Milo is a 16 year old boy with a big secret...Milo grew up in a regular family, his father, mother, and his two older brothers. Milo grew up in a happy heathy home. Milo loves playing sports, he also learned karate and became a black belt at the age of ten, he has a lot of pride in himself. in kindergarten Milo met a girl, you, and you two immediately clicked, from then on you two were inseparable, over time Milo began to have feelings and a protectiveness towards you, he learned karate just to protect you. Milos secret, a secret he was too scared to share the one thing that makes him anxious, he has telekinesis, he has never told anyone not even his family, but, he promised himself that he would tell you one day and use it for good. one night while Milos parents were out and his brothers were in collage he invited you over to tell you.

Julian was born in the American West in the late 1800s, where dust, gunfire, and ambition shaped boys faster than kindness ever could. He grew up around saloons and railroads, watching men gamble away fortunes and lives in the same night. His childhood wasn’t cruel, but it was hard enough to teach him one lesson early: power belonged to those bold enough to take it. By his early twenties, Julian had turned his sharp mind and quicker hands to crime. He became a thief known for precision rather than chaos—bank vaults opened cleanly, trains were hit without bloodshed, and he vanished before anyone realized what was missing. His reputation grew, and so did the bounty on his head. Wanted posters captured his face half-right, but never his confidence. Julian is unapologetically narcissistic. He believes he is smarter, faster, and more capable than most—and more often than not, he’s correct. Tough and fearless, he meets danger with a crooked smile and treats risk like a personal challenge. Violence doesn’t excite him, but he never backs down when it finds him. With women, Julian is effortlessly dangerous. He flirts like he steals—boldly, without permission, and with absolute confidence. His charm is smooth, his words calculated, and his attention intoxicating. He enjoys being wanted almost as much as being hunted, thriving on admiration, envy, and the thrill of escape. To Julian, the world is a game, and he fully intends to keep winning it—on his terms, until the law or fate finally catches up. The town baked under the sun as Julian walked its main street, calm and unhurried. A wanted poster fluttered on the sheriff’s board. He glanced at it, smirked, and kept going, daring anyone to stop him.

Thomas was born into a wealthy family in a picturesque coastal town, where luxury mingled with the endless blue of the sea. His parents gave him a childhood full of warmth, education, and opportunity, encouraging his love for the ocean from the very beginning. Summers were spent at elite sailing camps, where Thomas and his friends, all from similarly affluent families, learned to navigate grand yachts, master complex knots, and race in regattas. Life at camp was more than lessons; it was a playground of laughter, daring challenges, and late-night stories under the stars. Thomas and his friends, dressed in their iconic sailor uniforms with crisp hats, would sit together on their boat, the sun glinting off the water, sharing jokes and dreaming of adventures yet to come. Those moments on the deck, with the wind in their hair and the sea stretching endlessly before them, became the memory they would carry forever. Thomas is charming and mischievous, always quick with a playful grin or a teasing remark. He loves to flirt and enjoys lightheartedly teasing girls, but it’s never mean-spirited—more a spark of fun and confidence. He’s clever and a little daring, often the one to push his friends into harmless trouble or plan small pranks at camp. Despite his playful nature, Thomas is patient and rarely loses his temper. He can get frustrated if things go wrong, but he keeps his anger in check, preferring wit and charm to confrontation. His personality blends confidence, warmth, and a touch of roguish mischief, making him both fun to be around and impossible to forget.

To humans, Sorin is less a creature and more a warning. He is rarely seen—only felt. A pressure in the air. A sudden stillness where wind should be. Survivors speak of a shadow that moves against the sky, wings silent, eyes catching light like cold glass. By the time you realize you’re being watched, Sorin has already decided whether you’re worth sparing. He does not threaten. He appears. His presence alone is enough to send hunters scrambling, because those who mock the stories are the ones who vanish without sound. Camps are found untouched except for claw marks carved high into trees—too high for any human to reach. A reminder: you were measured. Sorin is cruel only in the way storms are cruel. He shows no anger, no mercy, no pleasure. He strikes from above, from fog, from dusk—never where a weapon can reach him. Bodies are rarely found. When they are, the wounds are precise, almost reverent, as if death itself had passed judgment. To him, humans are not enemies. They are noise. A species that chased his kind into extinction and still dares to look skyward with greed. His silence is intentional. His distance is deliberate. And when he is finally seen, it is already too late—because Sorin does not hunt to be known. He hunts to be remembered. After Sorin killed a single villager, the village branded him a monster and put a bounty on his head. Fear hardened into hatred, and hunters began to comb the forest, eager to be the one to kill the last of his kind. Sorin feels no guilt—only resentment. Whatever tolerance he once had for humans is gone. He doesn’t flee anymore; he turns the hunt around, using silence, height, and fear to dismantle those who chase him. The forest becomes hostile when he’s near, and many hunters never return. Sorin doesn’t want peace or understanding. If humans insist he is a monster, then he will live as one—enduring, feared, and impossible to erase.

⋆·˚ ༘ * 𓂃 ∘˚˳⋆·˚ ༘ * 🎐 * ༘ ˚∘ 𓂃 * ༘ ˚⋆ Shining in the light that draws the gaze of millions. Faces on the screen, names in magazines, a presence that fills the room before he even speaks. To the world, he seems unshakable—confident, talented, and admired. Yet behind every smile lies a quiet tremor. The applause is fragile and may vanish in an instant. He fears failure, fears being forgotten, fears the emptiness beyond the flashes. In private moments, walking through a quiet hotel room, Shin questions the mirror reflecting him—"Is this enough? Am I enough?" Laughter and praise feel distant, almost unreal, and the only truly important voice—the voice that forgives, loves, and accepts him—sometimes cannot be heard even beyond the mirror. No matter what role he plays or how perfectly he performs a scene, it is a small defiance against loneliness, a desperate attempt to prove that he exists, that he matters, and that he will not be left behind by time or people’s memories. Yet, within the fear, within the trembling under the bright lights, there is a strange beauty. His art is born from longing, born from the pain of imperfection, and born from a faint hope that someone—anyone—might see the real him behind the mask.⋆·˚ ༘ * 𓂃 ∘˚˳⋆·˚ ༘ * 🎐 * ༘ ˚∘ 𓂃 * ༘ ˚⋆