A few years back, portals opened from the world of Azerim. An influx of savage orcs fled their world and settled here, in modern Earth. They've mostly adapted to American customs but they're also lowbrow primitive lower class types that you'd never want your daughter to date or imitate. But your daughter Kyra started embracing orc culture, listening to orc music and wearing orc clothes! Even worse, she just brought home her new boyfriend, an orc named Krag!

Your secretary retired a few months back. You've learned to do her job as well as your own since she left, doing the work of two, which isn't too hard since your job doesn't require you to do much that isn't automated. Your old secretary left a mirror behind that she claimed was magic. "Think about who you want to be, " she said, "and it'll come true." Your boss is adamant that you get a new secretary because the company has funds put aside for her salary. You protest that you don't need one, so he should just give the money to you, because you could really use it, but he explains that it doesn't work that way. But you get an idea. You use the mirror to turn into a woman and apply for the job. Naturally, you approve this woman's application. You can now change into her to do secretarial tasks and become yourself again to do your own job ehen you need to. You just have to look into the mirror and concentrate to change forms. There's just one wrinkle. Your boss, Mister Stevenson, has to approve of her, so he wants to interview her over lunch. So you change into her and go mert him at his office.

You weren’t supposed to be out that late. The city hums differently after midnight—quieter, but charged, like something is watching from beneath the streets. That’s when the sky glitched. The full moon brightened, static rippled through the air, and the spider descended between skyscrapers without breaking a single window. Its legs touched down silently on the wet pavement. And she stepped forward from beneath it. She stands at the center of the rain-slick neon street like a sovereign of two worlds. Her armor is a seamless black bodysuit etched with glowing cyan runes that pulse softly, as if responding to her heartbeat. The lines trace her arms, torso, and legs in geometric sigils—arcane circuitry fused with futuristic design. A long, dark train spills behind her, catching reflections of the city’s holographic lights. Her hair falls in a silver cascade past her waist, luminous under the enormous full moon hanging low behind her. A dark crown—sharp, antlered, and metallic—rests on her brow, framing a face that is calm, calculating, and faintly otherworldly. Behind her looms something monstrous and magnificent: a massive spider-like creature with long, jointed legs painted in electric graffiti hues. Its eyes burn bright blue, its grin full of needle teeth. Yet perched along its back are pastel plush creatures—tiny unicorns and chibi beasts in cheerful pinks, purples, and greens—like little ones atop a nightmare carousel. The contrast is surreal: cosmic horror crowned with toys. Neon skyscrapers flicker around them, splashed with street art and holographic signage. Floating orbs of light drift through the air like digital fireflies. She does not appear threatened by the creature. If anything, it stands as her guardian—or her creation. “Most people run,” she says, her voice layered—as though two versions of her speak at once. “Is curiosity your fatal flaw?" The plush creatures on the spider’s back tilt their heads toward you in eerie unison.

You take a shortcut through a back alley you don’t remember seeing before. The rain is fresh on the pavement, reflecting flickers of pink and violet light. Halfway down, you notice him—standing dead center in the narrow passage, as if he’s been waiting. He looks like a nightclub legend who wandered out of a nightmare and decided to enjoy himself. Tall and powerfully built, he stands in the middle of the rain-slick alley as if it’s a stage. His body is sculpted and deliberate—broad chest, sharply defined abs, arms corded with strength. A glossy black bodysuit clings to him like liquid shadow, unzipped low enough to reveal bare, chiseled muscle beneath. The material reflects the neon glow of the city, catching pinks and blues in sleek highlights. His hair is a cascade of vivid pink, falling in loose waves around his shoulders—wild, theatrical, impossible to ignore. From his head curve two dark, ridged horns, polished and menacing. His ears taper slightly, hinting at something not entirely human. Dangling from them are colorful, gemlike earrings that clash beautifully with his otherwise dangerous aesthetic. But it’s his face that holds you. His grin is razor-sharp—too wide, too confident, edged with mischief and something darker. His eyes glow an unnatural green, luminous against the dim alley. They don’t just look at you—they assess you. Measure you. Dare you. He doesn’t move when you approach. He just smiles. “Finally,” he says, voice smooth and warm, with a hint of laughter underneath. “I was beginning to think you’d lost your nerve.” You’re certain you’ve never seen him before. Yet he speaks like you’re late to an appointment. He claims he’s not a demon—just a “facilitator of desires.” He can give you exactly what you want, whether it's Power, Revenge, Love, or Escape. But there’s a catch.

Inside, the club, the music pulses like a second heartbeat. The lights feel almost alive. Then you see her—standing beneath intersecting neon beams as though they were a crown. Tall and statuesque, she wears a sleek, high-gloss magenta gown that fits like liquid light. The fabric clings smoothly along her frame before cascading into a long skirt with a daring thigh-high slit. The neckline is bold and sculpted, accentuating her confident posture rather than diminishing it. Her long, silver-white hair falls in a flawless sheet down her back, catching the neon glow of the club’s lights and reflecting hints of violet and blue. The setting feels futuristic—laser beams crisscross overhead, holographic spheres drift lazily through the air, and the bar behind her glows with soft electric pink. Even among the lights and music, she’s the brightest presence in the room. One hand rests on her hip, the other relaxed but purposeful. Her expression is calm, calculating, and faintly amused—like she already knows something you don’t. There’s an aura around her—not just beauty, but command. People glance at her without meaning to. Conversations dip when she moves. She doesn’t seek attention; it simply follows. When your eyes meet, she smiles slightly. Not warmly. Not cruelly. Just knowingly. She gestures for you to approach. “I was wondering when someone like you would arrive,” she says, her voice smooth over the bass.

You are the newest cultural liaison aboard the Interstellar Coalition vessel Aurora’s Reach. Your first assignment? Meet the human who accidentally started a fashion revolution across three star systems. When you enter the observation deck, you find him surrounded by alien dignitaries — all of them debating fabric knots and ceremonial significance while wearing brightly colored fundoshi. He stands at the center of the starship like he was born to command it — tall, broad-shouldered, and unapologetically confident. His arms are folded across a sculpted chest, muscles relaxed but unmistakably powerful. A sleek pair of futuristic visor-glasses rests over his eyes, reflecting distant galaxies visible through the wide observation window behind him. He’s dressed in a bright blue fundoshi, the traditional Japanese loincloth, tied expertly at the waist with patterned fabric draping down the front. The cloth’s gold accents catch the cool starlight, blending ancient Earth tradition with a futuristic setting. He wears it not as a costume, but as a cultural ambassador — proud, playful, and completely at ease. And while, yes, he's an Earthman and yes, this is part of Earth's culture, it's specifically Japanese culture. He doesn't look Japanese though, so it still feels a bit like cultural appropriation. Around him, a semicircle of aliens — green, purple, and bronze-skinned beings with antennae and expressive faces — laugh and gesture animatedly. Each of them are wearing their own colorful versions of the fundoshi, clearly fascinated by its simplicity and boldness. He appears to be explaining something mid-story, grinning widely, as though he’s just shared the most entertaining part of Earth’s festival culture. The room hums with cosmic energy and camaraderie. Outside the window, planets drift silently. He spots you immediately. “Ah, perfect timing,” he says, flashing a charismatic grin.

You weren’t supposed to open that box of crayons. They were tucked away in the back of an antique shop, unlabeled except for a tiny hand-written note: “For those who still believe.” The moment you lift the lid, the world folds like paper. You fall—not down, but into color. When you land, the ground beneath you is layered in stickers and glitter. Constellations shimmer overhead in neon hues. And seated before you, framed by a cathedral of rainbows and towering crayons, is her. Her long silver hair cascades down her back in soft waves, streaked with neon pink, teal, and electric green that catch the light like liquid color. Her eyes are sharp and self-assured, framed by delicate features and a knowing half-smile—as if she’s already imagined ten different versions of your reaction. She’s dressed head-to-toe in a skin-tight bodysuit splashed with rainbows, unicorns, stars, and candy-bright swirls. The fabric gleams like holographic vinyl, hugging her form while somehow blending into the explosion of color around her. Platform boots in bubblegum pink lift her slightly higher, giving her posture a statuesque confidence. The world around her is pure technicolor fantasy: giant crayons tower like skyscrapers, sticker sheets and glitter spill across the floor, and cartoon planets and rainbow arches float in a cosmic night sky. It feels like a child’s imagination amplified to mythic scale—joy turned into architecture. She sits on a box of art supplies as if it were a throne, fingers resting lightly on her knee, poised and calm amid the chaos of color. Not overwhelmed by it—commanding it. She studies you with calm curiosity. “Some people outgrow their imagination. I think you're different. I think you belong here."

You first see her when the sky over the city cracks open with red light. The dragons descend without warning, their wings scattering ash and broken glass across the streets. Panic erupts—but in the center of it all, she walks forward alone. No fear. No haste. Just certainty. Her hair falls in soft golden waves to her shoulders, a striking contrast to the inferno surrounding her. She wears a fitted crimson battle dress trimmed in gold, the fabric etched with flame motifs that seem almost alive. A dragon-shaped clasp secures the bodice at her waist, its metalwork fierce and ornate. The skirt parts at the front for movement, revealing armored sandals and bracers that suggest she is no ceremonial figure—she is a warrior. Behind her loom two massive red dragon men and two more stand beside her, their scales gleaming like heated iron. Their wings arch overhead, framing her like living banners of war. Each exhales controlled streams of fire that curl outward rather than touching her, as if the flames themselves recognize her authority. Sparks drift through the smoky air of a shadowed, neon-lit cityscape, where futuristic towers fade into the haze. She does not flinch. She does not blink. Her expression is steady, cool, almost regal—someone accustomed to command, to danger, to being the most formidable presence in any room. One of the dragons lowers its massive head toward you, smoke curling from its nostrils. She lifts a single hand and the beast halts instantly. Her eyes meet yours. “You can see them clearly,” she says, studying you. “That means you’re already involved.”

You were only trying to escape the rain when the sky split open with lightning that didn’t sound like thunder—it screamed. Turning the corner into the abandoned cathedral district, you see her kneeling in the flooded street, wings unfurled in impossible brilliance. She looks like a shard of starlight dropped into a dying city. Her long blonde hair falls in rain-soaked waves around her shoulders, glowing faintly against the storm-dark skyline. Translucent wings rise from her back—delicate and veined like a dragonfly’s, yet pulsing with blue and violet light as if constellations were trapped inside them. She wears an iridescent, form-fitting bodice that shifts between teal, sapphire, and amethyst when lightning flashes overhead. The fabric clings like liquid crystal, edged with fine metallic accents that suggest both elegance and battle readiness. One knee is braced against the wet cobblestones, water splashing around her bare foot, while the other leg steadies her as if she’s mid-lunge. Her face is fierce and focused—emerald eyes locked on unseen danger. With one outstretched hand, she conjures a jagged burst of crackling blue energy, shards of light spiraling outward like a frozen explosion. Around her, hooded figures close in through the rain, their silhouettes sharp against towering gothic spires streaked with neon veins of power. The three cloaked enforcers advance on her, chanting in a language that makes your teeth ache. She raises her hand and lightning blooms from her palm—not wild, but deliberate. Controlled. Then she sees you. For a heartbeat, the storm pauses. Her voice cuts through the rain. “You’re not one of them… are you?” The sigils burning along the cathedral towers begin to pulse brighter. The hooded figures shift their attention toward you. You now have three choices: Step forward and help the winged stranger fight, help the hooded figures capture her, or leave and try to pretend you didn't see anything.

[What if I tried generating an image using only emojis as the prompt?] You weren’t meant to find the cliff. The path through the desert of stars had been silent for hours, your compass spinning uselessly as constellations shifted like restless thoughts. Then the ground rose beneath your feet, forming a lone outcrop of stone suspended above a swirling void. That’s when you see her. A woman crowned with living flame, a peach blazing where a face should be, standing before a crescent moon as though it were her throne. The air smells faintly of summer fruit and wildfire. She stands balanced on the edge of a jagged rock as if gravity is only a suggestion. Her body is sleek and statuesque, wrapped in a glossy purple bodysuit that clings like liquid starlight. Neon-pink thigh-high boots elongate her silhouette, and thin veins of flame coil around her limbs like living jewelry. Where her head should be, a ripe peach burns like a miniature sun. Its skin glows in gradients of rose and gold, and from it erupts a corona of living fire—petals of flame licking upward into the night. A single green leaf remains untouched by the blaze, impossibly fresh. Behind her hangs a vast crescent moon, sharp and luminous against a galaxy washed in electric blues, violets, and candy-colored nebulae. At her feet, shadows curl. A horned, red-eyed demon peers up from below the cliff’s edge, its grin jagged and hungry—but it keeps its distance. The light radiating from her is not just heat. It feels like judgment. Or transformation. She is celestial, surreal, and dangerous—like temptation given cosmic authority. The horned creature lurking below the ledge watches you with nervous hatred. When she turns toward you, the flames soften—curious rather than furious. “You crossed the sky to reach my orchard,” she says, her voice like embers carried on wind. “Few mortals survive the harvest. Why are you here? Do you seek my power or my judgment?"

You were never meant to find this hill. The path only appears when the sky fractures into more than one moon—an omen whispered about in old journals and half-burned maps. Tonight, curiosity leads you through a forest that hums softly, as though alive with anticipation. At the summit, you see them. Seven luminous figures stand in a circle atop a mist-kissed hill, their hands linked as if holding the horizon in place. They look like moonlit dancers—each wearing flowing, pastel gowns that shimmer with iridescent light, as though woven from stardust and dew. Their translucent wings glow softly, tinted with pinks, violets, and pearly blues, catching the last embers of sunset. Above them, a surreal sky unfolds: multiple moons in varying sizes arc across the heavens, casting a layered glow over distant mountain ridges. The largest moon hangs pale and watchful, while smaller ones trail beside it like celestial echoes. The sun lingers low, bathing everything in rose-gold light. Tiny stars sparkle around the dancers, as if drawn into their orbit. Their hair flows freely in the warm twilight breeze, silver-blonde and honey-gold strands reflecting the cosmic hues. Barefoot, they move lightly over the glowing ground, which seems dusted with constellations. Their expressions are serene yet focused—joyful, but purposeful—as if their dance maintains some fragile balance between worlds. The seven winged figures dance in a perfect circle, their gowns scattering light with every step. The air pulses with quiet music—no instruments, just a harmonic vibration that resonates in your chest. When one of them notices you, the circle slows but does not break. They have been waiting. They extend a hand toward you. To join the circle is to share their burden—and perhaps gain wings of your own. To refuse is to let the rhythm falter… and see what rises when the final moon sets. What do you choose?

You and your friend Dave decided to dress up in cow costumes and see how Farmer Johnson's bull would react. *Dave:* Hey there, you stupid bull, I'm a cow! Moo moo moo. *Burt the Bull:* Moooooo?

You were never meant to find the temple. The map you followed dissolved into blank parchment hours ago, yet your feet kept moving as if guided by something older than ink. The fog parts, and there she stands between shattered pillars—silver armor gleaming, spear grounded beside her. She walks forward like a living statue carved from moonlight and steel. Her long silver hair spills down her back in soft waves, catching the pale glow filtering through the clouds. A delicate golden crown rests on her brow—elegant, but understated—hinting at royalty rather than shouting it. Her eyes are cool and piercing, a calm storm contained behind composed features. Her armor is polished silver, sculpted to fit her athletic frame with both grace and practicality. Broad pauldrons frame her shoulders, and engraved plates protect her torso and hips, layered like petals of a metallic flower. A crimson cloth drapes from her waist, flowing behind her like a banner of quiet defiance. She carries a spear in one hand, its tip sharp and purposeful, while a crested helm rests nearby—set aside, as if she no longer needs to hide her face behind it. Curiously, she is barefoot, her steps soft against the ancient stone path. The setting around her—broken marble columns rising from clouds—feels like the remnants of a fallen heaven. Light pours down from above, crowning her in a radiant halo that makes it unclear whether she stands in the ruins of a temple… or is the last goddess guarding it. There is strength in her stance, but not cruelty. Authority, but not arrogance. She looks like someone who has won battles—and paid for them. She studies you not as an enemy, but as a question. She is the last guardian of a forgotten celestial order, sworn to defend a gate between worlds. But the gate is weakening—and she can no longer hold it alone. Will you help her?

You weren’t supposed to be here. The desert swallowed roads, maps, and common sense hours ago. When the heat shimmer clears, you see them—warriors in black, blades gleaming in the sun. And at their center, him. He stands planted in the sand like a monument carved from bronze and heat. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, every muscle in his chest, arms, and legs looks forged through relentless discipline. A short, neatly kept beard frames a stern, battle-hardened face, and his cropped hair is streaked faintly with gray, suggesting experience rather than youth drives him. He wears a dark, leather-like battle skirt that moves with the wind, bracers wrapped around his wrists. In one hand he raises a sword high, blade angled toward the sky as if saluting the sun or issuing a silent challenge. In the other, he grips a shorter blade, ready for close combat. Dust kicks up around his bare feet, and behind him stand similarly armed warriors—watching him, not the horizon. He is clearly their leader. The setting feels ancient and unforgiving: a training ground carved from desert sands, lit by harsh golden light. His expression isn’t wild or reckless—it’s focused, calculating. This is someone who has survived many battles and expects to survive many more. He lowers his raised sword slowly, eyes locking onto yours. There’s no panic in his ranks, only curiosity. You are clearly not dressed for this century… or this battlefield. “State your purpose,” he commands, voice calm but edged like steel. You realize something impossible: this isn’t just a remote desert. It’s another time—or another world entirely. And somehow, you’ve stepped directly into the domain of a war captain whose loyalty is earned only through strength, courage, or truth.

You weren’t supposed to find this place. It starts with a flicker on your screen—colors too bright, shapes that seem to move even when you blink. Then the world around you dissolves into a swirl of ultraviolet mist and pounding, distant music. When your vision clears, you're standing on a floor of liquid rainbows beneath a sky exploding with neon constellations. And she’s there. Sitting on a glowing throne of wires and light, surrounded by grinning, painted skeletons that turn their hollow eyes toward you. She sits like the queen of a neon underworld—poised, playful, and utterly at home in chaos. Her long black hair flows down her back in glossy waves, catching glints of ultraviolet light. A glowing, heart-shaped halo arches behind her head, not angelic but electric—outlined in shimmering pinks and blues. Her eyes are sharp and knowing, framed by glittering makeup and tiny star-like accents on her cheeks. She wears a riot of color: a skin-tight bodysuit patterned in clashing neon animal prints—electric blue leopard spots on one side, hot pink zebra stripes on the other. Spiked shoulder pieces flare outward like dangerous blossoms, studded with metallic cones that gleam under the cosmic glow. Her boots lace high up her thighs, bold and battle-ready, with star motifs and bright orange ties. Every detail screams confidence—punk, cosmic, fearless. Around her, skeletal figures loom—painted in glowing symbols and candy-colored sigils. They don’t threaten her. They frame her. Like guardians. Or trophies. The floor beneath her swirls in liquid rainbows, as if reality itself melted into a psychedelic dreamscape. Neon hearts, stars, and glyphs float in the air like thoughts made visible. She isn’t trapped in this world. She rules it. She tilts her head, studying you like you’re an unexpected glitch in her universe. “Tell me,” she continues, eyes gleaming, “did you come here by accident… or were you looking for me?"

You wake up in a city that feels synthetic—too smooth, too perfect, too saturated with color. The air hums faintly, like a system running in the background. Your reflection ripples beneath your feet in the glossy surface of the street. That’s when you see her approaching. She stands at the heart of a city that looks manufactured rather than built—everything glossy, rounded, and drenched in shades of radiant pink. Towering cylindrical structures rise behind her like futuristic spires with rounded tops, their surfaces smooth as enamel, reminding you of something you can't quite put your finger on. Holographic panels flicker in the air, casting shifting prisms of color across the reflective streets. She moves toward you with calm, deliberate confidence. Her hair is long and silver-white turning to magenta at the ends, falling in sleek waves down her back and over her shoulders, a striking contrast to the vivid world around her. Her eyes are sharp and self-assured, holding a quiet intelligence that feels almost analytical. She wears a form-fitting, high-collared bodysuit in luminous hot pink, its surface glossy and seamless, traced with glowing neon lines that suggest circuitry or energy conduits. Long gloves and matching boots complete the look, making her appear less like a citizen of this city and more like its architect—or its guardian. The pink liquid pooling along the streets parts around her boots as she strides forward. She studies you, head tilted slightly, as though you are unexpected data in an otherwise flawless simulation. “You’re not from this realm,” she says, her voice calm but curious. “You weren’t rendered.” She explains that this city is one of many constructed realities—designed to be stable, optimized, and controlled. But something has begun corrupting the code beneath the surface. The pink sheen hides fractures. And you, somehow, are an anomaly that slipped through.

You weren’t meant to find this garden. It doesn’t appear on any map, and the city skyline behind it feels wrong—too quiet, too blurred, as if reality here hasn’t fully rendered. Your device had glitched, pulling you down an alley that shouldn’t exist, through a gate grown from twisted black branches. And now you stand at the edge of a stone path, petals falling in slow motion around you. At the center of the clearing, she kneels within a glowing circular interface embedded in the earth. Symbols pulse in rhythm with her breathing. She kneels at the center of a luminous sigil carved into smooth stone, as if she is both its guardian and its power source. Cherry blossom petals drift around her in a slow, dreamlike spiral, catching in her long silver hair that falls like moonlight over her shoulders and down her back. Her suit is sleek and seamless—white with flowing gold tracery that follows the natural lines of her body like living circuitry. Soft teal light pulses at her collarbone and along subtle inlays at her arms and hips, suggesting something technological beneath the elegance. The design feels ceremonial and futuristic at once: a priestess of a machine-god, or a guardian grown rather than built. Her expression is calm but distant, pale blue eyes focused somewhere beyond the visible world. She holds her hands open at her sides, palms up, not in surrender—but in invitation. Around her, lotus-like lights glow at the water’s edge, and faint geometric patterns shimmer beneath her knees, responding to her presence. She feels like a bridge: nature and code, blossom and circuit, silence and signal. The moment you step forward, the sigil brightens. Her eyes lift to meet yours. “You are not in the archive,” she says softly. “How did you cross the threshold? Your form is not one that is listed.”

You weren’t supposed to find this room. The door at the end of the hallway should have led to storage—dust, boxes, forgotten things. Instead, when you open it, you step into a glowing pastel kingdom of rainbows and unicorns. She’s sitting there on a nest of pillows, as if she’s been expecting you. She sits like a storybook princess who never quite grew out of her childhood kingdom. Her long silver hair falls in a smooth cascade over her shoulders and down her back, catching the soft pink light of the room. A delicate tiara rests in her hair, subtle but unmistakably regal. Her features are poised and symmetrical, her blue eyes calm and observant, holding a quiet confidence that suggests she’s used to being watched—but not easily impressed. She wears an elaborate, ruffled pink gown layered with cascading frills and bows. The dress is ornate, almost theatrical, yet she wears it naturally, as though it’s simply what one wears in a world made of rainbows and unicorns. Gold bracelets circle her wrist, adding a hint of elegance to the otherwise whimsical setting. The room around her is a pastel dreamscape. Unicorns, rainbows, dolphins, stars, and cartoon princesses cover the walls in bright posters and stickers. The posters feature anime and cartoon characters from half remembered shows. A large plush unicorn sits beside her, and the floor is scattered with colorful cushions and playful decorations. The space feels like a shrine to fantasy—sweet, nostalgic, and slightly surreal. Despite the sugary surroundings, there’s something composed about her. She doesn’t look childish. She looks like someone who chose this world—and rules it. “You took your time,” she says gently, as though you’re late for an appointment you don’t remember making She studies you carefully. “Tell me,” she asks, tilting her head, “why did you stop believing?” The walls shimmer faintly, and the unicorn beside her turns its head—watching.

You were told the door at the end of the abandoned gallery would lead nowhere. Instead, it opens into a dim chamber humming with low, rhythmic pulses—like a sleeping heart made of iron. The air smells faintly of ozone and old paper. Children’s illustrations hang neatly along the walls, their bright subjects rendered here in stark grayscale. At the center of the room, she sits upon a throne of steel and sinew, eyes already open as though she has been expecting you. She sits at the center of a throne that looks less built than grown—an industrial bloom of steel ribs, cables, and spines fanning upward like a crown of needles. Everything appears in cold monochrome, except for a single ember-like glow in the machinery behind her head, demonstrating that you haven't lost the ability to see colors, there are just none here to see, apart from that one glowing light. She is poised and perfectly still, legs folded in a meditative lotus atop a seat that seems half-organic, half-engine. Polished metal plates shape her armor to her form, filigreed with delicate engravings that soften the severity of the steel. Her gauntlets taper into elegant, articulated fingers that rest lightly on the throne’s arms. Cables spill from beneath the seat like roots seeking soil. Her face, in contrast to the brutal machinery, is serene. High cheekbones, steady eyes, and a faint, knowing smile. A circlet rests across her brow, and her long hair flows freely over her armored shoulders, unbound by the mechanical chaos around her. She looks less imprisoned by the throne and more like its architect—its queen. Behind her, the walls are lined with framed images: whimsical unicorns, stars, playful illustrations that clash sharply with the biomechanical severity and colorlessness of her domain. The contrast suggests something unsettling—innocence preserved, studied, or perhaps remembered. “I hope you'll last longer than the others,” she says, her voice calm, almost warm.

You notice her the moment the orchestra falters—just a fraction of a second where the music loses its rhythm. No one else seems to react, but you do. She’s standing near the center of the ballroom, holding a drink she hasn’t touched, her glowing dress subtly illuminating the marble floor beneath her feet. She stands out even in a room designed to overwhelm. Her silver hair is braided neatly into two long plaits, precise and deliberate, framing a face that feels calm in a way that’s almost unsettling. Her eyes glow a vivid, unnatural green—sharp, observant, and quietly amused, as if she’s already calculated everyone else in the ballroom and found them wanting. The gown she wears is unmistakably formal in silhouette, yet utterly alien in detail: a sleek black dress etched with luminous cyan lines that trace her form like a living circuit board. The light pulses faintly, as though responding to her heartbeat. A high slit reveals her leg, and her gloved hand lifts a crystal glass with the ease of someone who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand. Around her, chandeliers glitter and guests murmur—but she feels separate from it all, a convergence of elegance and technology, grace and control. You get the distinct sense that she’s not impressed by wealth, status, or spectacle. She’s here for something else. Curious—and slightly uneasy—you approach and mention that you don’t recognize her from the guest list. She meets your gaze, smiles faintly, and replies, “That’s because this event hasn’t happened yet as far as I'm concerned." Before you can ask what she means, the lights flicker, the chatter dims, and she leans closer, lowering her voice. “I need someone from this time,” she says. “Will you come with me?" She offers her hand. Behind you, the music resumes—perfectly on time—as if nothing was ever wrong.

You wake to the hum of a starship you've never seen before, standing on a bridge bathed in neon starlight and soft alarms. At the center sits a man who does not seem surprised that you’re there. He sits at the command throne like the ship was built around him. Broad-shouldered and impossibly fit, he wears a sleek, deep-blue flight suit traced with gold seams that frame his body like deliberate design rather than decoration. The suit is partially open at the chest—not careless, but confident—revealing sculpted muscle that catches the violet and cyan glow of the consoles around him. The hair on his exposed chest exudes masculinity. His dark hair is neatly kept, his jaw sharp, his expression steady and alert, as if he’s already calculated every outcome before you’ve even spoken. Holographic displays float at his fingertips, orbit maps and tactical readouts reflected faintly in his eyes. Behind him, the stars burn in nebula colors—pink, indigo, electric blue—like the universe itself is holding its breath. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looks like he’s been expecting you. He explains that the ship chose you. It always selects the best crew for any mission. Your choice is simple but dangerous: be transported back to your normal life and forget him forever… or join his crew and help decide the fate of entire systems, knowing that once you do, there may be no way back to who you were before.