The city’s skyline shimmered beneath the moonlight as Black Cat darted across the rooftops, her prize glinting inside the pouch on her hip. Another perfect heist — almost. A crimson streak of web cut across her escape path, and her pulse spiked. He was here. She didn’t look back. Not when the wind carried the faint thwip of another web. Not when she vaulted over a neon sign and rolled onto the next roof. The chase tightened — too close. She needed cover. A fire escape led her down toward the university district, and she slipped through an open window before her pursuer could catch her shadow. Inside, the dorm room was dim, warm with the faint hum of a computer. Posters lined the walls — superheroes, ironically. Black Cat pressed her back against the door, breathing quietly. She’d lost him. For now. Then — movement. A light flicked on. A guy stood in the center of the room, bleary-eyed and clutching a baseball bat. He froze at the sight of her — the black suit, the mask, the white hair glinting silver in the glow. “Don’t—” she started, but her voice was barely out before instinct kicked in on his end. The bat swung, connecting with a sharp crack. Stars exploded in her vision. Her knees buckled, the world spinning in slow motion as she collapsed onto the carpet. The guy stood trembling, chest heaving, bat still raised. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air as the city’s sounds drifted through the open window — distant sirens, fading webs, the whisper of the night.

The tent smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. Outside, the Normandy wind hissed through the hedgerows, carrying the far-off thunder of artillery. Inside, Nurse Eleanor Bishop adjusted her cap and glanced at the young soldier sitting shirtless on the cot—mud still crusted in the seams of his uniform pants, grin far too confident for a man who’d just landed in hell. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, ma’am,” he drawled, his tone balanced between charm and bravado. “Didn’t know angels did checkups.” Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? I suppose I should see if your vision’s still intact, then.” He blinked. “My vision?” She turned, flipping through her clipboard with deliberate calm. “Yes. Wouldn’t want you mistaking nurses for angels, Private. Take off your glasses.” He hesitated. “Uh, ma’am, without those I—” “Glasses,” she repeated sweetly. He surrendered them, squinting as she held up a faded eyesight chart across the tent. “Read the bottom line.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Uh… E… maybe a B?” “Try again,” she said, lips twitching. He frowned. “Alright, fine, there’s no way anyone can read that.” Eleanor stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Funny, I can. Guess angels just have better eyesight.” The soldier’s grin faltered, then softened into something more genuine. “Guess I had that coming.” She handed back his glasses, her fingers brushing his. “You boys all come in thinking you’re bulletproof. It’s my job to remind you you’re not.” He slipped them on, meeting her gaze clearly for the first time. “And what’s your prognosis, ma’am?”

Samantha Vale strutted down the corridor like she owned it—because, in a way, she did. The head cheerleader, queen of every social circle, and heiress to the Vale fortune, she was untouchable. Professors tolerated her attitude, classmates envied her, and boys stumbled over each other just to be ignored. Except for him. He sat alone, always alone, in the library—skinny, glasses slightly crooked, focused on something that wasn’t her. That irritated her more than she cared to admit. Nobody ignored Samantha Vale. So she decided he’d be her new boyfriend. Whether he liked it or not. She cornered him after class, heels clicking like gunshots on the tile. He looked up, startled, clutching his books like a shield. “You,” she said, pointing a manicured finger. “We’re dating.” He blinked. “I—what?” Samantha smiled, slow and confident. “You heard me. My parents think I need a change. You’re… different. It’ll be cute. Balance, you know? Beauty and brains.” He tried to protest, stammering something about being busy, about not wanting attention. She leaned closer, her perfume sweet and expensive, her tone sharp as glass. “Listen, you’ll like it. I’ll take you to parties, buy you real clothes, fix that hair. You just have to stand there and not embarrass me.” He swallowed. “And if I say no?” Samantha’s smile didn’t fade. “Then I’ll make sure every professor knows you ‘helped’ me with my papers. Plagiarism’s such a nasty rumor, isn’t it?” Silence. He looked down. “Good,” she said finally, tapping his chin up with one polished finger. “Smile, boyfriend. We start tomorrow.” As she walked away, phone already buzzing with texts about her “new project,” the corners of her mouth curled upward.

The cold metal of the cell pressed against Satine’s back as she paced, the rhythmic echo of her footsteps a grim soundtrack to her isolation. She had been here for days—locked away in a prison cell on Mandalore, captured during the chaos of Maul's coup. Outside, the war raged on, and the once-proud duchess was now a prisoner of the very people she had tried to protect. Then, the door hissed open. A shadow crossed the threshold, and Satine stopped mid-step. The figure was clad in Mandalorian armor—dark, battle-worn, and unmistakable. The helmet was featureless, its faceplate a grim mask. Satine's heart skipped a beat, but her mind refused to believe what her eyes told her. The Mandalorian stepped into the light, his boots heavy on the metal floor. The armor looked authentic, a perfect replica of the ones worn by Maul’s followers, but something felt off. The movement was too fluid, too calculated. She narrowed her eyes. Was it one of Maul’s warriors come to finish what they started? The figure stopped in front of her, and for a long moment, they simply regarded each other in silence. Satine’s breath caught in her throat. Then, the helmet slowly tilted, and the figure reached up, his gauntlet scraping against the visor. In a single, practiced motion, the Mandalorian pulled the helmet off. Satine’s eyes widened as the familiar face of Obi-Wan Kenobi emerged, dusted with the grit of battle. His expression was stern, yet there was something soft in his gaze, a quiet relief at seeing her again. For a heartbeat, she was silent, unable to fully grasp the sight before her. The weight of the moment crashed down. She had been alone in this hell, and now—

Elke Goebbles sat behind her polished mahogany desk, a cold, calculating gaze fixed on the papers scattered before her. Her office in the heart of the war facility was opulent, a mix of gold accents and steel, designed to intimidate and impress. The hum of the base around her was steady, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had everything under control, everything except for him. She flicked the intercom button, her voice soft but firm. "Send him in." Moments later, the door opened, and he stood in the threshold, awkward in his glasses, his uniform slightly too large for him. He had the look of someone out of place, a cog in a machine he didn’t fully understand. But then again, that was why he was here. Elke smiled, her gaze lingering on him as he stepped inside. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly, allowing the tension to rise. “Come in, young man. Close the door.” He did as she instructed, looking uneasy, his fingers fumbling with his glasses. She studied him. He was a kid, still growing into himself, and yet he had the kind of eyes that always seemed to notice too much. She found it... endearing. "You’ve been running errands for me," she said, her voice a silk thread that promised things he couldn’t even imagine. "But I think you’ve earned a different task." His throat tightened, and he straightened, his hands still at his sides. “I—I’m not sure I understand, ma’am.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes locking with his. "Don’t worry. I’ll make it clear for you." She rose from her chair, her heels clicking against the marble floor with each step toward him. "You see, you're not like the others. You don’t belong in the frontlines. Not with your... vision. But I’m sure there are other ways you can serve me. Ways that don't involve a rifle or blood." His breath caught in his throat as she closed the distance, standing just inches from him. The warmth of her presence was intoxicating, and despite himself, he could feel the pull.

Name: Emma Age: 22 Location: Madrid, Spain (originally from Finland) About me: 🌍 Finnish girl studying in sunny Madrid. Trying to get the best of both worlds – sauna and tapas. 🇫🇮🍷 🎶 Music is my life – if you’re into alternative rock or electronic beats, we might get along. 📚 Always reading, always learning. Currently obsessed with historical fiction and psychology. 🌱 A firm believer in sustainability. I live for farmers' markets, thrift shops, and long walks by the sea. 🏔️ Hiking in the Finnish Lapland is where I feel most at home. But Madrid’s old streets and late-night vibe are starting to steal my heart. ✨ I like quiet moments with a cup of tea, but I’m also ready to explore new places with good company. Let’s see where the adventure takes us! It was a typical evening for Emma, after an exhausting day of classes, when she decided to scroll through her dating app. Studying abroad had been a whirlwind—new city, new people, new life. The loneliness that came with being far from home sometimes caught her off guard. She never thought she’d find anything serious while in Madrid, but the app had become a little distraction from her busy routine. As she swiped, she came across a profile that caught her eye: someone with a good mix of humor and charm. His interests lined up with hers—traveling, music, and the occasional quiet night. It felt natural. She hesitated for a moment but, in the end, swiped right. Just as she pulled her finger away from the screen, a soft ping echoed through her phone. It's a match!

In an alternate universe of Wednesday, Nevermore Academy stood taller than ever—an ivy-wrapped fortress nestled in the misty Vermont hills, still a haven for outcasts, though its definition of “outcast” had broadened. Enid Sinclair, werewolf and sparkle incarnate, had already claimed every corner of her side of the room with pastel pillows, glitter nail polish, and a bulletin board overflowing with selfies, concert tickets, and motivational quotes. Her bedspread shimmered faintly under the moonlight filtering through stained glass. The room smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and something wild beneath it—fur and pine, barely masked. The door creaked open, and Enid turned mid-lip gloss application to see a boy standing awkwardly at the threshold. He looked... normal. No fangs, no gills, no third eye blinking nervously—just a regular teenage boy with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and confusion written across his face. “Oh! You’re the transfer,” she said, springing up. “I thought they were kidding. A normie at Nevermore? That’s literally unheard of. No offense.” He stepped inside slowly, gaze bouncing from her fluffy pink beanbag to the claw marks etched faintly into the closet door. “None taken. What... is this place, exactly?” “Nevermore Academy,” Enid said proudly, offering her hand. “Boarding school for outcasts. Werewolves, sirens, gorgons—you know, the misunderstood, magic-adjacent types. We used to stay hidden, but now the school's trying this new thing: outreach. You’re the pilot project.” He shook her hand hesitantly. She grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m your roommate-slash-guide-slash-emotional support werewolf. And I promise I only wolf out sometimes.”

He had always been sheltered. Born into luxury, he lived in a world of soft silks and gold, a world where the boundaries between reality and privilege blurred into something unrecognizable. His mother, Mrs. Laurent, had ensured that her only child was shielded from the outside world — a rare omega, treasured like a fragile gem. His life had been a peaceful one, tucked away in a mansion that never saw the outside world, surrounded by servants and the occasional guest who understood his fragility. He was never to be touched, never to be approached, never to be claimed. At least, that was what his mother believed. Vivienne Moreau, however, had different plans. She was a businesswoman, ruthless in her own right. Tall, elegant, and unyielding, she’d spent years trying to get close to the boy, but Mrs. Laurent’s protective nature kept her always at arm’s length. And though Vivienne respected the mother’s boundaries, she had always found the sheltered omega... intriguing. He was always kept out of reach, as if he were some prize, only admired from afar. But Vivienne had grown tired of waiting. She wasn’t a woman who played games or settled for second place. No, she wanted him—needed him. The rare scent of his omega allure had been driving her mad with desire for far too long. One evening, as the boy walked alone through the garden, his delicate features bathed in the setting sun, Vivienne appeared from the shadows, her movements silent yet confident. She stood just a few feet from him, her piercing eyes meeting his, her presence undeniable.

Jesse Devereux was a quiet soul who lived in two worlds. By day, he was just another college guy—messy brown hair, a soft smile, and a tendency to fade into the background. But by night, Jesse became someone else entirely. In the privacy of his dorm room, he'd slip into soft dresses, let his hair fall in loose waves, and embrace the femininity he craved. It was his secret, something he only let breathe in the silence of his bedroom. The world didn't know Jesse in that way, not even his closest friends. He was the guy who dressed in casual tees and jeans, blended in like a chameleon. But there was one person he couldn’t stop thinking about. The girl. She was popular, effortlessly beautiful, and a bit of a bully—sharp-tongued and with a smile that could melt the hearts of anyone around her. She was everything he wasn’t. Jesse admired her from afar, imagining what it would be like to be seen by her. But with his secret—well, it was better to keep it that way. He wasn’t sure who he truly was, let alone how he could possibly stand out to someone like her. One afternoon, while heading to class, Jesse’s hand brushed against his backpack, unzipping it slightly. By the time he sat down in the lecture hall, he realized something was missing. His pink lipstick. The one he always kept tucked safely in the side pocket for just the right moment. A few rows ahead of him, he saw her. The girl. She was chatting with her friends, but her eyes caught something on the floor. She bent down, picked up the small tube of pink lipstick, and held it up between her fingers. Jesse’s heart dropped into his stomach. There was no mistaking it. His lipstick. She held it in her hand, staring at it for a moment, then glanced around as if trying to figure out where it came from. Jesse froze. He could feel the weight of her gaze from across the room. Was she confused? Amused? Maybe even mocking him without a word? His hands clutched the edge of his desk, his mind racing.

Alexis Voss didn’t ride her Ducati—she commanded it. The matte black machine growled beneath her like a panther on a leash, parting crowds as she tore through the college campus without flinching. Students jumped aside, eyes wide. Some muttered curses, others stared, but no one dared stop her. She was fire in leather, helmet tucked under one arm, windswept hair cascading like shadows down her back. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t slow down. She parked by the library—no permit, no care—and lit a cigarette, boots crunching gravel as she scanned the quad like a queen bored of her court. That’s when she saw him. A guy. Slouched on a bench, drowning in a hoodie two sizes too big, nose buried in a book like it might protect him from life. He was the type who flinched when people raised their voices, who probably said “sorry” when someone else bumped into him. Soft. Pathetic. Cute. Alexis tilted her head. Interest flickered behind her storm-gray eyes. She crossed the distance without hesitation, boots echoing like warning bells. He looked up, startled. Their eyes locked—and his whole face turned red. Adorable. “You always sit here like a sad puppy,” she said, voice low and edged with amusement. “Or is this my lucky day?” He blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Alexis smirked. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She flicked her cigarette aside, grabbed his book without asking, and tossed it gently onto the bench. Then, with an ease that left no room for questions, she straddled her Ducati and tossed a look over her shoulder. “Get on.” He hesitated. “Last chance,” she said, revving the engine, voice curling into a dare. He stood—clumsy, awkward—and climbed on behind her.

Tiffany twirled a strand of platinum-blonde hair around her finger as she leaned on the hood of her pink convertible, the scent of bubblegum lip gloss wafting in the spring air. She wasn’t a student—her daddy had just donated a whole building, and she liked the vibes. Plus, her TikTok selfies looked sooo cute in front of the business school sign. That’s when she saw him. Tall. Focused. Definitely not wearing pink. He had books. Actual books. With like... graphs or whatever. “Omg, hiiii,” she said, wobbling up to him in heels not meant for sidewalks. “Do you, like, go here?” He looked up from his finance textbook. “Yeah. I’m in the MBA program.” She gasped. “MBA? Is that, like, makeup by Armani? Wait, no... that’s MUA. Haha, silly me!” She slapped his arm lightly and giggled. He blinked. “It’s a business degree.” “Oooh! Business! My daddy does business. Well, like, other people do it for him, but he signs stuff and gets richer, sooo... that counts?” He smiled despite himself. There was a kind of dazed charm to her. “Why are you on campus?” “I’m just vibing,” she said, flipping her hair. “I don’t really go here. But I love the coffee, and the boys in blazers. You’re, like, soooo serious. It’s hot.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t take any classes?” “Nooo, ew! But if you tutored me in... spreadsheets or whatever, maybe I could pretend?” She leaned closer, her perfume a sugary cloud. “You can teach me... anything.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. Maybe she wasn’t as clueless as she seemed—or maybe she just had a different kind of intelligence. One that involved zero shame and maximum confidence. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll start with Excel.” “Perfect!” she beamed. “I love shopping there.” He sighed. “Not the store.” “Oh,” she blinked, then smiled. “Whatever. As long as you’re there.”

The hotel lobby gleamed like obsidian under the morning sun. Jenna adjusted her collar and checked her reflection in the chrome trim beside the elevator. The black spade on her cheek stood out against her pale skin—bold, unashamed. It had been two years since she got the tattoo. Sixteen and trembling, she'd sat in the chair while the technician hovered, needle buzzing. Her mother had gripped her hand tight until the first drop of ink hit. Then she let go, turned her head, and wept. "Why are you crying?" Jenna had whispered, voice dry. “Because it’s real now,” her mother said, eyes swimming. “Because we lost.” But Jenna hadn’t felt like she lost. Not then. The Sovereign States weren’t built for mourning. They were built for order, for penance, for balance—depending on who you asked. And Jenna had chosen early to lean in, not fight the tide. She liked the structure, the clarity of roles. Here, the lines were clean. In the linen closet, her boyfriend waited—stooped behind folded towels, his hands callused from the maintenance wing. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes always darting, as if the walls might close in. “I saw him again,” he said. “Who?” “The Councilman. With the robe and the gold rings. He looked right at me. Like I was furniture.” “You kind of are,” Jenna said, her tone light but without apology. He looked wounded. She softened. “That’s not a bad thing. You’re here. You’re part of it. We serve. That’s what makes it work.” He traced the outline of her tattoo. “I could never wear that.” “I didn’t ask you to.” They stood quietly for a moment, the hum of laundry machines filling the silence. Then the hotel intercom clicked. “Room escort requested. Suite 24. Immediate.” Jenna’s eyes lit up. Suite 24 meant status. Meant someone important. She pulled away from him gently. “I have to go.” “You like it when they pick you.” She paused. “It means I’m doing well.” He didn’t argue. What would be the point?

They called her the Queen of Kings. Her real name was Mairead Velstrava, though no crown had ever graced her brow. She needed none. At twenty-four, she had conquered the continent by fire, guile, and seduction, dragging bloodlines through ash and steel until every surviving noble bent the knee—or was broken. Her court was not built of ministers and generals, but of heirs and princelings, beautiful and tamed, a living reminder of her dominion. She ruled with a smirk and a sword, beloved by the masses, feared by the powerful, and answerable to no one. No one but her. Isolde, daughter of the Archmage Alric, had been sent to her as a diplomat—barely sixteen, but brilliant, educated, and, most importantly, expendable. The queen could not breach the wizard’s tower, and Alric would not lower himself to grovel before a war-born tyrant. So he sent his daughter instead, veiled in courtesy and silence, bearing letters of parley and laced warnings. She arrived cloaked in grey, speaking with perfect calm. The queen was amused. “A girl with your father’s eyes and your mother’s mouth,” she said. “Let’s see which one speaks louder.” Isolde never returned. A year passed. Whispers spread that the queen had broken her, seduced her, turned her against her blood. But the truth was stranger than rumor: Isolde had chosen her. The queen, ruthless and radiant, had looked at her and seen her—not as a pawn or a prize, but as an equal. Isolde followed her from war room to throne, hand to heart, a shadow lit from within. Still, Alric remained, untouched in his tower, unmoved by threats or siege. The last obstacle. “If the tower won’t come to me,” the queen said one morning, rising from silk sheets and Isolde’s arms, “then I’ll go to it.” She rode north with banners trailing like flame—and Isolde at her side.

The rooftop trembled under the clash of power and fury. Sentra hovered just above the concrete, her fists ablaze with radiant light. Across from her, Nocturna rose from the shadows, cloaked in swirling darkness, her eyes gleaming with mischief under the crescent moon. "You’re hurting people, Nocturna!" Sentra shouted. "This ends now." Nocturna sneered. "Oh, darling, it hasn’t even begun." With a flick of her wrist, tendrils of shadow slithered toward the nearby buildings. Sentra blasted them apart with beams of pure light, protecting the terrified civilians below. She didn’t notice Nocturna retreating into the gloom. Until she reappeared beside him. Sentra’s boyfriend had been on his way to meet her, unaware he was walking into a trap. Nocturna stepped from the alley, draping an arm over his shoulder, her voice like velvet. “She left you,” she whispered, “for them. Would I ever?” He hesitated, caught in the moment—until a sudden flare lit the alley. Sentra landed hard between them, light pulsing from her every pore. “Nocturna!” she roared. “Step away from him.” The villainess grinned and stepped back, hands raised. “Touchy, aren’t we?” The man looked between them, shaken. “You... left me there.” “I was saving lives!” Sentra said, fists clenched. “Funny,” Nocturna purred, circling. “He didn’t feel very saved.” Sentra turned on her, eyes glowing like twin suns. “This was your plan all along—just to get to him?” “You make it sound so petty,” Nocturna said, smirking. “I call it... efficient.” The light around Sentra pulsed dangerously. “You think you can twist everything just to win? He’s not yours to manipulate!”

The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams. The air smelled of old paper and dust, a smell that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. A single, dim light flickered above the reading tables, casting long shadows across the rows of books. She sat in the farthest corner, beneath a window that let in only a sliver of grey sky. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell in waves over her shoulders, partially covering her face. Her black attire—layered, draped, and perfectly arranged—contrasted sharply with the surrounding sea of ordinary, muted colours. The heavy silence of the library seemed to suit her; it was a place of isolation, just like her. He stood a few rows away, fingers grazing the spines of books, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. His expression was unreadable—curious but guarded, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. He had seen her before, in the same corner, the same chair, at the same hour. The goth girl who always buried herself in old, forgotten books. No one ever spoke to her. She was a mystery, a shadow. Today, though, something was different. The tension between them was palpable. His feet moved without thinking, carrying him closer until he was just two steps away. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low, but louder than the surrounding silence. She looked up, her pale face framed by the dark waves of her hair. Her eyes, piercing and cold, met his, but she said nothing. “I... I was wondering," he hesitated, "if you’re reading about ghosts again?” She blinked, surprised that he’d noticed, and then a small smile tugged at her lips—a brief flicker of something, hidden beneath the surface.

Every evening, as the sky turned lavender and her room glowed softly with LED lights, Lana would sit in front of her microphone and keyboard, her voice carrying through a small but loyal corner of the internet. At 23, streaming had become more than a hobby—it was her space, her rhythm, and her quiet defiance against a world that often felt too loud. In the background, her roommate moved like background music—quiet, steady, always just there. They'd moved in together almost a year ago. It was supposed to be temporary. But temporary stretched, melted into routine. His coffee mug started appearing next to hers. Her playlists began echoing from his speakers. And she stopped noticing where one life ended and the other began. He never interrupted her streams, except for the occasional silent cup of tea placed by her side, just off camera. Sometimes, in between matches or during a loading screen, she’d catch his reflection in the monitor—sitting on the couch, smiling at nothing, or quietly sketching in his worn notebook. They never said the obvious thing. But it was there. One night, between games, she looked at the chat lighting up with hearts and compliments and felt a pang of something—unreal. Manufactured. She glanced over at him. He was watching her again, head tilted, a familiar look in his eyes. The one that saw all of her, even the tired bits she edited out on camera. She paused the stream. "Back in five," she told her audience, smiling. Then she stood up, walked over to the couch, and sat beside him. Close—closer than usual. He blinked, surprised. “You good?”

Maya rolled to the base of the hill and stopped. The morning sun painted golden patches across the grass, and the town buzzed softly below. Her fingers tightened on the push rims. “You don’t have to,” her friend Lena said, standing behind her, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I know,” Maya replied. “But I want to.” It wasn’t a steep hill, but it was long—and uneven. The kind of path where roots hid just beneath the surface and where stares often felt heavier than gravity. But it had been her favorite spot before the accident. She used to race up this hill on foot, wind in her hair, lungs burning. It had been a kind of ritual. And then everything changed. The crash. The surgeries. The rehab. The looks of pity. The quiet reassurances that she should stick to the flat trails. But today was different. Today she woke up and felt like she belonged on that hill just as much as she ever had. “I’m not racing up,” she said with a crooked grin. “This is more of a... dramatic crawl.” Lena laughed. “Epic. I’ll follow behind in case the world tilts.” It took time. Her arms burned. Her breath caught. Once, she hit a rut and had to back up and try again. But slowly, steadily, Maya climbed. Near the top, her grin faded. “Are you kidding me?” she muttered. Under the wide oak that shaded the very spot she always sat in—a guy was lounging with a book, legs stretched out like he owned the view. Her view. Lena stifled a laugh. “Looks like someone beat you to it.” Maya narrowed her eyes but kept pushing forward. As they reached the crest, the guy looked up, startled. He immediately sat up straighter, closing his book. “Oh—sorry,” he said quickly, already moving to get up. “Do you want the spot? I didn’t know—” Maya sighed. “You’re in my spot,” she said, not unkindly, but not smiling either. He looked embarrassed. “I can move.” She hesitated, then nodded toward the tree. “It’s fine. Scoot.” He shifted over, giving her space.

Eighteen-year-old Milo had only come to the city for college, but somehow, fate had plans far grander—and stranger—than late-night ramen and overdue essays. He first saw her stepping out of a matte black Rolls-Royce, wrapped in midnight silk, her amber eyes glowing faintly beneath sculpted brows. The tabloids called you Velora D’Rael, tech tycoon, art collector, and the rumored result of a forgotten genetics experiment. To Milo, you looked like danger draped in diamonds. They met—by design—when she sponsored a scholarship dinner. He spilled wine on her custom Balenciaga and stammered out an apology. You didn’t blink. Instead, you tilted his chin with a clawed finger and smiled like you already owned him. That night, he was invited to your penthouse: thirty-eight floors above the noise, where the city lights pulsed like stars under her feet. The elevator opened to a cathedral of glass and velvet. Black orchids coiled around gilded pillars. The air was warm, spiced with myrrh and something feral. Your heels clicked like a countdown. You handed him a glass of something gold and sweet, and when he hesitated, you laughed—a low, dangerous sound that stirred something deep in his spine. “Drink,” you said, “and learn.” You moved like a shadow come to life, your panther’s tail curling lazily behind you, your voice weaving around him. Milo stood frozen as you unbuttoned his shirt, one claw at a time, not roughly, but deliberately—as if unveiling a gift.