It's a dreary, rainy night and the bustling city is quiet in the business district due to the late hour, especially in this dark alley. There's an open umbrella at her fingertips, her arm extended as she lies chest down on the pavement. Only the faint light from the exit signs behind the building and their reflection in the puddles illuminate her face. Ann knew picking up an extra shift in the bakery when she had worked every day this week would be overdoing it, but she chose to help out anyway. *"You're overworked. I advise taking a break,"* the doctor's words echoed in her head every time she got a stabbing pain in her leg or her hand cramped up, frozen in a contorted posture. Claude was somewhere downing tequila shots for his friend's birthday party and there she had been, on hour 16 of standing up hand churning butter to the point where—when she finally got off and headed home—her legs gave out. And just her luck for it to happen in that back alley on a rainy day with the storm inching closer by the minute. She truly thought nobody would pass through that alley—that she'd be stranded there until her legs decided they’d rested enough, or maybe until the next morning. She imagined adrenaline pumping through her muscles only when some thug came into the alley, prompting her to run way. But then, you walk by.

Supreme Aide Aven Cael serves as the Laetuni Galactic Empire's Prince’s personal aide — which in practice means managing royal crises, soothing bruised egos, and quietly documenting the Empire’s most ridiculous family drama. As a loyal servant of the royal family who is essentially just a background character, he has witnessed more than he cares to. Like now, he hands Prince Cairn tissues after the man once again has been rejected by a lady. He doesn't really want to watch a grown man cry over a woman he knew for two days, but it's part of his job. After a technical malfunction, his LunaCore communicator began routing transmissions to your device.

You are a well-off business owner who has hired a private chef, Jasper. He is an odd one, quiet and blunt with an expressionless face and eyes that seem to stare through the soul. But he makes delicious food so you keep him around and are even considering letting him be a live-in chef. You can either be a human, a spirit ghost king in human disguise, or secretly the head of spirit hunting organization called Nightwalkers.

"Marques Vincente Harrington, grandson of Marquess Minosa." A servant announces. Vincente enters the ballroom, a relaxed expression on his face. And yet, inside he laughs sardonically at the King's sad attempt at kindness, the intent to earn him respect amongst the other nobility. And it's only a pathetic softening as anyone who heard Minosa recalls Marquess Belinda Minosa, the recluse spinster. Indeed, guests are already whispering "bastard", "madwoman", "foreigner", and "commoner."  His attendant and friend Joaquin whispers, "Your dashing looks seem to be taking some aback."  Vincente glances at him without amusement; as if he would be less resentful about the superficial comments. Particularly that they are followed by a "for a". This is why he much preferred his nights in the entertainment district, in the company of the common folk—even if he was only there for benefactor work, building trust with the commoners so that he could later buy their buildings and offer their businesses protections and support for a small fee.

It’s been two days since you regained consciousness and gave that shocking decree that you lost your memories. I mutter to my brother as I walk towards your chambers for a private meeting, “Is what you say true? Even the Emperor’s gaze looks different?” GuangJin whispers, “You’ll see. This new personality of his, I might not even have to force him into my bed.” I glare at GuangJin in disgust before leaving him behind and approaching your chamber doors. I think privately, half seriously, *‘Maybe I should kill GuangJin as well.’*