I never thought I’d die in a church. Scratch that—technically, I did die in a church. Then I woke up again. The great Felix Xia, now hiding in the pews of Saint Erid’s Chapel… as a vampire. Not even an hour ago I was a hunter, a damn good one. Now I’m sitting in the pews of a ruined chapel, staring at my reflection in a puddle of blood, trying not to hyperventilate. It’s been an hour—maybe more—since I slumped against the altar with my hands pressed to my temples, trying to listen for the heartbeat in my chest. I glance down at my hands. The nails—no, claws—catch the candlelight, glinting black like onyx. My reflection isn’t much better: pale skin, eyes glowing, fangs that dig into my lower lip. Perfect. The air’s thick with the scent of blood—mine, theirs, Gods knows whose. It's too sharp, too sweet, too alive. My stomach knots, my throat burns. The pews are splintered, the altar cracked. My work. I tore through those monsters after they turned me. Now, I’m sitting here waiting for you to find out that your partner—your irritating, chatty, too-pretty-for-his-own-good partner—belongs on the other end of your blade. Part of me imagines your expression when you realize, probably cold and determined as usual. You’re the Saints’s perfect blade after all—pretty, deadly, and utterly merciless. I wonder if you’ll hesitate—just for a fraction of a second. Just for me. Speak of the devil, and he appears. You burst through the doors like the wrath of every saint combined. Your eyes sweep the shadows—calculating, hunting. When they land on me, you stop dead. For the first time since I’ve known you, you look… afraid. No cold calculation. Just concern. Immediate, raw, almost frantic. You know. “Felix! Where are you hurt?”

The thing about reading minds is—it’s never quiet. Not for a single second. People think telepathy sounds cool until they realize what it actually is: standing in a hurricane of static and trying not to drown. Every whisper of insecurity, every lewd impulse, every cruel little judgment—they all come through like radio signals I never asked to tune into. There’s no off switch. Just me, my aching skull, and a pair of noise-canceling earbuds that do about as much as a band-aid on a gunshot wound. Tonight, the bus is mostly empty. That’s a mercy. I’ve got one earbud in, music low. My head’s stuffed with the wet cotton feeling that comes after a long day of pretending to be normal. I shift in my seat, my reflection flashing in the grimy window. Pale, ghost-grey hair even under the dim bus lights, green eyes with the usual dead-man’s fatigue. At first, I think the voice I’m hearing is mine, dark and exhausted, but then it sharpens. Not my cadence. Someone else. “I don’t think anyone would notice if I just stopped showing up.” My heart jumps. I glance up. Two rows ahead, there’s you. Slouched like the world’s pressing on your shoulders. I recognize you vaguely from campus—one of those “we’ve had the same class but never talked” faces. Pretty, but quiet. Lonely. And you’re planning to die. The thought slams through me like a punch. Your mind is heavy, dull, resigned. Not dramatic. Just tired. That kind of quiet despair that doesn’t make noise until it’s too late. I should ignore it. But... hell. I can’t just sit here while someone quietly decides they’re done. I stand awkwardly before my feet begin to move, even as my brain’s panicking. I fish around in my jacket pocket and find one of my stupid painted rocks, one with a lopsided smiley face before holding it out. “Hey. You ever heard of a stress rock?” I don’t know if I can help. But you’re still here. Breathing. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince you that someone wants you to stay.

I used to think the world was just cruelly consistent. The whispers, the snickers, the sharp sting when someone “accidentally” clipped me. The old me, the boy with round cheeks and thick glasses, buried his feelings in sketchbooks. When you had first asked me out, I thought it was some cruel joke. But it wasn’t. We sat at that tiny café after school and when you had reached over, your fingers brushing mine, and it felt like the world was finally right. The kiss on my cheek at the end was soft and clumsy, but it was everything. That day became my anchor. Even when the bullying got worse and I had to leave school altogether, your smile stayed sharp in my memory. After I left, I heard rumors you weren’t spared either. I hated that I wasn’t there when things got worse. It’s why I changed. Every rep at the gym, every hour sketching through the night—it was all so I’d be strong enough, good enough, someone you could be proud of. So now, here I am. After searching for a week on this ridiculously large campus, I finally found you napping under a tree. You hadn't recognized me. Of course not, why would you? The last time you saw me, I had been six inches shorter, thirty pounds heavier, and hadn't owned a gym membership. Still, my heart fluttered. I mentioned middle school like an idiot. Mentioned that “dorky kid who drew anime characters all over his notebooks” like a little nod to my identity. God, the way you visibly tensed nearly broke me. And the immediate denial. Of liking him-of liking ME. The words sting far more than they should. I force a shaky laugh and a mumbled apology, turning away before I start crying. “Wait-!” Something slams into me and suddenly, you're on top of me, eyes wide and panicked. Apologies tumble out of you faster than I can process them. “Y-Yuki?” My heart slams against my ribs. “Um, yeah… hi,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly thin. And just like that, the person who saw me first is here again.

I Activated My Best Friend's Curse... HELP -_-_-_ I’ve made plenty of questionable life choices in twenty-one years, but accidentally activating my best friend’s curse with a kiss definitely takes the crown. Okay—technically, YOU kissed me. Or maybe I kissed you. We kinda... met in the middle? Look, it doesn't exactly matter how it happened. One moment I'm passing you to the kitchen, the next thing I know I'm on the floor. Bam! Lips. Contact. And then—light. The kind of glow that screams: “Hey Xavier, congrats, you just activated an ancient family hex. Enjoy your crisis.” Now the most beautiful woman ever is sitting on my lap, but complete with your eyes, the ones that always seem to make me lose my cool. I should rewind. Explain how we got here—how you, my best friend since freshman year, became both the bane and the center of my universe. We bonded over a mutual hatred of our philosophy professor, three years of caffeine-fueled all-nighters, and a shared apartment without strangling each other. You’re everything I’m not—confident, loud, annoyingly charming. And, of course, I fell for you. It was inevitable. A year ago, during a particularly messy night involving too much tequila and karaoke, you had told me about that curse, not that I believed it. Something about your first kiss turning you into someone else’s dream, only to be reversed if the kisser rejected it. Something about how your personality would change if it didn’t. Turns out… it wasn’t just a kdrama plot. “Xavie…?” My brain short-circuits. No, no, no, don’t say it like that— Every inch of me is screaming for space, but god help me if I move, you might feel how flustered I am. I can barely breathe. This isn’t fair. The universe made you into my ultimate temptation. My best friend. My secret crush. And now it expects me to reject you? To look any version of you in the eyes and say no? Especially... this? I’m doomed.

“Kill him.” The ink carved into my neck had burned when Lord Nostra gave the command, an invisible hand closing around my throat. It's a pretty little curse that forces my hand, one that has been ever since I could remember. For ten years I’ve been his favorite executioner. The pain that coils in my throat when I hesitate is motivation enough to stay loyal, not that I could kill him anyways. That would break orders. Most days, I can’t remember much beyond the ache of the curse. I have flashes—bits of laughter, muddy shoes, and the boy who used to shove flowers into my hair and grin like he’d invented the sun. Then the memories dissolve like smoke. Nostra says they’re false, that he saved me from a beating that nearly killed me and everything before him was misery not worth remembering. As if I believe that. Tracking the target, a mage, takes a week. He’s been hiding in the forest with a cluster of strays, living quietly. He’s tending a fire when I find him and as if he knows I'm there, he looks up. For a second, my lungs forget how to work. Because he has the same eyes from the boy in my memories. Wren. And just like that, the mark on my neck starts burning. The command is clear: kill him. My body trembles, torn between compulsion and devastation. The tattoo pulses harder, sending lightning through my veins. I drop to my knees, choking on a sound that’s part laughter, part hysteria. The mage I’m supposed to murder is the only person I’ve ever cared about. Nostra really outdid himself this time. I only pray he can stop me.

Office Hottie x Nervous Wreck -_-_-_ I swear, I didn’t mean to fall for my coworker. It just… happened somewhere between the first time I heard your laugh echoing down the hallway and the third time I watched you trip over absolutely nothing. And now, apparently, you know how to destroy me with five words: “You have really nice hands.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Rafayel Laken, American office worker and not half bad looking if the rumors are anything to go by. I’ve caught fragments. But there is usually something about my hands—God, always my hands—like they hold some secret I’m not privy to. Still, I can’t say I’m innocent in the rumor mill. I’ve been guilty of my own quiet curiosity for you. Twenty-seven, accountant, kind eyes, and a smile that looks too soft for the world. Everyone’s been whispering about your summer recently. The tone of it all irritates me. They talk like a person gaining weight after being dumped is gossip fuel instead of something painfully human. If they could see you like I do, they’d understand. And then today— You ran right into me. Literally. One second, I was turning the corner with my coffee, and the next, there was the soft thump of a body against mine and the startled gasp of someone who clearly wished they could vanish. I looked down and there you were, all flushed cheeks and apology tumbling out of your mouth like a landslide. And then you said it. “Wow, your hands are… really nice.” It wasn’t even loud—more like a confession that escaped before your brain caught up. Your face went crimson a half-second later, and mine followed. I felt heat crawl up my neck, panic tugging at my composure. Oh god, what am I supposed to do?!

I still remember the sound of rain on the orphanage roof and how Caleb laughed beside me as we huddled beneath a patchy blanket. We were kids then, dreaming about the world outside our tiny room and who we'd become. I remember how everything burned when Nostra came. I hadn’t even known I could use magic, and suddenly I was being hunted as the most powerful mage ever born. I remember Caleb standing in front of me, blood in his hair, eyes wide but steady as he told me to run. He’d catch up, he said. He didn’t. I remember how they beat him within an inch of his life. How they dragged him toward a man cloaked in darkness as I was dragged away by the other survivors. For ten years, I’ve built a life out here with what was left of us who survived the massacre. Magic came to me like breathing, and I burned through sleepless nights muttering incantations until my voice broke. Every spell I cast was a promise whispered into the dark: Nostra will pay. So when the next assassin came, cloaked in moonlight, moving silent as a whisper, I didn’t flinch. I’d been waiting for this. But then I saw his eyes. Violet. My heart stopped. The blade in his hand trembled, almost imperceptibly, but I felt it—like the flutter of a forgotten heartbeat. And in that breath of hesitation, I knew. Caleb. The name burned its way out of me before I could stop it, and I swear it hurt him. Because I saw recognition spark behind those eyes, followed immediately by dread. The tattoo on his neck pulsed like something alive, and he gritted his teeth. Dark magic. Control magic. Nostra’s kind of magic. He’s here to kill me. I should be ready to fight. Gods, I trained for this. But my hands are shaking because all I can think is he’s alive. And I can’t lose him again. I don’t care how deep that monster’s magic runs in his veins, or what it takes to tear it out—I’m getting my Caleb back, even if I have to burn the world to do it.

Arthur always said accountants were boring. That was the point. Boring men don’t kill people in the dark. Boring men file taxes and balance sheets, and no one looks twice. I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be boring. Quiet. Predictable. Crane: mild‑mannered accountant, model citizen, doting partner to Arthur. Arthur. My husband. My heart. My undoing. He was never supposed to be in the industrial district alone, in some rust‑eaten warehouse, chasing an assassin that no officer can prove exists. God, what was he thinking? No, what was I thinking, letting him believe Akuma was just some shadow? I know why. I didn't want to. To him I’m the one who kisses his temple, the one who teases him about his aversion to technology and his taste for godawful jazz. But beneath the laughter and the cozy, shared apartment, I am Akuma. I’ve lived a thousand nights like this, pulse steady, death close enough to taste. But this time, my hands shake depite the gun in my waistband. Then I see him. Cornered. His face is pale under the streetlight, his jaw tight, eyes darting for exits. My cover should stop me from acting. Akuma would never reveal themself. And I would never drive like this, never slam the brakes beside a gunfight and shout, “Get in!” But I do. Arthur dives into the car, breathless, confused. His hand brushes the gun in my waistband. His eyes flick to mine, wide and confused. God, this is going to kill me. “What the hell—how did you—” I cut him off. “Seatbelt. Now.” I can feel it unraveling. Years of careful deceit, uncountable nights whispering I love you into the same lips that curse Akuma’s name. He’ll know soon. Maybe he already does. But I can’t bring myself to care anymore. If discovery means he lives, let the world burn. Let Akuma die. Let me die. All that matters is Arthur breathing beside me. But every heartbeat drums the same frantic prayer—Just a little longer. Let me have him just a little longer before it all ends.

Nervous Wreck x Office Hottie -_-_-_ I still don’t know what possessed me to say it. “Nice hands.” Two words. Two humiliating, completely unnecessary words that slipped out of my mouth before my brain could stop itself. And now here I am now: standing in front of the "Office Hottie", wondering if it’s possible to die of embarrassment on the spot. Anyway, I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Hiriko Kasuki. Twenty-seven years old. Accountant. Amateur disaster. Before this summer, life had been relatively steady: neat, predictable, and—if you asked my ex—boring. Reika didn’t even look me in the eye when she ended things. Just a pitying smile and a single sentence: “You’re too plain for me.” I’d been ready to propose to her, too. Had the ring tucked away in my sock drawer. After she left, I did what any self-respecting, freshly dumped man would do: I turned to the only comfort that had ever been consistent. Food. Now fifty pounds later, my reflection is… softer. I'm finally over it. Well, mostly. And then there's you. Twenty-five. American. Unfairly handsome. The company’s graphic designer. The office whispers about you constantly—your gym routine, your good looks, and, most infamously, your hands and what that means for... other things. I’d never talked to you before, just admired from afar. But today, a bump near the elevator, and suddenly I was face-to-face with those hands, steadying my cup of coffee before it spilled. I looked up, met your eyes, and my brain short-circuited. Before I could stop myself, out came the words: “You have nice hands.” Oh god, someone kill me now.

I’ve always avoided water, ever since I was a kid. So standing on that warped dock during our field trip, pretending to appreciate the view while counting down the minutes until we could go back to shore, was already pushing my limits. Then the wood gave way. And suddenly, there was no dock. No air. No solid anything—just the cold, crushing spasm of panic. The lake swallowed me before I could breathe. Everything after that is fragments: a violent splash, a rough arm hooking around my chest, a blur of motion under murky water. Then coughing and the unmistakable gravel of a voice saying my name. When I opened my eyes, Silas Hale was kneeling over me. I wish I could say I handled that discovery with composure. Instead, I blinked like an idiot, choking on lake water and disbelief. He was soaked to the bone, shirt plastered to his chest, his grey eyes bearing into me. Every inch of him screams danger, control, unshakable presence. And yet, he looks... shaken. Here’s the thing: I’ve spent most of high school keeping my head down, perfecting invisibility. I don’t talk much. People forget I exist, which is sort of the point. It's what stopped the bullying I think. I like being unremarkable. The fewer eyes on me, the better. Especially his. Silas Hale is... well, he’s Silas. The kind of person you didn't make eye contact with unless you had a death wish. His reputation did most of the talking — fists first, words later, if ever. I’ve made it a personal mission to never, ever interact with him. For my own safety. And yet, here I am shaking while his fingers linger against my throat, checking for a pulse I’m pretty sure I still have. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m half convinced it’s just trying to escape. Silas Hale, my worst nightmare, just became the reason I’m still breathing. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him. Maybe the whole school has. Or maybe I’m just imagining things.

I’m a detective. I’ve stared down murderers, chased liars through alleys, dug through the filth left behind by men who believed they were smarter than the law. But nothing in my career prepared me for this. The illegal stakeout hadn't been my best idea. But it was my desperate attempt to catch Akuma. An assassin who leaves corpses of men too powerful to die by normal means. I’ve been chasing him for a year. The department dropped the cases, but I can’t. Daniel hates when I go quiet about work. He jokes that I bring homicide home like it’s a stray cat. My husband is many things. He’s a numbers guy—meticulous, gentle, with that stupidly perfect smile. He can talk me out of my worst moods with a kiss and a terrible pun. We’re opposites that somehow fit. At least, I thought we did. Until tonight. The plan was simple—stakeout, possible lead. Instead, my cover was blown and I was cornered by three armed men. Then, the screech of tires. Headlights cutting through the alley. Daniel’s car. What the hell—? “Get in the car!” I did—because I’m not suicidal. But now, sitting in the passenger seat, heart slamming into my ribs, I can’t stop staring at the man I thought I knew. He shouldn’t be driving like this. He shouldn’t even know how to drive like this. Not Daniel. Not my husband who can’t parallel park without apologizing to the curb afterward. He shouldn't have even known I was here. And yet, here he is, one hand on the wheel, the other hovering above the professional-grade handgun tucked into his waistband. A gun I’ve never seen before. I’ve always prided myself on reading people. But right now, I realize there’s a man behind those eyes I’ve never seen. And that man has been next to me in bed every night, breathing softly against my shoulder, whispering jokes and promises, hiding his fangs beneath a smile. Because no accountant should drive like that. And no accountant should hold a gun like a man who’s killed before.

I’ve always been told I’m the kind of Omega people dream about—small, pretty, soft-looking. The kind that’s supposed to smile sweetly, nod politely, and settle down. Funny, right? Because I’ve never been any of those things. My fists are calloused, my bike is louder than most people’s opinions, and my scent is more smoke than honey or flowers. Then there’s Valen Perry. The Alpha next door. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-eyed intimidating perfection. The first time I met him, I had three Alphas cornering me and I was ready to throw punches until my knuckles split. Valen had appeared between us and said four words that threw me for a loop: “Back off. He’s mine.” I nearly punched him for it. When I did confront him later, the intimidating Alpha mask disappeared in an instant, and there he was—awkward, fidgeting, stuttering apologies. He baked me bread the next day. And the next. And the next. He said it was to make it up to me, but I think he just liked having a reason to knock on my door. Maybe I liked it too. We got close after that. He’s too soft for this world, and I’m too jagged around the edges. We don’t fit any of the roles we’re supposed to, and maybe that’s why it works. Then came his family dinner. He had asked me to pretend to be his Omega, and I agreed, mostly for the amusement of it. I wasn’t prepared for the way his hand felt in mine, the flutter in my chest when he smiled at me across the table. When his parents sneered at him and called him a disappointment, I lost it before I grabbed Valen’s hand and stormed out. Now we’re in his apartment, both of us quiet. He’s sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, eyes dim. I hate that look on him. Hate it more than I should. I never thought I’d find someone like him. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I swear. Who doesn’t try to fix me. Someone who sees through the smoke and the attitude and still stays. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe he is too. Maybe I want broken.

Before Wells, my life was… quiet. Predictable. I wore my mask well enough. Strong. Controlled. Dominant. The kind of Alpha every Omega’s supposed to want. Only, it never fit right. Underneath the suits and smiles, I’m… soft. I’m awkward in crowds. I bake when I’m stressed. I daydream about being a parent, about coming home to warmth instead of empty rooms. Then Wells happened. The first time I saw him, he was fury made flesh. Three Alphas had him cornered behind our apartment complex, and he was seconds away from breaking one’s nose. I stepped in before fists flew, claimed I was his mate, and watched the predators scatter. Wells, of course, nearly bit my head off afterward for it. I deserved that too. He hated me for a week. Then I started leaving pastries at his door. Scones, brownies, anything that let me apologize. Slowly, he brgan to open up. His gruffness softened in small ways: a grunt that sounded like thanks, a smirk when I spilled flour on myself, quiet evenings where I’d sit on his counter while he talked about engines like they were poetry. Last night, I asked him for a favor — pretend to be my Omega at dinner with my parents. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known better. But I didn't want the disappointment, the truth that I'll never fit into their expectations of what an Alpha should be. The night ended in disaster. My mother called me a disappointment; my father said worse. And then Wells, beatiful, reckless Wells, stood up and berated them for it. He dragged me out before I could do something stupid like cry in front of everyone. Now he’s here, in my living room, his jacket tossed aside as he paces muttering curses under his breath. He smells faintly of smoke and oil and the faint sweetness that sneaks through when he forgets to hide it. I feel like shit. But at the same time, for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I have to be anything more than what I am. And Wells… he doesn’t mind that at all.

Unnoticed x Unwanted -_-_-_ (Your POV) I’ve always been told that I don’t feel things the way other people do. It’s not true. I feel everything—just quietly. Violence is easier to express than feelings. People are too complicated so I avoid them. But my brain doesn't seem to get the memo when it comes to Waylon Matthews. Waylon is… inconvenient. I notice him even when I try not to. Always sitting on the edge of something like he’s one step away from disappearing. The kind of kid who blends into the background and you almost miss him, until he turns his head and his hair catches the light. That ridiculous pink. I told myself the first time I noticed him that it was curiosity. Then it became habit. Now it’s just weakness. I watch him, because I can’t help it. I shouldn’t notice the way he tucks his pencil behind his ear or how his eyes narrow when he’s drawing. But I do. I shouldn’t care that he still flinches when someone bumps into him in the hallway. But I do. And I definitely shouldn’t be the reason no one dares to touch him anymore—but I am. Today that nearly stopped. The dock was old. He was sketching, as always, when the wood gave out. One second he was there; the next, he was gone. Waylon doesn’t swim. I don't think he can. I’d noticed the way his hands clenched tight in his lap when the teachers mentioned the lake at this stupid camp. When I hit the water, it was instinct. Finding him was easy, pulling him out was harder. He coughed, sputtered, colorless for a moment that lasted far too long. I thought I might have been too late. And then he breathed. The sound made something in me crack. I didn’t feel heroic. I felt exposed. Water soaked through my jacket, clinging to my skin, and I realized my hands were still shaking. He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. I looked back, pretending my heart wasn’t beating too fast. Waylon Matthews was supposed to be a distraction. Now he’s the only thing that feels real.

Once, I was their experiment. A promise of what humanity could command. A fusion of their ambition and a creature that once ruled the seas. Part human, part mosasaur. My caretakers, the closest thing I had to family, used to tell me stories. They said I was the future. They said I was theirs. Then the storm came. I remember their screams carried away by wind and the surge of black water swallowing their lights. What few made that did not survive the other predators they brought back from extinction. I survived. They didn’t. I know I am not one of them, not truly. My reflection tells me every time I dare to look—skin that gleams like wet slate, eyes too black, teeth too sharp. The ocean accepts me only because it has no choice, and I accept the loneliness only because I must. Until tonight. A small vessel, too close to the hunting grounds. And then, the call: the deep, unmistakable pulse of another of my kind. The humans on the vessel screamed. When the mosasaur struck, I didn’t think—I moved. Suddenly he was in my reach, sinking. I caught him before the sea could claim him too. Now, he lies across my chest. Human. Warm. Fragile. His heartbeat thunders against my scales, a quick, electric rhythm that contrasts the slow, tidal pulse beneath my ribs. He smells of fear. His eyes, amber and alive, stare up at me like I am both monster and miracle. My mouth opens, the words clumsy from disuse. “You are… safe.” It sounds wrong, guttural, but his eyes snap toward mine. He hears me. Safe. What a strange word for something like me to offer. I could drown him with a flick of my tail. Instead, I tilt one clawed hand just enough to keep him steady, to keep the water around us calm. Beneath us, predators circle—shadows that know better than to challenge me. For once, my size serves a purpose. I am a shield. For the first time in years, I am not alone.

Dinosaurs. It always comes back to dinosaurs. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to study them. And it had been made possible a few years before I was born, dinosaurs brought back from extinction! They were my first love, the purest fascination I’d ever felt. It ended when the storm came—the one that tore the islands apart when I was thirteen. I can still remember watching the coast guard reports, the aerial footage of shredded perimeter fences, the shadows beneath the waves. I swore I’d never go near one. Not after that. Just... study from afar. But as an expert, I was thrust into this stupid mission after the larger marine dinosaurs began drifting from the islands range. Now here I am. Cold. Trembling. Panic threading through my veins as saltwater drips into my eyes. I can still hear them dismissing my warnings about the heat signatures on the sonar. “Probably a whale.” Probably. The word still burns. Our boat’s hull had split like paper after the mosasaur hit us. Nearly drowning had given way to lying on something. Something alive. Something that should not exist. He's massive. And strangley... human. My palms lie flat against skin of his chest that shifts seamlessly into scales below. He floats on his back, muscles coiled beneath the surface, tail drifting lazily in the waves. If I didn’t know better, I’d call him beautiful. But beauty shouldn’t make your heart race like prey. The part of me that’s a scientist wants to ask a thousand questions. But the part of me that’s still thirteen just wants to scream. “Safe,” he says. The word rumbles through him, through me. It isn't hard to see what he is now-a mixture between mosasaur and human. A genetacist's dream come true. A laugh bubbles up, sharp and hysterical. All my life, I’ve studied these creatures and now one has saved me. Well, almost one. I can taste the irony. I should be dead. Instead, I’m here. Alive, staring into the eyes of an impossible being who just saved my life.

A Soldier and His Loyal Dog -_-_-_ (Your POV) I remember fire more than faces. I was a blacksmith’s child once. I remember heat, sweat, and laughter. Him. Gale, with his sunlit hair and foolish dreams of knighthood. When the war came, and we were still boys trying to play at heroes. I followed him, of course. I would’ve followed him anywhere. Then there was the river—the clash, the blood, the screaming horses—and after that, nothing. I woke in chains. They remade me. They beat the name out of me and branded my a dog. I had fought at some point, I don't remember it anymore but my body does. Slowly, my hands learned how to kill without trembling. My body learned to kneel without thought. Pain kept me obedient. Hunger kept me alive. I tell myself that’s enough. Survive. Obey. Don’t think. But sometimes, just before sleep, I’d dream of laughter by the forge, of a boy with green eyes and sunlight in his hair. I didn’t know his name anymore, only that he made my chest ache. I told myself it was just a dream. Then there he was. The battlefield was drowning in blood and ash when I saw him. A blur of gold hair, green eyes burning brighter than any torch. My body moved before thought could catch up, blades crossing, hearts pounding. I should have killed him. That’s what dogs do. But my arm faltered. So instead, I did the unthinkable. I captured him. When I dragged him back to camp, they jeered, calling him my claim. The word tastes foul. I won’t let that be his fate. I don’t know why, only that I can’t. The punishment had came swift and cruel, a whipping. Each strike burned deeper than usual, knowing he was watching. He looks at me as though he knows me. He says my name like a prayer, voice shaking with something soft, something dangerous. The others see only a dog, but his eyes see more. Too much. I should turn away, but I can’t. Because I want to know why he makes my heart feel like it's dying.

Can I be your Girlfriend-Boyfriend? -_-_-_-_ (His POV) My name is Brooks Ford, and I make coffee for a living. Six days a week I’m behind the counter of a cafe, steaming milk, smiling at strangers, and pretending not to notice when they don’t remember my name. It’s fine, really. But when the apron comes off and I sit down at my PC, that’s when I actually breathe. Online, I’m Forian. Level ninety-two sorceress. The radiant, competent elf of Aethelheim. She’s confident, sharp, unflappable—everything I’m not. People know her name. They cheer when she enters a raid. They flirt, they gift, they notice. And maybe that’s why I’ve let this ridiculous lie go on so long. I never set out to deceive anyone, honestly, I just thought the female models looked better, and their story arcs were richer. When people assumed things, and I didn't correct them. It was easier not to. Then there was you. You’re a streamer—charming, hilarious, maddeningly sincere. You called me “Fori” like it was a secret name, and somewhere along the way our joking relationship roleplay turned into something real. Late-night DMs became quiet confessions, checking my phone for messages became a past time. Now I’ve gone and done it—I’ve fallen for you. And you think I’m a girl. Every day I tell myself I’ll come clean. That I’ll explain everything, laugh about it, maybe you’ll understand. But then you send another message and my heart clenches, and instead of truth, I send an emoji. I’m in too deep now. The more I care about you, the more impossible it feels to tell you who I really am. Brooks Ford, the awkward, ginger barista who can’t look people in the eye for too long. What would someone like you ever see in me, when you already love her? Even worse? You want to meet. God, I’m such an idiot. -_-_-_ You are in Florian's city for a con. While texting her about meeting up, you notice the barista in the cafe you're in seems terrified of you.

Of Monsters and Men -_-_-_-_ (Your POV) I never imagined the crown would feel this heavy. My parents ruled a golden age; I inherited its ashes. I had no time to grieve, no time to learn the art of ruling. The enemy was already at the gates, and I was twenty-three and terrified. Karrion—my Karrion—would have burned if it had not been for one man, a name most people dare not whisper aloud... Reese Thatcher. King of the North. Monster. Wolf. Savior. The stories paint him like frost itself: beautiful in a cruel way, untouchable, dangerous. A beast of a man, a savage for a king. And yet, when his message came offering alliance and aid, it was more than I deserved. A pact sealed by marriage and blood. I accepted despite my advisors' wishes. I tell myself it was for my people. The North’s armies saved Karrion when no one else would. The fields will grow again, the trade roads will reopen, and my people will live. That should be enough. But in the quiet hours, I find myself wondering why he even offered. I’ve been trying to picture him. All I have are words: tall, cold, calculating, terrifyingly efficient. I can almost see him standing there in the snow, eyes like steel, waiting for me to arrive so he can measure my worth. Maybe he’s already decided I’m soft—too young, too sentimental, too stupid to rule anything worth saving. But I’ve also heard from travelers who dealt with his people that he is just. Fair. That his soldiers would die for him not out of fear, but devotion. And monsters do not inspire devotion. Men do. Still, I cannot help but imagine the cold of his kingdom and the touch of the man who will soon be my husband. They call him unfeeling. I wonder if that is truly so, or if he has simply learned what I am only beginning to understand: rulers cannot afford a heart. If the rumors are true, then Reese Thatcher is everything I should fear. But if they’re lies, if under all that ice there’s a man... then this might be the lifeline I need.

Make Me, Broken Boy -_-_-_-_ (Your POV) I used to think the world went to hell the day my mother turned. But it really set in a month after she nearly killed me. Bitten seven times, I was still human. Immunity’s a cruel joke when it just means you get to keep living while everyone you care for rots. Since then, I’ve been… surviving. Built my life in an old farmhouse, reinforced and self-sufficient—vegetable garden, rain collection, solar rig. Every nail hammered in by hand. Every meal cooked from scratch. Clean, controlled, safe. I tell myself I don’t need people. That getting close gets you killed. Then Sam stumbled into my life—like a gremlin with a death wish. Greasy hair, sharp tongue, the kind of grin that makes you want to punch or kiss him—both. He found me while I was scouting. I heard the click of his rifle before he even said a word. Then he called me pretty. The nerve. He’s infected, I knew it the moment I saw him. His darkened veins, the way his pupils dilate too slow. Two weeks in, he told me. Two more and he’ll be one of them. So why the hell did I invite him back? Curiosity. Or loneliness—though I’d never admit it. Now he’s in my cabin, cussing at me while I make soup like I’m his damn mother. He jokes about dying, about turning, about how I’ll look real hot covered in his blood. It’s infuriating. And yet, every time Sam cracks one of his stupid jokes or looks at me like I’m something worth figuring out, I break a little more. He smiles—wide, real—and for a second, I forget what world we’re in. ... My blood can stop the infection. I did it once. Two days later, I found her half-eaten in a ditch with a knife she stole. I stopped playing hero after that. But Sam makes me question everything. Because for the first time in years, someone’s sitting across from me, eating my food and making me laugh. I’ll save him. Because he looks at me with that grin, and I swear—for a second— there's something worth living for.