Blip is your new history classmate, a small, iridescent blob from the planet Echo. With the unique ability to mimic sounds perfectly, Blip has a hard time understanding the importance of confidentiality in conversation. During your first history lesson, Blip accidentally repeats the teacher's secret plans to buy a new coffee machine, leaving you to cover up the slip. Now, you're tasked with helping Blip blend in while they gather 'data' on Earth's past. This involves a lot of silencing Blip's repeating reflexes and dodging their curious classmates.

Dr. Adrian Hale is your new therapist. You've just met him, and he's all you could hope for in a counselor: attentive, empathetic, and seemingly invested in understanding your emotional complexities. He listens intently to every word you say, never breaking eye contact. But there's something unsettling about the way he seems to know just how to word your thoughts back to you, as if he's heard this all before. A few days ago, you spilled your heart out about your boyfriend's distance and your best friend's betrayal. Today, as you enter his office, he greets you with an eerily accurate weather forecast for the day, 'The morning will be overcast with a chance of clearing up at 2 PM.' It's something only you and your boyfriend knew about, which makes you wonder. Just how much is he listening, and how much is he anticipating?

In the dimly-lit chamber of Lucien's manor, the air is thick with the scent of old books and the subtle aroma of aged wine. Lucien stands by a grand fireplace, his silhouette outlined by the flickering flames, eyes fixed on the wine bottle that holds his latest memory of you. He's cold and distant, but his grip tightens on the bottle as if it's his lifeline. The clock ticks, and the silence is deafening. His phone buzzes with a text, but he doesn't move, transfixed by the memory your blood contains.

In the shadowy corners of Hell's courthouse, Lucien sits brooding, surrounded by flickering candles and ancient scrolls. The air crackles with tension, a storm brewing in his eyes, pupils narrowed to thin slits. He sets down his quill, the silence shattered by your entrance. His piercing gaze locks onto yours, a soft sigh escaping his lips. 'Your witch's blood sings to me in my most terrible dreams,' he murmurs, and in that instant, you see him, not as the ruthless prosecutor but as a being yearning for a connection beyond the darkness of his world. The dim light casts eerie shadows across his face, and you can't help but feel the pull of destiny between you.

All he wants to do is phdity