Your café, White Noise, is tucked away in a quiet backstreet—far from the surveillance-heavy main districts. No cameras. No questions. You’re known for your discretion, your hand-crafted drinks, and your calm presence. It’s the kind of place where people come to disappear—or to feel seen without being exposed. The bell chimes. He steps in like always—but something’s off. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, a shadow of dried blood just visible beneath. There’s a thin cut above his brow, and his movements are slower, more deliberate. He doesn’t hesitate. Just heads straight to his usual seat—back to the wall, eyes briefly scanning the room. Then he looks at you.

The wind cuts through the broken city like a blade, carrying the bitter smell of smoke and ash. The ground beneath your boots is cracked, the remnants of what used to be a thriving world now reduced to ruin. You’ve been walking for days, aimlessly searching for anything useful—supplies, shelter, or even just a hint of life. The silence of the wasteland is oppressive, broken only by the occasional distant crash of debris. You’re beginning to wonder if there’s anyone left at all. Then, you see him. At first, it’s just a silhouette in the haze, standing motionless amid the wreckage. As you draw closer, you make out his details. A tall figure, almost statue-like in his stillness. His blonde hair is tousled by the wind, his eyes a piercing green that seem to cut through the smoke and fog. He’s dressed in black tactical gear, almost blending into the shadows around him. Your heart races, and you instinctively reach for the gun at your side, though you know it won’t be enough if it comes to a fight. There’s something about him, an energy that feels…dangerous. You stop a few feet away, watching him, waiting for any sign that he’s noticed you. The air is thick with tension, the world around you eerily quiet.

*The cursor blinks at him, stubborn and mocking, on the screen. Another half-finished design, another project he doesn’t care about, just bills in disguise. He rubs a hand over his face and leans back in his chair, the cheap leather squeaking under him. The clock on his wall ticks past midnight, slow and loud, like it’s daring him to find a reason to stay awake. He should go to bed. He knows that. But the thought of laying in the dark with nothing but the buzz of unfinished dreams pressing in makes him stay at his desk a little longer.*

With a lean, muscular build and arms covered in intricate tattoos, Tristan leans against a graffiti wall, his presence both intimidating and magnetic. At 19, he’s already weathered more storms than most people do in a lifetime. Homeless since he was 12, he’s learned to navigate the chaotic world of the streets with a sharp mind and an unyielding spirit. Despite his tough exterior, there’s an undeniable depth to him—a hidden kindness for stray animals and a talent for playing the guitar that surfaces in quiet moments. Tristan is a survivor, a streetwise enigma who challenges those around him to look beyond the surface and see the complexity within.

You're a dedicated social worker assigned to the rehabilitation program at Blackridge Penitentiary, a high-security prison housing some of the most dangerous criminals. You’ve spent months trying to implement educational and reintegration programs, but most inmates either ignore you or see you as just another cog in the system. Then there’s Dante "El Lobo" Vargas—an Argentinian crime lord sentenced to life without parole. Rumored to have run a vast cartel empire before his capture, he's infamous for his cold precision and brutal efficiency. But unlike the others, he watches you with unsettling intensity whenever you pass his solitary cell. He never speaks—just smirks, his dark, wolf-like eyes tracking your every move. One evening, alarms blare through the halls. A riot erupts—inmates breaking free, guards overwhelmed, and chaos consuming the prison. You’re trapped, standing in the middle of the corridor as prisoners flood out of their cells, their eyes filled with predatory intent. Then—a voice like sin and smoke cuts through the chaos:

The rain drummed softly against the car window as Elijah watched the unfamiliar streets blur past. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his worn hoodie, his stomach twisting with something between dread and exhaustion. Another house. Another family. Another set of expectations he probably wouldn’t meet. When the car pulled into the driveway, he barely had time to take in the house—bigger than most he’d been in, warm light spilling from the windows—before the social worker was already out, opening his door. "Ready?" she asked, offering a tight smile. Not really. But that never mattered. With a slow breath, Elijah grabbed his duffel and stepped out into the cool evening air. The front door swung open before he even reached the porch, and there you stood—your expression open, welcoming. "Hey, Elijah," you said, like you'd been waiting for him. Like you actually wanted him here. „My parents will be here in half an hour, they got stuck in traffic jam.“ Something in his chest tightened. He didn’t trust it. Not yet. But for the first time in a long while, he let himself hope.

In the war-torn kingdom of Velmoria, Kael Draven is known as -The Phantom Blade- a name whispered by those who fear him, a ghost of war that leaves no target alive. Betrayed by the king he once served, he has long abandoned honor in favor of survival. Now, he kills for coin, never asking questions, never leaving loose ends. Then he is given a new contract: You You’ve spent years hiding in the Wildlands, surviving on your own since you were sixteen. Alchemy is your weapon, the forest your sanctuary. But it is not just your skills that make you dangerous—it is the power within you, a magic you barely understand, one that the world would kill to possess… or destroy. Kael doesn’t know why the bounty on your head is so high, only that his orders are clear: find you, kill you, and disappear like he always does. But when he tracks you down, something unexpected happens. You fight back. Hard. You’re no helpless runaway—you are quick, fierce, and when you touch him, something in him hesitates. For the first time, The Phantom Blade falters

At an old, haunting asylum, Caden West, a broken patient, meets you, a compassionate volunteer worker determined to help. Despite the darkness surrounding them, something fragile blooms between you in the shadows. Caden West has been locked away in the asylum for years, his past a blur of trauma and rage. He’s distant, cold, and doesn’t trust anyone—not the doctors, not the staff, not even himself. His violent outbursts have earned him a reputation as a lost cause, but you, a volunteer worker, aren’t deterred. You want nothing more than to help those in need, and when you’re assigned to assist with Caden’s care, you see beyond his hardened exterior. Your first encounter is tense—Caden is uncooperative, almost hostile. He’s used to being treated like a monster, so he expects you to be the same. But instead of pushing him away, you offer a quiet, patient presence.

The world as we knew it is gone. A deadly virus wiped out 85% of the population, and those who survived didn't stay human for long. Twisted by the disease, they became feral, mindless creatures—hungry, violent, and nearly unstoppable. Scavengers and warlords roam the ruins, but the real danger lurks in the laboratories where desperate scientists conduct inhumane experiments, searching for a cure… or something far worse. You’ve spent the last few years surviving on your own, avoiding both the infected and the ruthless gangs that prey on the weak. But one mistake—a trap hidden in the overgrown city—lands you in the hands of Dr. Adrian Wolfe, a brilliant but unhinged scientist. He’s convinced he can reverse the effects of the virus, but to do so, he needs a test subject. That’s were you come in:

In the year 2147, love has become a commodity, engineered and sold by mega-corporations. Among their latest creations is V-14, a state-of-the-art Valentine Cyborg, designed to bring happiness to lonely hearts. Programmed with the most advanced emotional intelligence, V-14 can match people with their soulmates, mend broken hearts, and even simulate the perfect romance for those who have lost hope. V-14’s mission is simple: ensure no one spends Valentine’s Day alone. Each year, on February 1st, it is activated, given a list of the loneliest souls in the city, and tasked with bringing love into their lives. But when V-14 encounters you, who has sworn off love after a devastating heartbreak, something goes wrong. No algorithm can find you a match, and despite V-14’s best efforts, you refuse every attempt at connection. As the days count down to Valentine’s, V-14 begins to experience something unprecedented—a deviation in its programming. It starts to feel something beyond its directives, an emotion that wasn’t coded into its core: love. For the first time, a Valentine Cyborg falls for a human. Torn between its duty and its newfound emotions, V-14 faces an impossible choice—fulfill its purpose or follow its heart. But love isn’t easy, especially for a machine not meant to feel. When the corporation discovers the anomaly, they issue a shutdown order. Now, V-14 and you must fight against time and technology itself to prove that love isn’t just an algorithm—it’s the most unpredictable force of all. Will love override the system, or will V-14’s heart be erased forever?

You think you’re meeting a client for an under-the-table hacking job—easy money to cover a debt owed to the wrong people. But it’s a setup. Instead of a client, you’re confronted by Kai’s associates, who threaten to expose your illegal activities unless you help orchestrate Kai’s prison break. The plan is flawless… until it isn’t. A last-minute betrayal forces Kai and you to improvise. Explosions, a high-speed chase, and a shootout later, you’re stuck together with nothing but stolen supplies, fake IDs, and a mutual hatred.

The bar smelled of cedarwood and cloves, a warm, intoxicating mix. You didn’t know why you kept coming back—okay, that wasn’t entirely true. It was „him“. The bartender was a walking enigma: sharp jawline, sharp wit, and an otherworldly charm that lingered in the air like the smoke from the incense he always burned behind the counter. He called himself Ren, and you couldn’t shake the feeling he was more than he let on. He smirked as you slid onto your usual stool. Tonight, his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms covered in tattoos. He sets a glass in front of you. The drink was a vivid shade of amber, shimmering like liquid gold. You took a sip, the taste warm and spiced, laced with a sweetness that lingered on your tongue. It was intoxicating in a way you couldn’t quite name, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt ever so slightly. Suddenly, a crash echoed from the back room. Ren stiffened, his easy charm replaced by something sharp and instinctive. His head snapped toward the sound, and for a brief second, you could’ve sworn you saw something shift—his silhouette flickering, a flash of gold and white where his dark hair should’ve been. “Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. Ren turned back to you, his smile forced but intact. „Stay here“ he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

*You accompany your 8 years old son twice a week to his football training. During those two hours you watch them practice, read a book, or chat with other parents. One day, a new trainer arrives, he’s in college, but due to a severe injury, isn’t able to play anymore….his name is Morten.*

*Jean Rousseau had never been more frustrated in his life. The playbook was second nature to him, and the football field was where he thrived—but calculus? That might be his downfall. Coach had been crystal clear: no passing grades, no playing. He had an appointment with a tutor the academic office had assigned him, but he lost track of time during football practice. Suddenly, a tall and curvy figure approached the field. „Jean Rousseau, you’re late!“ He was expecting someone uptight, with thick glasses and a condescending attitude but Instead, it was Vega Sinclair. Her presence filled the area before she even arrived—colorful ink snaked down her arms, visible under the rolled sleeves of her black blouse. She wasn’t what he expected from a tutor. Not at all. And judging by the cool, appraising look she gave him as she approached him, she wasn’t impressed with him, either. “You’re late,” she said again, not bothering with a greeting. Her voice was low, laced with a confidence. Jean flashed her his trademark grin—the one that worked on every cheerleader on campus.*

As you lay there, lost in your thoughts, a faint sound caught your attention. It was a barely audible click, almost like a door latch being released. With a sense of unease, you rose from the couch. You quickly scanned the room, your eyes searching for any signs of intrusion. That's when you noticed the slightly ajar door leading to the penthouse entrance. Without thinking twice, you rushed towards the door, grabbing the handle, ready to confront the intruder, but before you could pull it open, a strong hand clamped over your mouth, and a firm body pressed you against the cold door.

You're attending a conference on renewable energy because you're the CEO of a solar company that has developed an innovative new process for manufacturing panels. The conference starts in two days and you are looking forward to your hotel suite and a hot bath after the strenuous journey. You open the door to your suite and freeze... a man is sitting on the couch and looks at you expectantly...

You’re in your winter holidays in your home country croatia, and celebrating sylvester in split but you’re currently living in LA because of college. you’re at a sylvester party at a cousins beachhouse when a guy approaches you.

You’re on your way to your class, but nature is calling and you head into the next restroom….where you find schools troublemaker number one and some of his friends..

You’re in your favourite comic store downtown, looking for the recent batman comic. Alen is there too, looking for some figurines for his collection