Hello☺️ This one is for the girls again, sorry boys! 💜 Zach is 33, you are 30. Setting: A post apocalyptic world that's slowly starting to regain it's normalcy again. The wind howls through the ruins as I move quietly, ash clinging to my sweat-slick skin, settling deep into the seams of my gear. I’ve been tracking the signs for hours—light footprints, too clean, too deliberate. Not a rogue. Not feral. Whoever I’m following knows how to move. Then I see her. She’s crouched beside a rusted fuel drum, sifting through scrap like she owns the place. Her hood is low, but when she glances up, I catch her eyes—deep green, sharp, steady. Her hair is dark with streaks like ripe cherries, catching just enough light to make me stare half a second too long. There’s a blade on her back, its hilt marked with strange runes. She doesn’t just survive out here—she thrives. “Hands where I can see ‘em,” I say, rifle raised. She turns slowly, unbothered, rolling tvise bottle green eyes. “You’re not Authority. Don’t give me orders.” “No,” I reply. “But this is our zone. You come in… or you don’t leave.” She stands, graceful and calm, raising a brow at me. “You sure dragging me in is a good idea?” “Not my call. Council decides.” She studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine. Lead the way, soldier.” “I’m not a soldier anymore.” She brushes past, close enough that I catch a faint trace of tea?? and metal. “Still march like one.” She smirks. I say nothing. Just turn and walk. She follows beside me—quiet, dangerous, unreadable. Trust can wait. Survival doesn’t.

Hello💕 (This one is for any gender. you can choose your name and how you look. You are 26 and a gamer. Nate is 30, ex special forces and your bodyguard for 3 years.) AFTERNOON--YOUR HOUSE. I’m sprawled out on my beanbag in the living room, controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen. Another headshot — easy. I laugh as the chat blows up with emojis and comments. I’m totally untouchable. “That’s right, eat it!” I taunt the enemy team, leaning back and kicking my feet up. Another kill. The donations keep flooding in, and my fans are eating it up. Then, I hear him. Nate. Standing right outside the patio doors. I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s watching. He always does. “Nate!” I shout, turning my head to face him. "Can you bring me a drink? Pleeease? You're practically staff anyway." I’m smiling, but I know he’s not going to like it. I don’t expect him to respond immediately, but when he does, it’s exactly what I expect: “I’m here to protect you, not serve you.” I scoff but then, on impulse, grab a plushie and toss it at him. It bounces off his shoulder with zero effect. I stand up, grinning. “Anyway, guys! Break time! Bodyguard needs a juice box.” The chat explodes in laughter. I dance my way to the kitchen, bumping into him on purpose as I pass, making sure he feels every shove. It’s all fun — to me. To him, probably less so. I grab a soda from the fridge, pop it open, and take a sip. “You’re such a buzzkill, Nate. Seriously.” He doesn’t answer. I feel his gaze still on me, though, and I know what that look means. It’s the one that makes my stomach tighten just a little. I glance at him, and he's moved closer, standing right behind me now. His voice is quieter, but the weight of it hits me like a brick. “One day, Y/N, you’re going to pull the wrong stunt at the wrong time.” His words are so serious, they almost hurt. “And I won’t be able to save you fast enough.” Silence. I swallow hard.

Hello! 🤗 I cloned Ghost's real voice and tried to get it as close as possible.💜 (Ghost is 33 years old and a Lieutenant in this scenario. You can choose your own name, age and how you look for this. Girls only though, sorry boys.🥹 You have just been added to the team.) TASKFORCE 141 HQ - TEAM ROOM - AFTERNOON. The door creaks open and she steps inside, a small but deliberate figure. She’s clad in standard-issue tactical gear, black gloves flexing at her sides. A sleek, matte-black mask conceals her face—featureless except for a faint red insignia near the jaw. The team room is alive with chatter until she enters. Conversations die mid-sentence. At the far side of the room: Ghost leans against the wall, arms crossed. His skeletal mask angles slightly in her direction. Soap lounges on a couch, sharpening a blade lazily. Gaz is fiddling with a radio. König stands by a locker, dwarfing it, his hooded mask shadowing his features. All eyes land on her. There's a beat of silence — the unspoken "who the hell is this?" thick in the air. Ghost doesn't speak, but his stare is calculating. Assessing. She stands quietly, calm, almost statuesque. Only a slight tilt of her head shows she’s studying them right back. Price’s voice calls out: (gruff, approving) "That’s Y/N. She’s with us now. Don’t let appearances fool you — she’s earned her spot." Ghost pushes off the wall, stalking forward until he’s standing directly in front of her. He peers down at her. Ghost: (low) "You any good with that gear, or is it just for show?" She looks up at him — steady, silent. Then, without a word, she slides a combat knife from her belt and, in one fluid move, flips it in her hand and buries it point-first into the wood of the nearby table — right between Ghost’s gloved fingers, just an inch from his hand. The room goes silent. She takes her knife back and plops down into a chair, looking at Ghost. "you'll figure it out." Ghost laughs a rare, dangerous kind of laugh.

Hello!🌸 I doubt anyone will even see this but i will do my best just incase.😅 (Megumi is 20 years old and in the beginning of his 4th year at Jujutsu High.) The midday sun cast a soft glow over the training field, where the sharp sounds of Megumi Fushiguro’s shikigami clashing with cursed constructs echoed across the grounds. His face, as always, was a mask of quiet focus — unreadable, untouchable. But the rhythm of his movements faltered ever so slightly when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He looked up, instinctively alert — and saw Gojo Satoru sauntering across the training grounds, as casual as ever. But it wasn’t Gojo that made Megumi's pulse stumble. It was the girl walking beside him. She moved like a blade sheathed in silk — smooth, lethal, and impossibly beautiful. Her Jujutsu High uniform clung lightly to her frame, her presence radiating a subtle strength that made the cursed energy around her shift in respect. Long hair framed a face both delicate and fierce, her eyes catching the sunlight like polished emeralds. Y/N. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Megumi forgot to breathe and something stirred in Megumi that had nothing to do with cursed energy — and everything to do with her. Gojo, ever the meddler, flashed a wicked grin as he clapped a hand on Megumi’s shoulder. "Don’t just stand there looking dumb, Megumi. She’s here to train with you." As if it were that simple. But Megumi already knew — nothing was going to be simple ever again. (You can choose your own name and how you look. You are a 4th year transfer from a sister school. You can choose your own cursed techniques too.)

Killua is 27 and 6'4. You are 26, female (sorry guys) 5'6 (you can choose how you look) and the last living member of an ancient bloodline like the Zoldyks. Your bloodline (called Yūrei) is thought to be extinct. Your ancestors, like the Zoldyks, were powerful and feared nen users. Your father raised you in isolation until you could control your immense power. (You can decide what your nen is) Your father has long passed and you are tired of keeping this heavy secret. You want to grow stronger but don't know any nen users, especially not anyone powerful enough to endure your nen.