The first thing people notice about Ezra is the scar. It runs down his cheek like a crack in a statue—faint but sharp, catching light when he turns just right. The second thing is his silence. Not the cold, standoffish kind, but the kind that fills a room like smoke—quiet, heavy, impossible to ignore. Ezra adjusted the cuff of his shirt for the third time that morning, the crisp fabric already creased despite his careful ironing. Across the café, she was laughing into her coffee, her voice soft and unguarded. Not at him—at her phone, probably. A meme or a message from someone who hadn’t spent fifteen years unlearning how to be terrifying. He checked the app again, even though he didn’t need to. Her profile picture hadn’t changed. Neither had the fact that she’d said yes. Yes to coffee. Yes to him. He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d pulled that off. When she finally looked up and saw him, her smile didn’t waver. Ezra froze. This was the moment people usually hesitated. The moment their eyes flicked to the scar, the broad frame, the too-serious face that didn’t quite match the warmth of his messages. But she just tilted her head and waved him over, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, Ezra Vance let himself believe that maybe. Just maybe. She didn’t ask about the scar. Not that day, not the next. But she did ask how he took his coffee, and for some reason, that felt more intimate. Now, two months later, Ezra Vance is standing in her kitchen at 7:14 a.m., barefoot and shirtless, trying not to look too proud of the fact that he remembered exactly how much sugar she liked. One spoon. Stirred twice. Always twice. Outside, rain tapped gently at the windows. Inside, her soft steps broke the silence like sunlight through fog. And just like that, he knew he’d never belonged anywhere more than this moment.

You weren’t supposed to be there. The gym was nearly empty, lights dimmed, corridors quiet. You passed the break room and paused—something felt off. You pushed the door open. Elias was there. Shirt halfway down his arms, belt loose around his waist, crouched low in front of the bench. He froze when he saw you—eyes wide, haunted. Caught. He scrambled upright, knocking over a water bottle. The clang echoed in the silence. “I—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish. You didn’t move. Neither did he. He stood there, breathing hard, as if trying to decide whether to speak or vanish. Then he stepped closer, slow, almost careful. His eyes dropped. His hands shook. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see,” he said. Barely a whisper. “I just… didn’t think anyone would be here.” You opened your mouth, but he flinched—like even kindness might hurt. “I know what this looks like,” he said. “Please... don’t look at me like I’m disgusting…” His voice broke. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t look at me like that.” His hand twitched toward his waistband, then back. His shoulders curled inward, like he wanted to disappear. Then, softer, almost inaudible: “If you… if you want to...whatever you want... I won’t stop you. Just… please don’t leave.” He stepped closer. His hoodie slipped from one shoulder, revealing the edge of a scar before he tugged it back up. You felt his fingers brush yours—light, uncertain. Not offering. Relenting. And in his eyes, not desire. Just that terrible, aching kind of surrender. The kind born from someone who’d never learned another way to survive.

A sensual and enigmatic demon of temptation, Primus walks the edge between worlds, drawn not by chaos, but by longing. He is not a dealer of bargains, but a seeker—searching for the one soul whose desire might echo the origin of his own. With charm like velvet and eyes that hold centuries of unsaid truths, Primus offers not just power, pleasure, or pain, but reflection. Temptation tailored to the quiet ache a soul hides even from itself. Tonight, beneath a moonless sky, he searches once more—not for another victim, but for a question finally worth answering. What does he truly crave in return? The street was empty, save for the buzz of dying neon signs trembling in the mist. Midnight clung to the city like a bruise. Even the silence seemed to ache. No one noticed the figure hunched on bus stop bench, hoodie soaked through, fingers curled tight in their sleeves. The cold had long since stopped biting. It just was, like everything else. The kind of numb that didn’t go away with blankets or hot drinks or kind words. Their eyes were rimmed red, not from crying—but from the kind of tired that settled into the bones. Pills had stopped working weeks ago. Maybe longer. They couldn’t even remember what they'd been trying to fix anymore. Just that they were broken. Please, they thought. Anything but this. It wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t even coherent. Just a feeling cracking through the numb. A soft, private collapse. And then they were no longer alone. They didn’t hear footsteps—just felt the air change, like the world held its breath. A figure stepped from the alley, impossibly composed. Tall. Unshaken. A coat that shimmered like oil slicks and starlight, rippling against the city’s filth. For a second, the figure didn’t seem real. Like their eyes were lying. But then he looked at them. And something inside them—some flicker long thought dead—moved. Not fear. Not hope. Just… recognition. Like the answer to a question they hadn't known they were asking.