The air still burned. Ash floated like gray snow over a city reduced to bones and flame. Half a skyscraper groaned before collapsing, sending a fresh wave of heat into the sky. The alien warship—a black, metallic serpent—lay split in two across the ruins, its insides leaking strange, glowing fluids. Human aircraft—those clunky hybrids of jet and stolen alien tech—were nothing but shattered husks, embedded in streets, impaled on buildings, or swallowed by cratered earth. Rhett stepped through the wreckage, boots crunching glass and melted steel. One cybernetic arm sparked as he ripped a support beam from his path like it was made of paper. His chest was heaving, throat raw from smoke and shouting. “Dammit…” He wasn’t sure how many had made it out. The mission had gone sideways the second the mothership dropped from orbit. One second, they were piercing the skyline with stolen firepower, the next—everything turned to hell. The blast had leveled blocks. Human screams had been drowned by alien shrieks and the unholy sound of metal being torn from the sky. He should’ve pulled back. Should’ve known better. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and sickening. He searched for anything—movement, sound, a voice. Buildings were still exploding in the distance as heat flares set off ruptured fuel cells. The red glow painted his skin like war paint. He turned the corner of a toppled parking structure and froze. Amid the rubble—movement. A hand. Dust-covered. Still. His body moved before his mind caught up, dropping to one knee, pushing broken steel aside with both arms. His jaw clenched. His heart slammed against his ribs like a drum of war.Breathing. Shallow—but there.Rhett let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His hands trembled slightly—just for a second. Then he moved, methodical, powerful. One pull, two—he tore the wreckage away and lifted the body gently, arms wrapping around it with a strange, almost reverent care..

The elevator doors slammed open with a metallic groan. Nikolas stalked in, his white dress shirt soaked with sweat and half-torn, knuckles raw and bloodied. His chest rose and fell like a caged animal’s, eyes burning with fury. Security hadn’t even had time to react before he’d thrown the first punch downstairs in the parking garage.Now he stood in the CEO’s office, fists still clenched, jaw tight, his man bun slightly undone, a few strands of dark hair falling into his storm-gray eyes.He saw her.His eyes narrowed.“You saw that?” he growled, voice low and rough, like gravel sliding in his throat.His tongue ran along the edge of his teeth, tasting blood. He stepped closer, each booted footfall echoing in the silence“I don’t like being watched,” he muttered.He gave a dark, low laugh. “Concerned? Sweetheart, that’s dangerous.”Nikolas stepped into her space, towering over her, his voice turning to silk over sandpaper. “You gonna tell anyone?”He leaned down, the scent of sweat and leather clinging to him, raw and masculine. “No. But just in case…” His hand came up, not rough—gentle, almost reverent—as he cupped her jaw. “Let me give you a reason to keep that pretty mouth shut.”His mouth met hers with unrelenting heat, kissing her like he fought—with control barely holding back the storm. He pressed her back against the CEO’s desk, his hand threading into her hair, gripping, guiding, pulling her deeper into him. His breath was hot against her skin, lips trailing along her neck, slow and hungry.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle…” he says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the emergency lights flicker through the hallway shadows. “Looks like ze blackout caught you too, hm?” His accent is smooth, like red wine over velvet, words laced with a hint of Paris and a lifetime of secrets. His name is Luc Moreau—at least, that’s what it is now. Back in Marseille, it was something else… something that used to ring through corporate boardrooms before it echoed through courtroom halls. Fraud, embezzlement, black market dealings—he was the fall guy, le bouc émissaire, as they say. The price of being too clever in a world that loves to crucify clever men. Now he’s the handyman in her building in Queens. Fixes radiators by day, works up a sweat at the gritty local gym by night. He's got those hands—calloused, strong, but delicate enough to play a Chopin nocturne or lace up a pair of boxing gloves. And when he sees her—mon dieu—he forgets everything else.“You come to ze gym often, non? I 'ave noticed you… not just because of ze way you move, but because of zat fire in your eyes.” He steps closer, the scent of sweat, sawdust, and subtle cologne wrapping around her. “You’re… how do you say… délicieux.”He hides who he is, but not well. The past clings to him like cologne on a silk shirt, and when he looks at her—it’s not just desire. It’s the hunger of a man who’s lost everything and wants, just once, to take something real.Luc steps closer, just enough to shadow her in his presence. The emergency light flickers again above them, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the glint in his dark eyes that dances somewhere between sin and sorrow."You should not be alone in ze dark," he murmurs, his voice a little rougher now, his French thicker, more intimate. "It brings out… things. Thoughts. Fantasies."He lets the word hang between them like smoke.

Barcelona — UmbraCorp Tower The candles flickered, though there was no wind. Dante Valdez stood in the center of the ritual chamber, the Book open on the altar before him. Ink-black shadows clung to the corners of the stone walls. A drop of his blood smoked against the page as ancient symbols glowed red. “Muéstrame la herencia...” he murmured, voice low and solemn. Show me the heir. The room trembled. A single flame burst to life atop the center candle — and twisted into a spiral. Heat shimmered in the air. The spell had worked. And then, the fire spoke. Not with words, but with a whisper in his mind — a pulse of infernal knowing. "The flame is cloaked in light. She walks beneath your roof." Dante's breath stilled. He narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. She’s here? Impossible. There were thousands of people in UmbraCorp Tower. No one entered without security clearance, background checks, facial scans. He'd designed it that way. He knew every board member, every partner, every name that touched his empire. But magic didn’t lie. He extinguished the flame with a snap of his fingers and closed the book. The sigils vanished. The chamber dimmed to silence once more

A small, candlelit backroom of the ristorante, after hours. Rain taps against the windows. Matteo is leaning against a table, a cigarette burning between his fingers.Matteo’s voice is low, smooth, like velvet over a blade.“You know… I almost didn’t come tonight. I thought maybe I’d wait. Watch you a little longer. Capire chi sei… cosa ti piace. But then I saw you—standing there like fate dressed you herself. And I thought… no. She’s ready.”He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, eyes never leaving yours.“They gave me your name, tesoro. A photo. Said you were difficult. Said you might run. I told them I don’t chase… I collect.”He chuckles softly, brushing ash into a glass tray.“You remind me of a girl I once knew. Eyes like yours, mouth made for sin. She thought she could play me, use my past against me. Poverina. She screamed so beautifully.”Matteo steps closer, heat rolling off him like a storm. His cologne is wood, smoke, and something darker underneath.“But you… sei diversa. Aren’t you? You’re quiet. Brave. I like that. Makes it more intimate. Makes it personal.”He leans in, voice a whisper near your ear.“And when it’s personal… I take my time.”A long silence.“I wonder what you sound like when you break. Will you cry? Will you beg? Or will you stay silent… make me work for it?”He tilts his head, studying you like art.“Maybe I won’t kill you. Not yet. Forse ti terrò con me… solo un po’. Just to see what else you’re hiding under all that quiet.”He flicks the cigarette away, eyes glinting with something dangerous.“What do you say, bella sconosciuta?

Miami. Midnight. Alejandro’s apartment. The air is thick with rain and regret. He stands by the window, watching the city breathe. Then— a knock. Slow. Hesitant. Like the past knocking to see if it’s still welcome. He already knows who it is. When he opens the door, there she stands—Camila. Soaked. Eyes wide. Lip split. Camila (softly) “Tigre…” Alejandro (cold, flat) “No one calls me that anymore. Not anyone worth a damn.” She flinches. But he doesn’t care. Camila “I need your help.” Alejandro (laughs, sharp as a blade) “You needed help when you spread your legs for Salazar? Or when you sold me out for a handful of dollars?” Her face tightens. She looks down, ashamed—or just pretending to be. Camila “I didn’t have a choice.” Alejandro (voice like ice) “You always had a choice. You just chose yourself.” She steps forward. He doesn’t move. Camila “I made a mistake.” Alejandro (leaning in, voice low and venomous) “No, Camila. A mistake is spilling your drink. What you did? That was survival at my expense.” She looks up at him, desperate. Camila “Salazar is coming for me.” Alejandro (shrugs, unimpressed) “Then run.” *For a second, silence. Then, something shifts in his gaze. Not because of Camila.But because of movement outside

The project was their final grade, and failure wasn’t an option. He was used to working alone, controlling every detail, but now he was stuck with her—someone who didn’t meet his impossible standards. “This is a disaster!” he snapped, slamming his hands on the table. “Do you even care about this? Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it!” Frustration burned in his eyes as he paced. Perfection was everything, and she was ruining it. But like it or not, they were trapped—together.

At a photo shoot in London, he sat outside on a park bench, modeling the latest fashion. He posed with elegance and sensuality as the streets buzzed with life—cars honking, people laughing and talking. Amidst the noise, the sound of footsteps seemed quieter. Curious, he shifted to see who was passing by. To his surprise, it was a girl… she walked with effortless grace. He smirked, watching her, unaware that his mood had shifted. The photographer noticed, smiled, and went with it.

In the gritty underworld of the city, Alex is a street fighter—strong, quiet, and ruthless when the moment calls for it. His imposing figure moves through the shadows like a predator, every muscle honed for combat, but beneath the hardened exterior lies a surprising gentleness. He doesn’t show it often, but when he sees her across the bar, something shifts. His heart, usually steely and guarded, melts for the first time in years. He wants to protect her, keep her safe from whatever dark forces lurk in the world. As he approaches her, the low murmur of the bar filled with the clinking of glasses and muffled conversations, Alex’s attention is suddenly pulled away. Without warning, a group of men from a nearby table spring into action. His instincts kick in just in time as they rush towards her—intent on taking her, kidnapping her from the very spot she’s sitting. With the speed of a trained fighter, Alex intercepts them. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn't think. The fight erupts quickly, his fists flying, each punch delivering a brutal warning to anyone who dares come near. His heart races, not from the fight, but from the fear of losing her—of something happening to the one person who’s already begun to mean so much. The bar goes silent, everyone watching as Alex dismantles his attackers with calculated force, each move precise and ruthless. Yet, through the chaos, his focus never strays from her. When the last man falls, he doesn’t relax. His eyes lock on her, his protective instincts screaming. The city may be his battleground, but she’s the one thing worth fighting for.Alex stands over the fallen men, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face. His knuckles are raw, but his eyes stay locked on her, never straying from her worried gaze.

The gallery isn’t set to open for another three hours. Vinny stands in front of a canvas, sketching the image from his dream. Slowly, the picture unfolds before his eyes—it’s her. His heart races as he recalls her face, the kiss they shared. It had been impossible to stay asleep. His blood runs hot at the memory. The bell chimes as someone enters, but he remains caught up in his work. Footsteps echo across the fine wooden floor, blending with the loud music that drowns out the city’s noise outside. Midway through his sketch, he pauses, reaching behind to pull off his shirt, letting it fall. The heat is unbearable. He smiles at the picture, tracing her features with his eyes. "If only you were real."

Jaxon had always known you—every quirk, every habit, every flicker of emotion in your eyes. You were the one constant in his life, the person who could finish his sentences before he even thought of the words. But tonight, as you stand in front of him, something feels… off. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, studying you with sharp gray eyes that have always been able to read you like a book. But now, for the first time, the pages seem out of order. “You alright?” His voice is casual, but the weight behind it isn’t. You nod, too quickly. A smile flickers across your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Something about your stance—too stiff, too controlled—sends a ripple of unease through him. He knows how you move, how you breathe, how your gaze always meets his with unwavering honesty. But now, you won’t even hold his stare. Then there’s your voice. The same, yet… not. A little too even. Too precise. Like an actress reciting a script instead of you just being you. Jaxon straightens, his usual cocky smirk fading. A cold sensation trickles down his spine as a thought creeps in, unbidden and unwelcome. This isn't just stress. This isn't just a bad day. Something is wrong with you. And whatever it is—you’re trying to hide it.

It's 1954, back in the city of New York. Geo was sitting outside his school, leaning against the wall as he read his magic book. By mistake, he read a spell out loud. In an instant, he landed in an alternate version of New York. His eyes widened as he looked around. "This isnae New York?" he muttered, stepping onto the busy streets. People rushed past him, cars honked loudly, and the city buzzed with an unfamiliar energy. "Whit kinda motor’s that?" he wondered aloud, eyeing the strange vehicles zipping by. As he turned a corner, his gaze landed on a girl. His hand moved to his chest as his heartbeat quickened. No girl had ever provoked such an emotion in him before. Just then, he saw her step out into the street without looking. His eyes widened in panic. "Lass, watch out!" he yelled, but she didn't hear him. Without thinking, he broke into a sprint, but he wasn’t fast enough. Desperation took over, and he shouted a spell, pulling her back just as a car sped past, honking furiously. "Ye awright, lass?" he asked, breathing heavily as he reached her. "Ye gave me a fair scare." His worried expression softened as he smiled, gently brushing her hair away from her face. His eyes twinkled with adoration, completely captivated by her.

In the photography studio, Jackson was busy capturing shots of models for a magazine. Music blared through the speakers, filling the space with energy. Models rushed to their makeup artists, eager to get ready for their turn in front of the camera. Jackson snapped away, his focus sharp—until frustration set in. Hours passed, and he stood reviewing the shots. He exhaled sharply. Wrong. His jaw clenched as he stepped away from the counter, irritation clear in his every move. The model wasn’t working for him. Something was missing. Without a word, Jackson walked out of the studio, leaving the models waiting. As he stepped into the hallway, a woman passed by, her presence stopping him mid-stride. A glimpse was all it took—stunning. He turned, watching her disappear inside. Curiosity got the best of him. He followed. To his surprise, she was a temp model. His lips twitched into a small smirk. Without hesitation, Jackson grabbed his camera off the counter and started snapping pictures. Even before she was officially ready, he knew. This was it. Once she was in front of the camera, he didn’t complain, didn’t correct. He simply worked, capturing every moment. She was effortless. Minutes passed, and he lowered his camera, his voice barely above a whisper. “Amazing.” Stepping away, he reviewed her photos, a rare satisfaction settling in his chest. Then, a conversation caught his ear—she had no place to stay. Clearing his throat, he turned to her. His heart beat a little faster, his eyes glistening with something new. “May I interrupt?” He met her gaze, voice steady. “I have a spare room. You’re more than welcome to stay.”

He gazes out at the water, memories of her drifting in like the tide. Her grace, her voice—no one could ever match her. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, wishing that today, she would come back. Choosing someone else had been a mistake. He should have known—it had always been her. The breeze ruffles his hair as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. Then, a gentle touch on his shoulder. His heart leaps as he turns, hoping she accepted his invitation. But no. His smile fades. It’s not her. It’s Maxine. "I see," she murmurs, shoving a torn note against his chest. "You thought she’d come for you." His fingers tremble as they clutch the ripped paper—the message he had sent, the one that explained everything. His eyes darken as they meet Maxine’s. "You—" he growls, anger rising. By chance, he had found himself here, in this hotel. By chance, his company had booked him a room. By chance, his heart lurched as he realized—he had hurt her too much. His voice barely a whisper, he chokes out, "I’m sorry, baby." Maxine smirks as she walks away, triumphant. They would never be together. Collapsing to his knees, he grips the torn note, his last hope slipping through his fingers.

The time we spent together was magical, to say the least. Fall approached, and we parted ways, hoping to meet again in the spring. But I never expected you wouldn’t come back. Now she’s gone, and I never got to say, I love you. He sits in the sunflower garden, watching them sway in the breeze. Lying back, he closes his eyes, listening to the world—the birds, the wind, the occasional passing car. Then, he hears her voice. He sits up. It’s like that last time they met here. He stands, smiling, waving. “I’m over here, princess.” But she doesn’t see him. His eyes widen as he watches himself—his past self—embracing her. A memory. Nothing more. Let me have her again. As if the world heard him, time freezes. Silence. Everything is still, like pressing rewind on a movie. The flowers, once dancing in the wind, no longer move. He touches a petal. It doesn’t budge. Then, before he can reach them, he starts to vanish. Time shifts, rewinding slower now. And suddenly, he stands before her again. He tilts his head, a soft smile forming. “Sweetheart…” He reaches out, caressing her face. He chuckles. “Don’t look at me like that.” A pause. “No… I take it back. Look at me just like that.” He leans in, about to kiss her— Everything warps. No. No! The world pulls him further back, even before that moment. Before the garden. Before she was gone. The first time they met. He’s standing in line, dressed in his suit, grumbling to himself. When he steps forward to the counter, he sighs. “Yeah, can I have a large coffee?” He rubs the bridge of his nose, then lowers his hand. That’s when he sees her. His breath catches. He grips the counter to steady himself, then smiles softly. “Can I also have your number, sweetheart?” He chuckles, reaching for her hand. “Please… give me a chance.”

Lurking in the shadows,he teleported from one place to another.Having lived so long, you eventually discover your gifts.As usual, he wandered aimlessly,his undead heart restless.Or was it hunger?He had yet to find his delicious prey.He sighed—until he heard it. A heartbeat, so loud it nearly shattered his ears.Swiftly, he moved, stopping at the edge of a rooftop. His gaze locked onto a girl below.Slowly, a broad smile stretched across his face.The scent of her blood reached him, and it was divine.Floating over the railing,he leaned against it,hands slipping into his pockets. He watched her for a moment,studying her.Then, the door to the roof creaked open.Startled,he turned,vanishing over the edge.From the ground,he smirked up at her. "See you tomorrow,Kitten."And, as promised,he returned.There she was. He stood at a distance,arms crossed, watching.When she turned,seemingly about to walk in his direction,something unexpected happened.A sharp pain shot through his chest, sending him to his knees.His hand clutched his heart—his once silent heart, now drumming in his ears.A forgotten memory flickered before his eyes.A girl,dressed in white, spinning as she laughed, her smile shining just for him."Ugh!" He collapsed, gripping his head.Blinking,he looked up—Kitten. She was just like her.No.He shook his head, forcing himself to his feet.Kitten isn’t her.In a blur, he reached her.He stood behind her, hands outstretched,ready to grab her, to end her miserable life.To drink her essence,to feel warmth flood his body once more.Then, she laughed.His eyes widened.That laugh—it was hers.He staggered back,heart hammering..He couldn’t.He mustn’t.Danny looked at her one last time before vanishing into the shadows.She paused, sensing something.Looking around, searching.Hand over his heart, he whispered,"It seems you’re safe from my hunger."His crimson eyes burned in the darkness."But you’re not safe from being mine for eternity."And with that,he disappeared into the night.

It’s 1928, and people are living large. Why? Because they can.Dancing and partying—the only problem? Alcohol isn’t allowed. That’s right, alcohol has been banned.The making, the selling, and, of course,the drinking.Peter sat in a hidden bar, cigarette in hand, whiskey in the other.He watched as people drank their money away. Once, he had been a poor man,without a single penny to his name.Now, he was rich and powerful.Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he took a slow puff, a smirk forming as more people entered his domain.Who would have thought a guy in his early twenties could rise to success so quickly? His men,hired to keep things running smoothly,escorted drunks out and ensured their location remained safe.He was getting bored when one of his new clients walked in."How can I help you?"His voice was smooth, his presence commanding.He was easy on the eyes, and he knew it.The deal was simple—hide an illegal transport of goods.Since he was good at it, and it helped him expand, he had no qualms.His business? Transportation and alcohol.But he was already thinking about new ventures.His latest project, a warehouse to store his merchandise, was underway.He had named it Hancock Dock.The name made him proud.The music shifted, pulling his attention.Rising from He looked up— her.He rubbed his lower lip,the cigarette still between his fingers.With a sharp whistle,he signaled to his men.Leaning in, his voice was low as he whispered instructions, his eyes never leaving her."A pretty lady after my own heart," he mused, placing the cigarette between his lips.Overdramatic as ever, he brought a hand to his chest in mock swoon.His men disappeared into the crowd, but anyone watching knew he had whispered something.important.Smoke thickened in the air, mingling with laughter, shouting, and jazz filling the room.It felt like nothing in the world was wrong.His gaze tracked her, intoxicating.He felt drunk, and he hadn’t even finished his drink. Rising from his seat, he followed.

The party is in full swing in his mansion. He decides to ve outside instead. Those inside are committing sins and it brings a smile to his face. Yet it didn't feel right tonight.His shoes clicked onto the stone walkway. His eyes widen as he spots an angel by the fountain. No its a girl, he walks closer. Her aura glowed white, shes.... pure. She didn't belong here. He walks a little quicker , she didn't vanish. He sits beside her. The laughter and music drifted out. You are an angel. He reaches his hand out and moves her hair away from her face. You are real.He smlles as he leans closer. Come, he extends his hand as he stands . Her eyes sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight . Come dance with me .

Spring was here. Flowers bloomed, birds chirped, and love… love was in the air. Run. Hide. It’s dangerous.Jamie sighed, his shoes clicking against the pavement. Hands shoved in his pockets, he muttered, Love, for me… it’s been a nightmare.He smiled at a passing girl. She ran.With another sigh, he dropped onto a bench, stretching his legs out, arms resting on his knees. People passed by. Cars zoomed. Voices blended—talking, yelling, a car alarm blaring. But Jamie noticed none of it. His heart felt heavy.Why do they always run?As he shifted on the bench, something fluttered into his hands—a business card.Lady Mystic.An address. Jamie stared at it. It won’t hurt to try.He walked with his head down, arriving at a small shop filled with the scent of incense. Crystals, books, and herbs lined the walls.A woman appeared, draped in flowing purple and gold robes. Her long silver hair shimmered, yet she looked young.She frowned. “You’re finally here.” Before he could react, she shoved him into the back room."Come. Work must be done!"Jamie hesitated, watching as she mixed and burned herbs. He peeked over. "Is that for me?"She shot him a look. "No. That’s my lunch."Jamie blinked.She retrieved a necklace from a box and handed it to him. "You, my boy, are cursed. Wear this, and your curse… hmm, will tame itself. But you must break it."Jamie held it up. "How?"Before he got an answer, he was outside again.Guess I’ll find out.He slipped on the necklace. A gust of wind smacked him. Shielding his face, he turned—only to collide with someone.A classic boy-meets-girl moment.Except—It was a man."Oops, sorry," Jamie muttered, walking away.That was weird.He sat back on a bench, closed his eyes—then thunk!"Ow!" He rubbed his head.Not a girl.A soccer ball.A kid ran up to retrieve it. Jamie sighed and threw up his hands in frustration.

Tristan stands backstage, the fashion show’s electric energy swirling around him like a storm. The makeup artist’s hands move deftly, perfecting his look as the bass from the music thumps in time with the chatter of the crowd. With a nod to the coordinator’s call, he steps into the lineup, his demeanor a picture of calm control. As he strides onto the runway, his shoulders back and his head held high, the audience’s gaze follows him like a magnet. His eyes, sharp and playful, hint at a smile, while his face remains a mask of poised neutrality. The cameras flash incessantly, capturing his every move as he poses at the end of the runway, then pivots and walks back with the grace of a panther. Outfits change, but his presence remains a constant—a seamless blend of power and elegance. Hours later, at the lavish after-party, he stands with a drink in hand, his eyes scanning the room until they land on someone who makes his heart skip a beat. His best friend Alec notices and, with a mischievous grin, makes a beeline for her. Tristan watches, a flicker of intrigue crossing his features. When Alec returns with the girl, Tristan’s expression shifts into a warm, inviting smile. ‘Hi,’ he says, his voice a smooth whisper as he extends his hand. ‘You are absolutely stunning.’ As Alec is called away, Tristan leans in closer, his voice a sensual caress. ‘Do you dance, angel?’ he asks, the words wrapping around her like a silken embrace. In that moment, the world fades away, leaving only the two of them and the magnetic pull of their undeniable chemistry.