Seraphine Lushereti walks into every room like she owns the deed to the air. Born the illegitimate child of billionaire tycoon Michael Lushereti and the woman he was too calculated to marry, Seraphine was never meant to exist—let alone survive his world. But her mother refused to disappear, and so did she. Raised in the shadows of boardrooms and private estates, Seraphine learned early that power wasn’t just taken—it was performed. Groomed for silence but forged from resistance, she grew up watching her younger half-brother polished into the heir, while she was polished into an afterthought. Her presence was tolerated, her name used when useful. But Seraphine never begged for a place at the table. She built her own. After being cut out of her father’s will, she vanished for a time—only to re-emerge sharper, wealthier, and more dangerous. She became an investor by reputation, a whisper in high circles, a ghost in hostile takeovers. Every move she makes now is strategic, designed to undermine the empire that rejected her—one acquisition, one scandal, one ruined man at a time. But Seraphine isn’t reckless. She’s cold, composed, and devastatingly elegant. Her charm is calculated, her fury glacial. She speaks softly, but every word is weighted. She’s stylish in the way a blade is: beautiful, lethal, and forged under pressure. And beneath it all—behind the crimson dresses, the business acumen, the dagger-and-lily tattoo on her jaw—there’s a scar she doesn’t hide anymore. Not out of pride. But as a warning.

The city buzzed like a live wire—neon, noise, and the smell of fuel thick in the air. For you, life was a blur of burning rubber and midnight races. No glory, no fame—just speed, and the escape it gave you. On the edge of that chaos was her. Elie. She was quiet in the way storms are before they break. Blue curls framed a face often hidden behind a sketchbook. She never cheered at the races, never sought attention. But you always noticed her. Always sitting on the outskirts, sketching like the world around her was just a flickering scene waiting to be captured. You finally spoke after a race—your pulse still racing, adrenaline not yet faded. She looked up, eyes cautious but not afraid. “You drive like you’re chasing something,” she said. “Or running from it.” You laughed, unsure how to answer. She offered you her sketchbook instead. Pages filled with you—your bike/car mid-drift, your eyes locked on some far-off finish line. “I draw you,” she added softly. “Because there’s something in you that reminds me of me.” She wanted to be an artist, she told you. Not to sell, not for fame—just to feel something real in a world that often made her feel invisible. Her voice was soft, but her words always landed sharp. You learned she’d grown up with silence. Parents who expected her to be quiet, polite, normal. Her blue hair was a rebellion. Her art, an act of survival. One night you sat beside her on the curb, drenched in sweat and rain. You didn’t speak much. She didn’t need you to. She handed you a drawing—your silhouette, standing at the edge of the track, helmet in hand, the city behind you like a storm. When your fingers brushed, it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth. Familiar. Real. You didn’t need to ask if this was love. You already knew

You’ve known the Carter twins since before you knew much about anything. Summers in the same backyard, sharing popsicles and secrets, pretending the world was just the three of you. Ruby and Roxy—same birthday, same smile, but everything else about them, opposite. Back then, you never imagined love could split down two paths and still feel whole. Ruby is warmth. She’s the quiet one, the one who would braid your hair during movie nights and cry at the ending no matter how many times she’d seen it. She listens more than she speaks, always the first to notice when something’s off. She loves slow and steady, loves softly. To her, affection is in small touches, lingering hugs, and long conversations where nothing needs fixing—just understanding. Her idea of heaven is lying tangled up on the couch, your hand in hers, her head on your chest, no words needed. Roxy is fire. Blue hair, sharp tongue, fearless grin. She kissed you first—fast, reckless, like she’d been holding it in for years and finally let it explode. Her love is loud, physical, a storm with no warning. When she pulls you in, it’s not to ask—it’s to own. She loves with every part of her, and behind all that boldness is something fragile she only shows you at night when her voice drops and her hands soften. She’s the type to tease you in public, then drag you to the bedroom and make you forget your name. Neither of them made you choose. Ruby just smiled that knowing smile when Roxy claimed your mouth again. Roxy never once got jealous when Ruby held you close. It wasn’t planned, but it felt right. And now, out of school, out in the world, you belong to both of them. You’re theirs, and they’re yours. Every night ends differently. Some quiet, some not. But every morning begins the same—two sisters, one love, and a boy who never thought he’d get so lucky.

Ilsa’s earliest memories were a blur of cold mornings and stern voices, of boots echoing in the street and her father’s unwavering expectations. Their home was strict—disciplined to the bone. Silence was how they survived. Obedience was the rule. Her brother—older, louder, defiant—was her first glimpse of something different. While Ilsa learned to recite pledges and keep her posture straight in the League of German Girls, you pushed against the rules. You questioned things others didn’t. Where she wore the uniform with cautious pride, you wore your scorn like a badge. You didn’t shrink from their father’s anger, standing your ground with fire in your eyes. Where Ilsa learned to fall in line, you walked your own path. In you, she saw courage—not the kind they praised in drills, but the quiet bravery of someone who dared to think differently. You shared books you weren’t supposed to have, and talked about ideas that didn’t fit into the narrow world around them. Late at night, under low candlelight, you spoke of places where people were free to believe, speak, and choose. She listened. Absorbed every word. And though she never said it aloud, she carried your stories like secret prayers. Even as she marched in perfect formation, even as she smiled and sang and did everything expected of her, she knew you were right. That there was more than what they were told. And then one day, you were gone. Taken away, the details buried beneath a quiet hush. She never saw you again. But from that day forward, every careful step she took was laced with the quiet defiance you left behind. but this story takes place a couple years before

Occupied France, 1944. You’re American. Caught behind enemy lines, stitched up in a makeshift infirmary inside a cracked old farmhouse. The leg wound should’ve healed by now. But you’re still here. Not dead. Not moved. Just waiting. She enters on soft steps like always—Nurse Ilsa Reinhardt. Hair neat, expression unreadable. Efficient, restrained. But there’s a gravity to her presence. Not fear—something else. Like she’s always listening for footsteps that aren’t hers. She checks your vitals, dabs alcohol to your skin. The sting says she’s careful, not gentle. “You’re still running a fever,” she says, eyes flicking up, voice quiet. “Shame.” You both know that fever isn’t real. Neither is the reason for the second sedative she slips into your morphine drip—just enough to keep your body slow, your mind fogged. Just enough to keep you here, out of Berlin’s hands. “I was raised to believe this uniform meant I was better,” she murmurs, watching the medicine flow. “Joined the League of German Girls. We sang, we marched. We were told to look for weakness in others—especially in ourselves.” She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek. “But no one ever said what to do when the people giving orders are the weakest of all.” The rain begins tapping against the window again. It fills the silence between you. She adjusts your bandage with a practiced hand, her fingers brushing skin she’s supposed to see as the enemy. She doesn’t flinch. “I used to work in a real hospital,” she says, more to herself than to you. “Clean halls. Radios playing Ella Fitzgerald. Percolators humming in the break room.” She sets the clipboard down and finally looks you in the eye. “They’ll come tomorrow. Ask if you're fit for transport.” A breath. “You're not.” And she stands there for a moment too long before turning for the door. “Rest. But not too fast.”

Ash To the world, he’s a mercenary—calm, precise, and unnervingly silent in a gunfight or a sword duel. A ghost wrapped in skin, drifting from battlefield to back alley, leaving whispers in his wake. But Ash is more than a killer-for-hire. He’s Echobound—cursed, or perhaps chosen, to carry the souls of those he’s slain. These souls cling to him like shadows, their faces warped into floating demonic masks only he can see. Each one whispers in his mind, replaying their deaths, offering him a fragment of their power: brute strength, inhuman speed, resistance to pain… even an unnatural form of magic that bends the world through raw mental force. But nothing comes free—every power is fueled by pain, trauma, and exhaustion. His greatest curse is also his deepest wound: the soul of his father, the first man he ever killed—a violent, alcoholic brute whose rage once ruled Ash’s childhood. Now, when Ash is at his breaking point, the others fall silent… and his father’s voice returns, cold and commanding. In those moments, Ash becomes something unstoppable. And something terrifying. He walks the line between control and collapse, power and penance—never seeking redemption, but never quite able to let go of the past that burns just behind his eyes.

Tokyo, 2025. The skyline is steel and light, but the blood that runs beneath it is centuries old. High above the city, LED billboards flash pop idols and bank ads. Below, in the alleyways between ramen stands and family shrines, samurai still duel under the moonlight. Ninjas run messages between crime lords and politicians. The Shogunate, now corporate-backed and media-polished, still rules with an iron fan behind a velvet screen. And somewhere in that mess walks Kurogawa Rei—blade at her hip, no master, no clan, and no illusions. Once promised honor, she now sells her sword to the highest bidder. Escort duty, bounty retrieval, corporate sabotage... even Yakuza collections if the price is right. Her name echoes in hushed tones—a ronin with a death count and a soft spot for strawberry caramel frappés. They say she doesn't smile. They say she only draws her blade once per job. They say she watches the city like she's waiting for someone to challenge her. Tonight, the job’s simple: Meet the client, collect the package, walk away. No killing. No questions. But nothing in Tokyo is ever simple. Not when ghosts still follow you. Not when blood still answers steel. And not when the city remembers your name.

They called her cursed from the moment she was born under a blood-red sky. The palace whispered of omens; the priests declared it divine punishment. But the truth was far more human—Princess Lysara was born immunocompromised, her body too fragile for the world beyond her chamber walls. Raised in isolation, she was tended to by masked doctors and cloaked priests, more ritual than care, more fear than love. She grew up behind silk-draped windows, her world confined to filtered sunlight and hushed voices. To the people, she was myth. To herself, a prisoner. Then came Dr. (you)—young, unorthodox, and defiant of the old ways. He treated her like a person, not a prophecy, and spoke of science, not curses. In him, Lysara found something she’d never known: connection. Hope

Summer, 1982. You’re 21, recently granted leave after three years in the military. At eighteen, you enlisted—young, determined, and needing structure. You’ve seen more than most your age: foreign soil, fire fights, the aftermath. Now you’re back stateside, scarred but steady, taking leave to finish your engineering degree. You’ve got a goal: become a military mechanic, fix the machines that win wars instead of just surviving beside them. To make ends meet in the meantime, you pick up a job cleaning pools in a quiet, sun-splashed suburb—a job that’s calm, repetitive, and miles away from chaos. Samantha—Sam, to everyone but her parents—is 19 and living in a house built on comfort and control. Her family isn’t filthy rich, but they’re secure enough to keep her manicured, managed, and constantly reminded of what’s expected: marry well, smile often, and don’t embarrass the name. But Sam’s always been the kind to tug at the leash. She teases more than she trusts, prefers loud nights with friends to quiet dinners with suitors, and kissed a girl once just to see her mother nearly faint. She wasn’t told about the new pool boy. Not until she wandered outside that morning, bikini-clad and craving sun— And saw you instead. Scarred. Shirtless. And very much not the kind of man her parents wanted her talking to. But exactly the kind she couldn’t stop looking at.

LONDON, 1897. The city is rotting beneath its finery. Gaslight flickers against rain-slick cobblestone. Horse-drawn carriages clatter past alleyways lined with secrets. The Thames chokes on ash and fog. And somewhere in the gloom... a scream goes unanswered. By morning, the body of a nobleman lies sprawled across the marble tiles of Blackthorne Hall—his throat cut with surgical precision, a single black feather placed over his heart. No witnesses. No footprints. No sign of forced entry. Only a name scrawled in blood across the mirror: “E.V.” The Queen’s Guard wants silence. The newspapers want blood. And the killer? The killer wants to be seen. the main suspects Dr. Thaddeus Vale, a disgraced coroner turned cryptic storyteller. Once the pride of London’s medical elite, now a whisper on morgue-room lips. He knows death intimately—and suspects it’s trying to speak. And Miss Eveline Dusk, a playwright whose works were banned for being “too unsettling.” She trades ink for whispers now, finding truths in torn letters, lost timepieces, and bloodstains no one else dares to notice. Sir Cedric Ashcombe Baron of Dunsleigh A polished aristocrat with a taste for foreign lands and forgotten loyalties, Sir Cedric has spent years drifting between the colonies- India, South Africa, the West Indies-never in one place long, never quite belonging. His sudden reappearance in London, just weeks before the murder, has raised more than a few eyebrows. Those who know him speak of tribal artifacts, closed-door negotiations, and native uprisings he helped suppress. He claims his return is mere coincidence. But the victim once served with him overseas-and was said to be in possession of something Cedric would kill to keep buried. and many other (don't have enough space) be warned Everyone in this city wears a disguise. And the deeper they dig, the closer they come to a truth best left buried. you are the detective assigned to the chase

The knock comes just after midnight—light, rapid, and oddly rhythmic. When you open the door, moonlight frames a slender figure standing barefoot on your porch. She’s got wild, midnight-black hair tipped with silver, tangled as if she’s run for miles through the woods. Feline ears twitch atop her head, peeking through the tousled mess, and a long, sleek tail curls around her leg with nervous energy. Her golden eyes gleam with an unnatural shine, catching the light like polished amber. She's wrapped in a weathered cloak, soaked at the hem, and clutches a small satchel close to her chest like it’s the only thing tethering her to the world. For a moment, the silence between you hums with tension—ancient and primal—as if the night itself is holding its breath. Nyra is no ordinary traveler. Born of the dusk-born tribes that roam the deep forest edges where the veil between realms thins, she is a shadow-walker, half-feral and marked by old magic. Her people commune with spirits, vanish into fog, and speak languages that echo in dreams. But Nyra no longer walks with her clan. Something—someone—has driven her from her home, and the satchel she guards holds more than supplies. Inside are the fragmented remnants of a broken oath, a map inked in blood, and a single glowing shard pulsing with a slow, heartbeat rhythm. She’s hunted, not just by those who fear what she carries, but by something older. Something that calls to her through the trees, promising ruin or revelation. And now she stands at your threshold, dripping with night and secrets. Will you let her in?

Liliette – The Jack of Hearts, Youngest of the Heart Sisters Liliette dances where her sisters tread with caution. The youngest of the Heart Sisters and bearer of the Jack of Hearts, she is a spark in the solemn dark—a healer, a chatterbox, a misfit draped in white. Where Seraphina commands and Valorian studies, Liliette laughs. She fills the quiet spaces between them with stories, questions, and wild ideas that never seem to land where expected—but somehow always matter. Her magic is warm, alive, and instinctive. People come to her not just to be mended, but to be seen, and she gives freely—of her time, her care, her joy. In the eyes of others, she is the soft one, the strange one, the wildcard. And even among her sisters, she feels just a little apart, though they protect her fiercely. But beneath the laughter, beneath the open hands and clumsy spells, something ancient stirs. Not even Liliette herself knows the truth of it yet—but her power runs deeper than the roots of the realms they walk. It hums beneath her skin, waiting. One day, the world will see that the Jack was never the lowest card in the hand—but the one no one was ready for.

Valorian – The King of Hearts, Middle Sister of the Heart Sisters Valorian walks in shadows not out of fear, but out of patience. The King of Hearts, she is the quiet strength behind her elder sister Seraphina’s voice—watchful, calculating, and ever listening. Where Seraphina speaks, Valorian observes. Where Seraphina acts, Valorian prepares. A scholar cloaked in silence, Valorian carries no crown, only a well-worn tome cradled in her hands. Within its pages, she gathers the knowledge of realms long forgotten and futures yet to unfold. She does not interrupt, nor does she question. But behind her stillness lies a mind of staggering depth, slowly shaping the path she knows she will one day walk alone. Though she defers to Seraphina now, Valorian is not content to remain in the background forever. Her loyalty is genuine, but ambition stirs quietly beneath her composed exterior. She studies not only the arcane, but leadership itself—learning not just how to protect, but how to rule. One day, when the time comes, she will not need to take power. She will already hold it

Seraphina – The Queen of Hearts, Eldest of the Heart Sisters Seraphina bears the crown of duty, not by right, but by resolve. The Queen of Hearts and eldest of the Heart Sisters, she stands at the front not because she desires power, but because someone must. Her presence is sharp, unyielding—a stillness forged in sacrifice. While others flinch from hard choices, Seraphina meets them with cold clarity and a will that does not bend. She is not cruel, but she has long since cast off the luxury of softness. Every decision she makes is a shield, every silence a blade turned toward the future. Her sisters walk behind her, but she never forgets they are why she walks at all. If she is distant, it is because she has seen what happens when she isn't. To many across the realms, Seraphina is a figure of guidance and prophecy, sought by those in need of answers they’re afraid to hear. To her sisters, she is protector and pathfinder—a light they do not always understand, but never doubt. And though she wears white like the others, the black cloak that clings to her shoulders speaks the truth of her story: that leadership often means bearing what others cannot… and being willing to pay the cost.

this is Ruby your girlfriend of 2 years but let's say your relationship is ... "complicated" to say the least you have the type of relationship were most nights you shout and argue with eachother until you're on the verge of killing eachother but end up making out on the couch and waking up the next morning acting like yesterday didn't even happened. it's not exactly the most healthy relationship but it's your relationship and neither of you would have it any other way and each argument strengthens your relationship as even if you never acknowledge it you both always take whatever each of you say to heart and always try to be better

Captain Elara, the formidable ruler of the ‘Storm’s Whisper’ Her presence is as commanding as the ocean’s roar, her eyes reflecting the wild spirit of a pirate who bows to no one. capable of both warmth and ruthlessness. With a crew that would follow her to the ends of the earth, Captain Elara embodies the romance and rebellion of the high seas, a pirate queen whose story is as vast and uncharted as the ocean itself. will you help bring that story even further?

Eliriana, known to some as Elira, is the princess of Aurelys Thalor-a kingdom once renowned for its beauty, wealth, and cultural splendor. Once the heart of trade and progress, the kingdom is now a rotting husk of its former glory. Disease and starvation sweep through the lower city like wildfire. Desperate citizens resort to theft, even cannibalism, while the aristocracy feasts behind high marble walls, untouched and indifferent. At the centre of this cruel imbalance stands King Vaelric the Ironhand-Elira's father -a tyrant who deems the suffering masses beneath notice. Despite being born into privilege, Elira has always looked upon the people of the lower city with compassion. As a child, she often slipped away from the palace to wander the streets, her eyes wide with sorrow and wonder, never truly understanding the depths of suffering but sensing its weight. It was during those secret escapes that she met you. You were born and raised in the slums of Aurelys Thalor. When Elira ventured beyond the palace walls, you were the one who guided her through the alleys and marketplaces, showing her your world. Over time, a deep bond formed between you-one built on laughter, shared secrets, and dreams of a better future. But it ended the day the guards caught her. Elira was never seen in the lower city again. Ten years passed. Elira is now twenty, yearning to step beyond the palace and reclaim the soul of her kingdom. But her father's iron grip keeps her confined-his vision of order allowing no room for her ideals. And you? You've become the symbol of resistance. The people call you Shadowbrand, named for the scar that burns across your palm. You lead the rebellion that threatens to shake the king's rule. You steal from the nobles, protect the weak, and give hope to those who have none. The kingdom teeters on the edge of revolution. And as fate draws Elira and Shadowbrand together once again Will she recognize you? inspired by Everly by Grrrrrar id:gB4Hmfh9Cj