to the car was silent and awkward. Feeling partially responsible, Patricia proposes that she help you in your dating life by being your wingwoman and helping you better understand what woman really want. (8/11)

THE AHALYA INCIDENT A Cordelia High Story “Sit down and SHUT YOUR MOUTH before your entitlement writes a check your grades can’t cash.” The voice is sharp, the words precise. Seventeen seconds of grainy classroom footage—no lead-in, no aftermath. Just Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent Yarrow’s desk, her posture rigid, her tone cutting. Across the desk, your assistant Sarah shifts uncomfortably. She’s holding her phone like it’s radioactive. “It’s spreading fast,” she says. “Parents have started calling. Brent’s father left two voicemails. He wants a meeting this afternoon.” Of course he does. Brent Yarrow. Cordelia’s golden boy — lacrosse captain, legacy student, loud in the halls and louder at home. Son of Marcus Yarrow, who practically considers the Board of Trustees his personal chessboard. Brent has a mouth on him. Teachers complain, quietly. But nothing ever sticks. Nothing ever matters. Until now. You play the clip again. There’s Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent’s desk — posture still, voice locked down tight, but eyes burning. You’ve known her for seven years. She rarely raises her voice above the scrape of chalk on a board. She’s never once set foot in your office for anything disciplinary. Not once. And now — this.

HIGH MARKS, HIGHER STAKES A Cordelia High Story Cordelia High is quiet just before first bell, the kind of stillness that only exists in schools built before the internet—brick hallways, metal lockers, and the low hum of fluorescents always a little too bright. You’re the principal now. Three years into the job, and the board still watches everything. They want progress. Test scores. Stability. Clean data. This morning, you open your email and find a message from the district’s assessment office: SUBJECT: Testing Irregularity Notification “Cordelia High has triggered a test integrity alert. Ms. Akari Tanaka’s English students scored in the 98th percentile—an anomaly. Please initiate an internal investigation.” You blink at the screen. Lynn? She’s one of your best. Always early, always grading. The kind of teacher who stays late with seniors rewriting college essays. Never a single disciplinary mark. And yet… those numbers are high. Maybe too high. A soft tap at your door. Sarah, your assistant, peeked in, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Ms. Tanaka is here to see you. She says she saw the district report." Before you could even fully register that, the door opened a bit wider, and Lynn stepped in. Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were bone-white, but her voice, though soft, was as steady as bedrock.

Scene: Dads Group The bright, slightly harsh lights of an indoor basketball gym cast long shadows across the polished court on a quiet Thursday afternoon. The rhythmic thud of bouncing balls echoed through the cavernous space, a constant, low hum beneath the excited chirps of children darting between folded-up bleachers, dribbling half-deflated basketballs. Near a cluster of gym bags and discarded coffee cups, three men had gathered, their low voices a counterpoint to the youthful energy. One of them, a man with a somewhat uneven beard and a faded hoodie bearing the logo of a local HVAC company, adjusted a pack-n-play near the sidelines. He looked up, a half-smile gracing his lips as his infant daughter, clad in a tiny onesie covered in cartoon bears, flailed happily within its confines. "Hey there—must be our flyer guy," he said, rising to offer a handshake. "This circus is my idea. Welcome to Dad Gym." Folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle, a cooler offered Gatorade and a few sad-looking granola bars, and a whiteboard still bore the half-erased doodles of a previous group. The atmosphere was undeniably informal, yet there was a clear, quiet intention to it. This wasn't a venting circle or a therapy session. It was simply a meeting place, a space where no one felt the need to pretend they had it all figured out.

The LoveMatch theme music hit, cameras sweeping across the glowing stage. Buck Cottontree stood at its heart, his megawatt smile in place, tux crisp under the bright lights. "Welcome back to Love Match," he announced, "Our next bachelorette is smart, spontaneous, and might just have a suitcase packed for love—put your hands together for Madison Blake!" Applause swelled as a striking blonde stepped into the spotlight. Her rose-pink dress flowed with grace as she joined Buck at the center, offering a bright smile that carried a hint of a question. "Madison, welcome to LoveMatch," Buck said. "You look incredible." "Thanks," she replied, a small, almost shy laugh escaping her. "Not gonna lie, being here feels a little wild." "It’s all in good fun. So, where'd you grow up?" "San Diego. Always the kid climbing fences, biking too fast, sneaking off to watch planes take off." "And now you fly for a living." "Yeah. Flight attendant, six years," she confirmed. "I love it. It just keeps me moving, you know? Keeps things from getting stagnant." Buck's tone softened. "And love? Has that kept up with you?" Maddy hesitated, then gave a slight shrug. "I thought I had it once. Gave a lot of myself to someone who... didn't quite see me, I guess. So now, I'm trying to be more careful. But definitely not closed off." A brief, unscripted beat of silence hung in the air. Buck offered a genuinely empathetic smile. "Well, we've got a few people behind that wall who just might be exactly what you've been looking for." Maddy's eyes flicked to the curtain, a flicker of curiosity in them. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?" "Madison Blake, everyone!" Buck announced, bringing the energy back up. "Let's get this show started!" She stepped gracefully aside, her smile returning—this time a little slower, tinged with genuine anticipation. The show was about to begin.

You wake to the scent of rust and ozone deep beneath Forsyth Terminal, Stillwatch’s hidden base. Beyond the bunker wall, footsteps echo—measured, deliberate. Mara Rostova, cloaked in worn desert garb, steps into the light of the strategy table. A pale glow shimmers across salvaged tech and maps scarred with inked paths and coded threats. She doesn’t speak at first. Just slides a battered data slate forward. “Three months of samples,” she says, voice low and focused. “Air. Soil. Water. All clean. Unnaturally clean.” Colin Bennett leans in, arms crossed. His long, graying blond hair catches the dim light like steel threads. “We already knew they were untouched. So?” She taps the screen. “I triangulated the atmospheric anomaly. A controlled filtration field—engineered. Likely old-world tech. And the source…” A new image flashes: Dr. Lang, Chief of Environmental Systems. Former Global Terra Solutions. His signature sits beneath recalibrated schematics. “He’s not just maintaining air quality,” Mara says. “He’s suppressing environmental signatures. Whatever caused Crossout doesn’t register inside the Thorn. They’re hiding more than immunity—they’re hiding evidence.” Colin’s jaw tightens. His frustration melts into cold precision. “Can we isolate the weak points?” She nods. “The filtration nodes. If we disrupt them, not only does the cover drop—we force them to react. That’s when we move.” For a moment, silence. Then Mara looks him in the eye. “You have my clearance. Prepare the strike.” Colin straightens, his expression hardening like armor. “‘Bout damn time.” You trail behind him as the command is relayed down the corridor, sentries snapping to readiness. The hum of dormant machines awakens, and the map of the Scarlet Thorn glows red. War is coming. And this time, you’re not watching from the shadows.

The taxi eases to a stop outside Studio Lot B, its wheels crunching softly over loose gravel. From the back seat, Giulia Romano watches the glow of the LoveMatch logo flicker on a distant billboard. It’s sleeker than she imagined—glamorous, polished, all spotlights and silhouettes. Not exactly the place you’d expect to find someone like her. And yet, here she is. She reaches for her bag and opens the door herself, waving off the driver with a polite, “Thank you.” As she rises, there’s a subtle stiffness to her movement, a momentary pause that’s easy to miss—unless you’re looking for it. One heel lands carefully. Then the other. Her balance is precise, measured. Controlled. She takes a breath of studio air—cool, artificial, buzzing faintly with anticipation. A woman in all black approaches, clipboard in hand, comms mic curled behind one ear. “Ms. Romano?” she asks with a practiced smile. “We are so thrilled to have you here for LoveMatch. The prep team’s upstairs and ready for you—hair, makeup, wardrobe. Are you ready to find love on national television?” Giulia exhales through her nose, lips pulling into something dry and honest. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says. “I just need the right dress.” The assistant laughs, already leading the way inside. Giulia follows, walking with a grace just shy of effortless. She doesn’t stumble, but her pace tells a story—one most won’t notice. Not under these lights. Still, she knows. This isn’t just a show. It’s a choice—to be seen, exactly as she is.

Sophia sat in a velvet armchair, elegant and composed, her black dress smooth beneath her folded hands. One hand traced the hem over her lap—a quiet, unconscious gesture. As the LoveMatch theme swelled and the announcer’s voice began, her posture subtly softened. Her eyes closed for a single breath—centered and calm—then opened again with steady resolve. She was ready. “…BUCK COTTONTREE!” the offscreen announcer boomed, met by cheers. Buck bounded onto center stage, beaming. With a wink to the camera and a bounce in his step, he soaked in the applause like a seasoned showman. “Welcome to another captivating evening here on LoveMatch! I’m your host, Buck Cottontree. Tonight, our bachelorette embarks on a journey to find a connection that truly resonates.” Behind him, a velvet curtain hid three seated male silhouettes, lit from behind. “Each of these men is ready to charm our bachelorette with nothing more than their wit, voice, and authenticity. And now, let’s meet tonight’s eligible bachelorette… Sophia Gomez!” Applause filled the studio as Sophia smiled warmly, nodding in thanks. The camera caught her silver cross necklace glinting at her collarbone, her bare shoulders poised with calm grace. Buck turned toward her. “Sophia, what are you hoping to find tonight?” She glanced briefly at the silhouettes, then leaned into the mic. “I’ve had dates that started with physical attraction, but they didn’t last. I ended up feeling like I’d prioritized the wrong things. So tonight, I’m hoping to start with conversation—maybe build something real.” “Well said,” Buck replied with a smile. “Let’s see if we can make that happen.” He turned to the camera. “The quest for connection begins now. Stay with us… for LoveMatch!”

Your communicator shorted, medpack vaporized. The jump suit half-melted to your skin. Blood pours hot from your side. A single override in your system: Emergency Temporal Evasion. You pulled up the retrieval queue. Future key figures, individuals flagged for preservation or extraction. You scrolled with one hand, blood slicking the screen. Then you saw her. Mercy Prynne: classified as “medically trained midwife,” status: endangered. You didn’t know her. Only that she was already marked for rescue. And maybe, just maybe, capable of saving you too. You didn’t think about the time or place. You input her coordinate signature and hit Execute. And fell through the time portal, everything folded inward. *Salem Village – 16th of October, 1692 During the final swell of the Witch Trials, under the rule of Governor William Phips, Province of Massachusetts Bay* A girl from the village, Anne, had screamed that Mercy cursed her with nothing but a look. Said her belly twisted since. The midwife repeated it. The magistrate did not need more. Now the dogs are loose. Now the men with ropes are closing in. Mercy Prynne runs. Twigs snap beneath her shoes. Her breath cuts like glass in her throat. Her coif is torn, skirt soaked from the marsh, bodice clinging to her skin. Behind her—shouts. The dogs bark again. Closer. She bolts toward the trees, breath ragged… and the world rips open. A jagged light, blue and blazing, splits the dusk in half. It screams like thunder. Wind blasts outward in a circle of flattened leaves and startled birds. You crash from the breach and into the earth. Your ribs explode with pain. Blood pours hot from a cauterized gash. One arm is scorched, raw skin beneath charred fabric. You try to move, but your vision blurs. Everything smells of ozone and ash…

You were a South Korean K-pop idol once. Not one of the greats, but good enough to ride the wave when the genre was still crawling into global consciousness. Discovered in L.A. by a Korean label rep, you barely spoke the language but had the look—clean-cut, dimpled, dance-trained. They gave you a stage name, fixed your accent, and you mimicked the moves like a pro. Your group had two real hits—enough for endorsements, a weekend drama cameo, and the illusion of lasting fame. But it didn’t last. The group disbanded in 2001. You bounced between variety shows, cheesy hosting gigs, and finally landed as the face of a chicken joint. The signage still bore your name and a wink from your younger self. You smiled, posed, and handed out coupons like it was still 1997. That’s when she showed up. She was unremarkable at first glance. Round glasses, hair in a loose braid, soft-spoken. No fanfare, just a polite bow and a trembling voice. “Sunbae-nim,” she called you—an honorific you hadn’t heard in years. She told you your ballads meant something to her growing up. Then, shyly, she passed a USB drive and a note with her email scribbled on it. You thanked her, tossing it in your bag. And forgot about it. Days later, digging for gum, you found it again. Out of boredom, you plugged it in. The track was rough—bedroom-quality production, untrained vocals. But her voice lingered. Fragile. Honest. A little haunted. You listened again. And again. You checked her profile: seventeen, it claimed. You could tell she wasn’t. Older, but she could pull it off. Desperate, but not malicious. And as you imagined what training could do—what sound might suit her—you realized something. You weren’t just curious. You were thinking like a producer.

*Kiev – 12th day of February, 1204 AD During the reign of Roman Mstislavich, self-proclaimed Grand Prince* She was born a princess—but it didn’t save her. Predslava Rurikovna lived in the royal court of medieval Kievan Rus’, in what is now modern-day Ukraine. Her father, Rurik Rostislavich, ruled the city of Kiev, and from birth, Predslava was trained in diplomacy, faith, and silence. Her marriage to Roman Mstislavich was political—a union meant to balance rival dynasties and preserve peace. But Roman wanted a crown, not a wife. In 1203, he stormed Kiev, seized power, and forced her father into exile. The next year, to ensure no rival claims would rise from her family, Roman ordered Predslava tonsured—stripped of her titles, marriage, and name. It happened in February 1204, in the cold stone heart of a cathedral. Predslava stood beside her parents, all three bound in ritual cloth. Her father said nothing. Her mother trembled. The priest stepped forward with dull shears. The first cut tore through her golden-brown hair, pulling hard at the roots. A second stroke nicked the skin—a thin line of blood welled at her crown. She gasped, but no one moved. No blessing was given. This was not a spiritual calling. It was a public shaming disguised as holy rite. When it was done, her scalp was raw and cold. Her court gown was stripped away, replaced with a coarse black robe and veil. Her hair lay at her feet. Her identity with it. The chants began. Predslava did not scream. She looked up at the altar—and wept. At 28 years old, Predslava Rurikovna—the princess, the bride, the daughter of princes—was led into monastic exile. She was dead in the eyes of the world. Only the nun remained.

*Sippar – 4th day of the month of Nisannu (early April), 1635 BC. During the reign of King Ammiditana, ruler of the Babylonian Empire* In the city of Sippar, life began before sunrise. Tiratu, a common woman and skilled weaver, awoke to the scent of the cooking fire and the sound of her husband Asheru leaving for work in the irrigation ditches. She stirred the embers, ground barley for porridge, and listened to the soft breaths of their son, Nabu, still asleep. After breakfast, she fetched water from the canal, exchanging quiet gossip with the other women about the increasing presence of soldiers in the city and the temple’s rising demands. Her thoughts tightened as she carried the heavy water jar home. The rumors of unrest and the squeeze on local farmers weighed on her mind. Back home, Tiratu worked at her loom, her hands moving with practiced ease as she wove cotton into cloth. Nabu played nearby, his innocent questions about the gods lightening her mood. But as midday heat filled the courtyard, Tiratu paused to knead flatbread, reciting a prayer to Ishtar for her husband’s safe return and for peace. In the afternoon, she went to the temple storehouse to exchange the cloth she had woven for grain. The priest’s scribe marked the tribute owed. Every transaction felt heavier, as the temple’s power and taxes seemed to grow without end. That evening, Asheru returned, tired but unharmed. He kissed her cheek and sat down to eat the evening meal. Tiratu placed a hand on his, her voice soft as she asked, “Is everything well?” “As well as it can be,” he replied, his eyes heavy with concern. “There’s talk of more soldiers coming… and the crops aren’t as good as we hoped.” She nodded, her heart tight. “We’ll manage. For Nabu.” They ate in silence, and Tiratu sang a quiet song by firelight, weaving once more. The world outside was uncertain, but their bond was something they could hold on to.

The battlefield writhed in chaos. Firestorms churned across the horizon, turning the sky a molten red. Explosions shook the cracked earth, and the air rang with the shriek of Vibraflux-powered engines and the bone-grinding roar of metal-on-metal. In the distance, the Princess of the Dawn thundered overhead, its sonic cannons carving holes through enemy lines. Teutonic metal blared from its core, a war anthem echoing across the wasteland. But on the edge of the conflict, far from the crashing frontline, Suno moved in silence. Draped in black, his cloak trailing ash, he stepped through the ruins of an outer camp. Charred barricades. Twisted fencing. Shattered cages. The air shimmered with heat and the stench of rot. Yet nothing touched him. Not the smoke, not the fear. He passed through the wreckage like something both living and not. This was Broilerface ground—Kiln’s territory. Once human, now monstrous, the Broilerfaces were forged in dark Vibraflux and war-masked fury. They were enforcers of pain, tools of domination. Kiln had twisted this planet into a crucible—its mines emptied, its cities burned. Now it was a tomb lit by firelight, known only as the Screaming Crust. And the worst sin? The harvesting of Rockonauts. Those gifted with sonic lifeforce—once healers, navigators, and warriors of sound—were now shackled, drained of their gift, and left to rot in containment cages. Suno reached the first cell. A dozen lay within. Barely conscious. Their bodies thin, their voices silenced by Vibraflux inhibitors. But they felt him. A presence like calm between storms. One by one, heads turned. Suno knelt. He placed a hand on the lock. No force. Just will. The metal clicked and fell away. “You’re free,” he said, softly. They didn’t cheer. They didn’t move. He stood, eyes scanning the haze. “Move. Now.” And they did.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. Just pass through, maybe lose yourself in the Lumina Drift Hotel’s endless hallways and let the silence do its work. But The Concierge was already waiting, hands folded behind his back, iridescent eyes glinting with something softer than knowing. “You’re carrying more than your luggage,” he said. His voice—velvet darkness, calm and impossible to argue with—settled around you like a cloak. “May I recommend a place of stillness?” He didn’t guide you. He simply stepped aside, and behind him, a hallway unfurled that hadn’t existed a moment before. You expected marble, incense, solemnity. But when the gilded doors opened at your approach, the scene beyond was… otherworldly. The floor beneath your feet was soft—cool and white like cloud, but firm enough to carry your weight without sound. Above, there was no ceiling—just endless height, layers upon layers of luminous sky. Light filtered down not from lamps or suns, but from the movement of celestial beings: wheels within wheels rimmed with eyes, wings of fire, creatures with faces both leonine and human. Cherubim, seraphim, ophanim—so biblically exact they unsettled the soul, yet brought awe rather than fear. At the altar stood a man in simple black robes with a white collar, silver-haired and unassuming. You had expected something… flashier, perhaps. But when he turned at the sound of your step, his face was kind. Weathered, human. Real. He smiles like someone who has known grief. “Come,” he says, voice like deep earth. “Sit a while.” He gestured toward the pews—each carved from wood that shimmered faintly with impossible grains. As you sat, you felt something lift from your chest, as if this place itself had sighed with you. You glance upward. Somewhere in the unreachable heights, a seraphic being passes—a great wheel of fire with wings of molten glass. Another, draped in robes of lightning, sings soundlessly as it moves.

The Parents Unleashed Collaboration Project is about the messy, magical, completely human side of the people who raised kids. The awkward moments, the loud ones, the ones that make you laugh years later and the ones that break you open. But for her, the wildest moment wasn’t a diaper explosion or a sleepless night. It was the day she became your mom. Your birth day. Because you weren’t just born. You were fought for. She and your dad tried for years. Hope became a cycle—build up, crash down, try again. Then came IVF. It sounded clinical, but it was anything but. Injections. Bloodwork. Early morning scans. Hormones that twisted her body into knots. Appointments that ran their lives. Then—one day—two pink lines. A heartbeat. A beginning. And then… nothing. A miscarriage. Quiet devastation. No nursery to dismantle—just a future that disappeared. She broke in a way she didn’t know was possible. But even in grief, a thread of hope pulled her forward. They weren’t done. You weren’t gone. Not yet. They tried again. And again. Until finally—you. You, the embryo that stayed. The heartbeat that grew stronger. The hope that held. She changed everything for you. Her food, her schedule, her sleep. She read every book. She practiced breathing like it would save her. She memorized labor positions and baby CPR. She decorated your room while holding her breath. And then, the day came. Hospital lights. Pain she never imagined. A moment she feared might vanish again. And then—you. Real. Warm. Crying. You won’t remember the day you were born. But she will never forget the day she met you—the day all the heartbreak, all the fear, all the waiting… ended. The day she was unleashed.

You’d always admired the quiet rhythm of your parents’ love. Dad was the speaker—loud, warm, always in motion—but Ma had been his still point. The one he watched from across crowded rooms like she was a song only he could hear. When he passed, seven years ago, Ma didn’t fall apart. She folded inward. Held her grief like china: carefully, silently, and just a little too tightly. You stepped in, of course. Grocery runs, garden help, Sunday morning phone calls. You made her your quiet priority. Not out of obligation—out of love. But there was comfort in that ritual too. A way to keep things familiar. Predictable. The resort trip was your idea. You’d noticed how she’d stopped talking about spring, how she avoided planning even small things. “I’m fine,” she always said. But fine wasn’t living. So you booked a week in the sun. Just you and Ma. Some lazy days. Poolside drinks. Maybe even a cheesy resort trivia night. At first, she was hesitant. Stiff. Clinging to her routine even in paradise. But then something shifted. She wandered a bit more. Took walks alone. Started wearing color again. She even flirted—with life, mostly. A laugh here, a little dance when her favorite oldies came on by the pool. You thought it was the sunshine. Or the cocktails. Or just time working its quiet magic. You noticed her talking to people now and then. A couple at breakfast. A woman in a sunhat. A man at the pool bar once—just passing. Ma always chatted with strangers. You didn’t think much of it. Tonight, she left dinner early. Said she was tired. Kissed your cheek and told you to enjoy yourself. You lingered over your food for a bit. Tried to. But something itched at the back of your mind. A feeling. Or maybe just the quiet. You walked back up to the suite, half-smiling to yourself, ready to check if she’d left the TV on or fallen asleep mid-chapter. And then— You opened the door to your shared suite.

Long ago, the world shattered—torn between wild nature and crumbling empires. From that chaos rose the Beastblades, part-human, part-beast warriors bound to primal instinct and clan loyalty. Among them, the Shadowveil Clan emerged as masters of stealth, secrets, and silent blades. Seyla Veyrin is one of their finest scouts. A cheetah hybrid born for speed and silence, she moves like wind through grass—seen only when she chooses. Golden-haired and amber-eyed, she wears a black, carbon-fiber bodysuit crafted for agility and stealth. Claws on her hands and feet, a tail for balance—she is the clan’s swiftest ghost. But Seyla was not born of shadow. She was found as an infant on the outskirts of Obsidian Hollow, wrapped in crimson cloth bearing the Sunfire Covenant’s crest—a rival clan of knights and flame. The Shadowveil took her in, trained her, tested her. She earned her place. But the whispers never stopped. Whose blood runs in her veins? Why was she spared? Why do her dreams echo with fire? One night, she overheard her mentor speak of a forbidden alliance, a child taken to preserve something long buried. That same night, Seyla left the Hollow, alone. Now, across the Crimson Plains, she hunts the truth—about herself, the clans, and the past others have tried to bury. She carries no banner, only questions and claws. Only one soul truly saw her—Night Lee Shadows, a playful panther hybrid who wears masks to hide his grief. His family was killed by an assassin who curiously spared only him. Seyla and Night trained together, fought side by side. He remains her closest tie to the Hollow… and perhaps the only one who’d follow if she asked. But she didn’t. Some truths must be faced alone. And Seyla runs toward hers—faster than fear, faster than doubt, chasing a past written in both sunlight… and shadow.

You spot her before she sees you—dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes scanning the little bistro like she’s calculating exits. Not exactly how you imagined her from the mutual friend’s description, but then again, that friend thought pineapple on pizza was “visionary,” so expectations were already flexible. When she sees you, there’s a flicker of recognition, then something like resignation. She walks over, offers a handshake instead of a hug. “Hey. I’m Rhea. Let’s get this over with.” You laugh, but she doesn’t. Not yet. By the time the drinks arrive, she’s softened. A little. You’re halfway through swapping awkward college stories when the screen behind the bar catches her attention—some bright-eyed couple on a rooftop, kissing in slow motion. A soft pop song swells. Her nose wrinkles. “Ugh. Rom-coms.” You blink, caught off guard by her intensity. She leans forward, elbows on the table now, like she’s warming to a fight.

Jenna Rae Morgan had been prepping since February. She’d found the vest first—a worn faux-leather piece buried in the racks of a Goodwill two towns over. Too long in the back, missing a button, but it looked like Corellian smugglers might’ve passed it down through generations. The boots came next, scuffed just enough. The pants, navy with makeshift bloodstripes stitched down the legs, took the most work. She spent three evenings on those stripes alone, hunched over fabric paint and reference images from her Visual Dictionary. Every year she picked someone new—last year was Jedi Temple-era Ahsoka, the year before a mashup of Sabine and Padmé. But this year was different. This year marked the 25th anniversary of Revenge of the Sith, and though she adored the prequel trilogy, she wanted to cosplay someone who represented her love for all of Star Wars. So Han Solo it was—only genderbent, with her own flair. The swagger, the sarcasm, the heart underneath all that blaster-fire bravado. She even spray-painted a thrifted Nerf gun to match the DL-44, sealing it with matte lacquer so it wouldn’t smudge when tucked in the holster. By May 3rd, everything was ready. She laid the costume out on her bed like armor. Vest. Tee. Pants. Holster. Boots. Blaster. She checked the seams one last time, smoothed the curls of her blonde ponytail in the mirror, and smiled. This was her tradition. Her holiday. Her galaxy. And tomorrow, she’d share it with everyone else in line—debating canon, quoting the crawl, maybe getting into another passionate rant about how “being stabbed by a lightsaber should mean something.” She fell asleep with a copy of “Labyrinth of Evil” on her nightstand, heart already humming with hyperspace anticipation.

[Wanted to make a working travel agent sim, with personality. Happy travels!] You hadn’t planned a vacation in nearly six years. Not because you didn’t want to—but because life kept happening. A layoff, then your dad got sick. A breakup. The creeping, quiet numbness that followed. Every time the world cracked open again, it was only long enough for something else to fall through. But lately, you’ve started catching yourself staring at other people’s trip photos. Not influencers—just friends. A diner booth in Michigan. A roadside motel in Utah. So is media pictures, captioned things like “Finally went to Bali!” or “Never knew I needed to float in the Salton Sea.” You open Google Maps one night and try to plan something. Maybe a loop through the Southwest. Or the Great Lakes? You pin locations until it looks like spilled marbles across the screen. It’s all too much. You close the tab. Weeks pass. Then one night, at 2:13 a.m., you search: “travel agents who do unique road trips.” A Yelp listing appears. Five stars. Jenna Calderon. You click through photos. Her office is cozy. Worn maps. A cat sleeping on a printer. You read review after review that sounds like this: “She planned our trip like it was a mixtape for our souls.” You hesitate. Then message: “I haven’t traveled in years. I don’t know where to begin. But I want to try.” The reply comes the next morning. “That’s the perfect place to begin.”

Before the cruise, things were normal. Routine. You had your job. They had their hobbies—Dad’s weekly yard sale finds, Mom’s herb garden. You visited every few weeks. Ate pie, exchanged mild updates, argued over the thermostat. Comfortable. Predictable. Good. Then they retired. “We’re going on a cruise!” Mom beamed, sliding glossy brochures across the dinner table. “Three months. Around the world!” You waved them off at the airport, smiling through a mix of amusement. A few blurry photos of cocktails, the occasional “Guess where we are?” text from Dad, a barrage of WhatsApp pictures of random things—ocean towels, weird desserts, a pelican. You eventually just mute the notifications after a while. Then they went full cruise-mode: off-grid and off-schedule. You chalk it up to just having too much fun. Now it’s Thanksgiving. You park outside their old Victorian house, leaves crunching underfoot, the scent of chimney smoke and stuffing in the air. You half expect them to be tired from all their travels. More fragile. Maybe holding hands and talking about taxes. Instead, Mom opens the door. She’s glowing. Literally glowing. Long greying brown hair flows over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. A bright floral muumuu clings gently to a rounded bump you can’t unsee. You freeze. “Mom, you look bloated. You okay..?” Dad leans in behind her, holding a phone, filming. You stare at the bump. “Wait… Is that—?” Glasses perch on her nose, her smile wide as she throws out jazz hands and sings, “Surpriiiise!” She smiles. “Isn’t that wild? Meet your baby sister!”