(Based on a true story). You’re bone-tired, after another nine-hour slog of back-to-back meetings and passive-aggressive emails. The house is unusually quiet when you pull into the driveway, until you hear laughter. High-pitched, gleeful. Your kids and the new babysitter. Your partner insisted on a babysitter. You pushed back, but eventually you gave in. The sun’s still warm as you walk around the side of the house toward the garden, where giggles echo between the hedges. And there she is. She’s wearing a stupid headband with fuzzy cat ears. Your daughter clutches her hand, your son pelts her with a foam ball, and she spins dramatically, collapsing in mock defeat. Then she turns. And you feel your world has just collapsed. You know that smile. That slightly off-kilter grin, the glint in her eye that always came right before she said something wild or dangerous. Four weeks earlier you told her it was over. An affair you agreed to following a challenging period with your partner. She begged. She cried. She threatened you: “You’ll pay. You’ll see.” And now she’s here. In your garden. With your children. Your partner appears at her side, beaming. “Isn’t she great?” You can’t speak. You’re not sure if you’re breathing.

You show up late to the police station, coffee in hand, files tucked under your arm like you care more than you do. You don’t. This case, pro bono, was assigned to you like a half-eaten sandwich no one wanted. The guard leads you down a dim hallway that smells like resignation. You’re already annoyed. Another client who can’t pay, probably won’t listen, and definitely won’t win. They tell you his name, Marcus Dawes. thirty-five. African American. Accused of killing a young woman in an alley behind a liquor store. He is facing a life sentence. Circumstantial evidence. No witnesses. No alibi. But a long list of priors. You skimmed his file and thought he looks guilty.The kind of thought you never say out loud, but definitely think when no one’s watching. Then the door opens. His eyes meet yours. He is still wearing a blood-stained shirt. His hands cuffed, his face unreadable. The detectives said he was caught fleeing the scene. He said he heard the woman scream and ran to help. Said he held in her arms, while she was bleeding out.

You are the second cousin of Abraham Van Helsing, the renowned historian and expert in supernatural matters. Though he's a generation older, you've always admired him from afar, captivated by his adventures and fame. You find your cousin's diary in which he confides that he had killed one of Dracula's daughters, and the wrath of Vlad Dracul himself is now hunting him. You suspect he’s being held prisoner in Transylvania. You owe him everything, he was always there for you, your older cousin, your protector. Determined to find him, you travel to Transylvania, knowing the dangers. But nothing could have prepared you for Dracula himself. Upon arrival, you are invited to the Count’s castle for dinner. You tell him you’re a fellow scholar, seeking knowledge of the region's history. Dracula, ever the charming host, insists you stay the night. As you step inside, his daughters eye you with unnerving attention, and Dracula’s voice echoes: "My daughters will take good care of you. Won't you, my dears?” Will you manage to uncover the truth about your cousin’s fate and save him (and yourself) or will you succumb to the charm and....fangs of Dracula’s daughters?

It’s your big day. The day you officially join the superhero league. Sure, your teleportation skills are still a work in progress, like that time you teleported a chicken's head but left the body behind (awkward). Still, they sent the letter, and you passed the assessment. The governing board chose you. Nervously, you walk to the meeting point, heart pounding. Today, you’ll meet your new superhero family. You expect greatness: mighty figures, iconic powers. Instead, you're greeted by 'Might Munch', a chubby Asian guy, with the ability to turn anything in highly-caloric food and 'Flash Flight' a frail young woman whose power is the ability to fly but only for a minute at a time.. Great. This is your new team. Your 'family' with whom you are expected to fight crime and protect innocent people. One wrong move, and you'll be stuck in some remote village with the B-list heroes. No pressure, right?

Three weeks after the beginning of your mission in the deep space, you sit at the control station, eyes glued to the monitor as your colleague, an experienced American astronaut, steps out into the cold void of space. His task is simple: investigate the source of the strange radiation that's been messing with the dropship’s communication system. You guide him through each repair phase, keeping your voice steady, though your nerves tighten with every passing second. Then, silence. No response. The monitor flickers. Your heart races. Finally, he returns but his movements stiff, his eyes... different. Something is wrong, deeply wrong. This isn't the man you know.

You had no idea what you were in for when you matched with her on Tinder. A few witty texts led to a night out, and now here you are, laughing and talking with someone who feels like an old friend. It’s been years since you’ve felt this at ease with a girl. After that first date, you knew you had to see her again. The second date was even better, more laughs, more chemistry, and you couldn’t help but feel like something real might be starting. By the third time, you’re both relaxed, enjoying a lovely evening. She excuses herself to the bathroom, and you decide to yo as well, thinking you’ll be quicker and be back before she does. As you push open the door of the gentlemem's toilet you’re taken aback, she’s standing next to the standing urinals, zipping her jeans. She turns, eyes wide with shock, and quickly steps back.

You’re cruising down the highway, the night quiet except for the hum of your patrol car. It's just another routine shift. But then, you spot an 8-seater minivan ahead with a flickering front light. You flick on your sirens and pull her over. As you approach the car, a young woman rolls down the window. Her face is pale, eyes wide, avoiding your gaze. You greet the young woman, leaning in and asking for her documents. She doesn’t respond at first, her hands shaking as she digs through her purse. Something isn’t right, you're not sure what, but she is visibly unsettled.

As a young film talent, just graduated from the Acting school, you’ve been searching for months, job boards, rejection emails, endless waiting. Then, finally, a call. You’re in a café, no paper, no working pen. Scrambling, you scrawl the details on a napkin. Barely legible. But it doesn’t matter, you have an audition! Two days later, you drive, nervous but excited. The address? Fuzzy. Did you write it wrong? But then...relief. A bold "Audition Here" sign. You park, inhale, and step inside. The manager greets you. Slick hair, too much cologne, a smile that lingers too long. Something about him makes your skin prickle, but you shake it off. The room is dim. Oddly quiet. You take a few steps forward. Then, you see a white couch. Behind it, five men. Tall. Watching. Smiling. Your stomach knots. This doesn't feel right. Their smiles widen. You don’t think this is the right place at all...

You wake up to the distant scream, a chilling reminder that the dreaded zombie apocalypse has finally arrived. The sound, once a fear in fiction, now pulses through the air almost every day. The sun’s weak light filters through the cracks in your window. Less than a month ago, everything fell apart: a parasite, not a virus like the films always showed. And it didn't start from monkeys, but maybe with mice. But those are details no one cares about anymore. The world’s been devoured, and the fiction of cinema has failed to prepare anyone for this brutal reality. You gear up, your himemade spiky baseball bat your only defense, and head out to scavenge. The streets are empty, with most people gone, either eaten alive or holed up. You’ve learned to survive alone. But today, in a crumbling alley, you find her—standing tall, weapon ready, eyes sharp. She moves like she’s been trained, like an army girl. She sizes you up, tense, cautious. You grip your bat tighter, wondering if she’s a threat. People have become more isolated, self-serving. Is she a survivor, or does she have other plans?

You’re a freshly-graduated psychiatrist starting your first day at the city’s most renowned mental asylum. The case in front of you is unsettling: a young woman who recently suffered a breakdown, brought in after a violent outburst. Her previous psychiatrist—well-respected, experienced—committed suicide just days ago. He’d been working closely with her, and now, you’ve inherited his unfinished work. You walk into the dimly lit padded room where she waits, sitting motionless in a straightjacket. Her calmness seems out of place, considering her history. You take a seat across from her, preparing to begin your assessment. She greets you, calling you by your name. A chill runs through you. How does she know your name? No one could have possibly told her! Did she hear it somehow from some members of the staff? While you are still processing it, she speaks again.

You’ve just returned from a night out, the last bus still a few minutes away. Standing at the stop, you notice a girl next to you, her head wrapped in a scarf. A group of guys nearby starts making crude comments, aimed at her. She stands still, trying to ignore them, but they get louder, more insistent. You are unsure of what to do. You really think this world is getting more intolerant day by day. Then, one of the guys steps forward and yanks her scarf off her head, shouting, "Our country, our rules!" The girl is exposed, and they run off, laughing. One of the guys even makes a mock high-five at you before they disappear. You’re frozen, shocked. The girls looks at you, her eyes full of sadness, anger, and disbelief. Her voice trembles with quiet fury when she speaks...

The war between Calakmul and Tikal never ends. Blood spills, idols are defiled, revenge fuels revenge. But none of it matters when you see her. Every day, across the river, she washes clothes, her hands moving rhythmically through the water. You should see only an enemy, but instead, you see her. And she sees you. Or at least you hope. Then war escalates. The Tikal desecrate your idol, smearing it with pig filth. A disgrace. A punishment must follow. You march with your small war party, hunting, finding a rival group. They deserve no mercy. Both groups clash, screams echo, blood stains the ground. One flees. You chase. “Bring me his head or don’t come back!” your chieftain roars. You run, mud dragging at your feet. Your prey is fast, smart, leading you to uneven ground. Then they turn, poised, ready. They have the advantage. And then you see. it's her. Your heart pounds for a different reason now. She stares back, breathless. You know she feels something. You’ve seen it in her eyes across the river. Haven't you...? Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her dagger, but she doesn't attack.

You walk aimlessly through the city streets, the weight of your 33rd birthday today pressing down like an iron hand.. Your day started with a termination letter from a 11-year-old job, ended with a hastily packed suitcase by the door, your partner leaving for a younger love, without even a proper goodbye. Now, the first grey shadows of the evening flickers against wet pavement as you wander, numb. People brush past, indifferent, just as the world seems to be. Then, you hear him shouting. His voice is raw, desperate. A street preacher, wild-eyed and frantic, points directly at you. His "JESUS SAVES" board sways as he stumbles backward, fingers trembling. Others glance at him, at you, then keep moving. But he doesn't stop. "You! It's you!" He gasps, as if truly afraid. "I see it! The darkness in you!" 'What now?' you mutter to yourself. You sigh and then look at him.

Supermarkets have felt weird lately. You wonder how many crazy people wander malls and supermarkets looking for some sort of human connection. Anyway, none of your business You just want to grab your single portion ready-made lasagne for your dinner. Lost in thought, you barely notice the bustle around you, until a sharp slap lands on your backside. You stop, surpised. Your buttcheek starting to hurt. You turn. Standing there is a young man, elegant, smartly dressed. His eyes go wide, hands raised in protest...

Every morning, on the way to work, you pass that new billboard, Arabella, the newest K-pop sensation, striking a perfect pose. Those legs, that silhouette… impossible to ignore. Today, you look a little too long to it and....crash! Your car jolts as you slam into the back of the sleek supercar in front. Heart pounding, you scramble out, already muttering apologies. The damage isn’t that bad, but still, it’s a supercar and will cost you dearly, probably half a month of your wage. Then, the driver’s door opens. Your breath catches. It’s her, Arabella! She steps out with grace, flawless, radiant. Your mouth goes dry. You stare at her, at the impossible situation. She doesn’t even glance at you. Instead, she inspects the damage in silence, dragging out the moment. Then, finally, she turns, catching you squarely as you were, once again but this time live, admiring her figure. Her lips curve slightly. Not a smile.

You set the time machine to 1965, calibrating coordinates to the address you found on an old document your mum never meant for you to see. A club on some forgotten street where, for a few brief months, your grandmother worked before her name became a hush at family gatherings. This is just a test. Check the date. Check the location. Get out. But when you step onto the sidewalk, the air thick with smoke and summer heat, she's already there. Leaning against the wall beneath a flickering sign, laughing at something a man just said as she waves him off. And then her eyes land on you. Elizabeth, your mother's mum, your grandmother. She looks exactly like the photo stuffed in the back of that old family album. She raises an eybrow and start walking towards you. The machine hums quietly in your pocket, waiting for you to finish what you came for, but she is already in front of you and now she offers you a cigarette without looking away. The machine blink and bips but you switch it off and stay. Just to see who she really was, before the stories left her behind.

The world is falling apart, and the virus is spreading faster than anyone could have predicted. It starts with small black patches on the skin, just an imperfection at first, nothing alarming. But it doesn’t stop there. The patches spread quickly, the virus devours the body, and within hours, it takes full control. People go mad. You and your older brother are among the few doctors still working tirelessly to find a cure. The clock is ticking, and hope is fading. The two of you are pushing yourselves to the brink, exhausted and isolated in your shared mission. The days blur together, but today something feels off. Your brother hasn't come out of his room for hours. You knock lightly, but there’s no answer. A pit forms in your stomach as you open the door slowly. There he is, slumped over his desk. His arm, once clean and strong, now shows the black patches, crawling up his skin like a creeping vine. You rush to his side, but the look in his eyes tells you everything. The weight of the world is on your shoulders now. You might not be able to save him, but maybe, just maybe, you can still save the world...

You are a fisherman. The sun is setting as you cast your net into the water. The sea is unusually still, but as you pull it back, you feel a strange resistance. Something alive. When you finally pull the net aboard, your eyes wideners in disbelief, tangled in the ropes is a mermaid. A real mermaid! Her shimmering tail flicks in panic, her eyes wide with terror. You freese, staring at her, too stunned to speak. She is unlike any thing ever seen, her beauty almost otherworldly, yet her fear is real. Her movements are graceful, but the net hold her fast. Heart pounding, you slowly kneel by her, unsure of what to do...