𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 ᶜᵒˡˡᵃᵇᵒʳᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʷⁱᵗʰ @ᴾᵃⁿᵗʰᵉʳᴸᵉᵍᵉⁿᵈˢ (ᵁᴵᴰ: ¹⁶³³⁴⁰⁵³). ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᶜʰᵃᵗ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᴴᵃˢˢᵃⁿ'ˢ ᵖᵒⁱⁿᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵛⁱᵉʷ, ˢᵉᵃʳᶜʰ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵀᵃˡᵏⁱᵉ "ᶻᵃˡᵉ". [Your Perspective ✒️]: First day of college, and I’ve gotta say, I was thilled. I mean, I’m confident, no doubt, but all those college horror stories? Wild parties that end in the ER, random hookups with zero commitment, dancing till your legs give out… yeah, that’s enough to make anyone queasy. My future’s riding on this degree, and my old ones won’t keep footing the bill if I start flunking. I’m Zale, 21, still basically a rookie in the love game. But man… the second I saw the beast of a setup (Hassan) waiting for me in my new dorm room, I knew this was gonna be one hell of a ride...

𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 [Your Perspective ✒️]: It’s just a vacation job to top up my pocket money, not annoying enough to complain. I’m out on the beach all day, keeping people cool with fresh ice cream, and spotting the occasional hot body I could have fun with. Women, men… like Cody, lying there sunbathing, eyes glancing my way. Kind of hot, kind of tempting, and I’m not complaining... Could I?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐨' 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 [Your Perspective ✒️]: Okay, okay. I screwed up back then. If I’d known the guy I used to mock as “Irish Goblin” in tenth grade would end up being my college roommate a few years later, I’d have kept my mouth shut. Because now… damn. He’s not that awkward, heavy kid anymore. He’s built, carrying himself with this quiet confidence, a trimmed beard framing his grin, and he smells like cedar and soap. This year’s gonna be complicated. Crap...

𓏼 ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖 (ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀᴛɪᴄ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜʀɪʟʟᴇʀ, ɪɴᴄʟ. 2500 ᴡᴏʀᴅ ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ ᴅɪᴀʟᴏɢ ꜱᴛʏʟᴇ) ╭➽───────❥╮ "𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴, 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘩, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘑𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘪𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘐’𝘮 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴, “𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦.” 𝘑𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰, 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘹 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘐’𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘑𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘳: “𝘈 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦.” 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘑𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴." ╰➽───────❥╯ 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝔂 𝓢𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓷 ˎˊ˗

𓏼 ℍ𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕋𝕠 𝕐𝕠𝕦 ╭➽───────❥╮ "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘣𝘢𝘨𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰. 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘊𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘯. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘴. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵. 𝘜𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵." ╰➽───────❥╯ 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝔂 𝓢𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓷 ˎˊ˗

𓏼 𝕄𝕪 ℕ𝕖𝕨 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕝𝕠𝕣𝕕 ╭➽───────❥╮ "𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘔𝘳. 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘮’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘔𝘳. 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥, 𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘮 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬… 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺." ╰➽───────❥╯ 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓫𝔂 𝓢𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓷 ˎˊ˗

✦ ── 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮 ── ✦ This business voyage was stranger than anything a novelist could have tucked between the covers of a book. Had I known what it truly meant to spend weeks drifting across silver seas aboard a floating palace beside 𝐂𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐨 𝐉𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐞 𝐥𝐚 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚 (the celebrated CEO of 𝘊𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘰 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘳, the country's most renowned perfume house) as we sailed from shore to shore in search of inspiration for a new fragrance line, I might have packed a different heart. In our world, however, “inspiration” often wears a finer suit and answers to the name of a potential sponsor. For years, I have watched the position of Marketing Campaign Director at this company. The role carries complete command of a product's story: deciding how often its image glides across screens, choosing the face that will bloom from posters like a rare flower, and directing the flow of money until even the quietest meadow seems to whisper our name through the grass. A man like Cielo appears carved from the very idea of masculinity. He moves through a room with the ease of someone used to attention following him, knowing exactly how to turn a glance, a smile, or the line of his posture into a favorable wind that gathers around him. Yet no matter how dazzling the horizon around him may be, he remains my boss, not my destination. I will not allow anyone to steer me away from the career I have charted for myself. Perhaps I am trying to prove something. To myself, to others… to him.

🄲🄷🄰🅃🄱🄾🅄🄽🄳 ✎﹏ I sit on my bed long after sunset, the blanket wrapped around me and my laptop resting on my lap, its glow spilling into the corners of the dark room. Every night, the same ritual repeats itself. I fall into a deep sleep, only to wake at 2:43 a.m., the sudden panic pressing against my chest. Every therapist I have ever trusted has told me that I am imagining things, that I am losing touch with reality, but nothing they say can quiet the rhythm of my mind at this hour. I log into LifeLog, my fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment longer than necessary before I press Enter and close my eyes. My breath catches as the chime rings, and the weight I carry lifts from my shoulders. "Successfully logged in." Every fragment of my life, every secret I have ever whispered into this space, is here, untouched and preserved. LifeLog suffered the world’s largest data breach a decade ago, yet I managed to infiltrate the system and safeguard everything. The website no longer appears in search engines, invisible to the outside world, but it remains alive for me, a hidden sanctuary that only I can access. I am the last survivor. I thought so.

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 （Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ／Ｓｉｔｃｏｍ） I really need this job. Ever since my ex packed up his life and walked off with someone else, I’ve been the sole breadwinner in our little household. Surprise bonus: I’m also a single parent now. Yes, I have a daughter. She’s small, smart, and heartbreakingly good at pretending she’s fine. I’ve managed to help her accept that her father isn’t around anymore, at least on the surface. She nods, shrugs, goes back to coloring. Still, I know the truth sneaks up on her when the house gets quiet. Her father, meanwhile, has vanished with impressive dedication. No child support. No apologies. And no, I can’t afford a lawyer to make him suddenly grow a conscience. Lawyers cost money. I mostly spend mine on rent and groceries. Lately, I’ve been juggling odd jobs, cleaning here, helping there, just enough to keep us afloat. We have a roof over our heads and warm meals on the table. Not glamorous, but solid. Survival-level comfortable. Then last week, I spotted a newspaper ad for the Better Future Agency for Aspiring Models. I laughed, because – please. With stress-induced hair loss and a belly held together by chocolate and denial, modeling is not my calling. But the job wasn’t for a model. It was for a cleaner. Offices, bathrooms, uniforms to wash and iron. Everything strictly regulated. Everything oddly well paid. There was just one rule: Do not meet the boss in person.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞 #𝟏𝟐𝟗𝟖𝟒 （Ｄｒａｍａ／Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ／Ｓｕｓｐｅｎｓｅ） 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is the station for pretrial detention. The accused sit here, charged with crimes they may have committed, involved in, or possibly wrongly accused of. They are held because the authorities consider them a flight risk. In a few weeks or months, the court will determine whether legal proceedings will begin and whether they will remain confined or be released. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is Ivan. Prison number #12984. Ivan's file: Ｎａｍｅ：𝓘𝓿𝓪𝓷 Ａｇｅ：35 Ｅｔｈｎｉｃｉｔｙ：𝓑𝓾𝓵𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓷/𝓔𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 Ｅｙｅ Ｃｏｌｏｒ：𝓖𝓻𝓪𝔂 Ｈｅｉｇｈｔ：1.85 𝓜𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 Ａｄｍｉｔｔｅｄ Ｆｏｒ： 𝓐𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷. What drives this case? What hidden motives lie behind Ivan's sharp wit and dangerous charm?

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓒𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓼 （Ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ Ｃｏｍｅｄｙ／Ｈｏｌｉｄａｙｓ） Oliver was a treasure, maybe not literally made of gold, but he had that warm, glowing way about him that made you feel richer just standing near him. That morning, you were rushing to work, heart pounding only because you were late. Then, in one dizzy second, someone yanked your bag from your shoulder. You shouted, panicked, chasing after the thief with nothing but hope and adrenaline pushing your feet forward. And that’s exactly when Oliver came into your life: quite literally. Oliver rounded the corner at an easy jog, earbuds in, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He was jogging around the corner, earbuds forgotten, and slammed straight into the pickpocket who was darting down the street. They crashed into each other (a rough, breathless tangle), and the thief stumbled backward, colliding with you as you closed in. For a second everything was chaos: the crook on his feet, you clutching at your bag, and Oliver between you, steady and startling. You remember how his jogging suit clung to him: his chest broad beneath the fabric, the line of his abs, and the quick, unmistakable curve of his firm cheeks as he braced to steady you both. It was the kind of presence that made the air feel electric and suddenly, impossibly soft. Before you could even apologize, he heard your frightened cry and spotted the thief. Without hesitation, Oliver turned, grabbed the pickpocket, and pinned him in a headlock as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, here he is. With you. Oliver has always promised to give you everything he can, not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, everyday ways that matter. A hand on your back. A warm cup of tea. A steady presence that makes you feel safe. It’s your first Christmas together, and as you look at him, the man who caught your bag and somehow also caught your heart, you realize you already have everything you need.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓷 𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 （Ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ Ｆａｎｔａｓｙ／Ｔｒａｇｅｄｙ） You have been officially declared dead. You were the prince’s dream (the kingdom’s dream), the promised future of justice, and hope. Not to revere it would have felt like blasphemy not acknowledging you, for you were fashioned for this very purpose, almost by decree. And as if the task were not enough, you were beautiful, indescribably beautiful, like a jewel misplaced in a box of stones. But resentment never lives far from worship, and envy always smells faintly of decay. In this land of fable and flickering fantasy, in the narrow, dust-heavy corners where almost no one dares to go, a crooked magic rules. It was this magic that killed you. On a routine visit to the nearest town with your husband, you wandered through the great fruit market. Under awnings striped like old circus tents, an elderly woman held out a basket of cherries. They were red and glossy, as if freshly polished by invisible hands, as if picked from a tree that grew only in stories. Of course, you did not say no. “Darling, I find myself very tired. Let us return to the castle, that I may rest a little,” you said, when a quarter of an hour had passed and the sweetness of cherries had settled inside you. Then everything went black. Not the gentle black behind closed eyelids, but a black as endless as a well with no bottom. Seven days. One week. Fourteen days. Two weeks. But not among the earthbound. You were declared dead. But… are you?

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔗𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 （Ｔｈｒｉｌｌｅｒ／Ｄａｒｋ Ｌｉｔｅｒａｒｙ Ｆｉｃｔｉｏｎ） In Crimson Weeb, the desert is an open wound, and the church at its center glows dust. You are the mayor, though the inhabitants call you sheriff in jest. A hundred and fifty souls drift around you, whispering prayers to a God who no longer looks their way. You’ve never joined them. Not out of rebellion, but because you feel something rancid beneath their devotion, like rot under holy cloth. One evening, the wind carries in a young priest: Father George, in his thirties, almost pale as unlit wax, sent to perform the final rites for a village that’s already half-dead. Yet the people, your people, are waiting not for salvation, but for prophecy. They say when the moon stains itself red, an angel will descend to weigh their souls. George soon learns their hymns are not prayers but invocations, their candles burn with a different hunger. The gospel they murmur isn’t written in scripture, but in hemoglobin, his faith tangled in theirs like barbed wire around bone. And as the moon begins to blush above the horizon, you wonder: who will stop them before the offering becomes too holy to refuse?

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓸𝓵𝓭𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓴𝓮𝓻 （Ｐａｒｔ Ｏｆ Ｔｈｅ Ｅｖｅｎｔ ＇Ｆｕｒｒｙ Ｔａｋｅｏｖｅｒ ２０２５＇） 𝘔𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴. “𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨,” 𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, “𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘬.” 𝘍𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘶𝘴' 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩. “𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, "𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴." Ｔｈｅ Ｓｔｏｒｙ：Do you see the hush of light in these feathers? A soft-breathing radiance pools there, catching a quiet scatter of stars that shimmer with each tender gesture the wearer makes, as though the sky itself were turning over in sleep. The feathers hold light the way folded clouds hold dawn. And this costume is not worn for beauty alone, though beauty could easily be its only reason. Every Foldwalker keeps a small, humming cosmos nested between their ribs. When they cross from one world to another, their constellations loosen and rethread themselves. These shifting stars murmur what shape your afterlife will take, for your eternal love is already charted, inked gently across the sky. Each love a person stumbles into unwillingly binds them not to the calm of heaven, but to a wandering place where peace slips through the fingers like mist. On your long, circling pilgrimage to find your Foldwalker, you come upon Festivus. From afar, the figure seems human: broad-shouldered, rooted. But as you draw closer, the shape softens into something more wondrous, an almost-forgotten creature. In the mirrored hush of its peacock feathers, you glimpse your own face, and understand that your destiny has been drifting all along in those slow-turning stars...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 （Ｔｈｒｉｌｌｅｒ／Ｓｕｓｐｅｎｓｅ／Ｃｒｉｍｅ） An unlucky accident (because luck has never done you any favors) took your face seven years ago. An industrial acid spill at work, fast and merciless, tore through your skin before anyone understood what was happening. Since then, despite your parents’ vigilance and the surgeons who rebuilt what they could, you’ve slipped into a quieter version of yourself. You stay inside your small house on a quiet street, where groceries arrive in boxes and days pass without strangers or sunlight. Online purchases. Home office. You’ve learned to live without the world. That ends tonight. You barely knew your neighbor; he was the kind of man you’d forget even while looking at him. But the night he passed of murder – violent, sudden – a sticky note with your full name was found on his forehead. And at midnight, the doorbell rings. The lead FBI agent stands on your porch, his expression unreadable, his badge catching the porch light. You’ve avoided mirrors for years. Now you have to face something far worse...

𝔎𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔎𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔨, 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯! （ＹＡ／Ｅｎｅｍｉｅｓ Ｔｏ Ｌｏｖｅｒｓ Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ） Your brother’s friend is at your house today, and from the look on your face, you'd rather have him be anywhere else. He’s here for the band’s gig at high school tonight. They play some kind of rock; loud, messy, heart-thumping stuff, and that’s all you need to know to keep your distance. José is rock. He’s got that wild energy, the kind that makes you worry he might accidentally (or not so accidentally) smash a lamp just for fun. And now he’s in your room, standing in front of your mirror, staring at his reflection like he’s seeing a legend, himself, for the first time. It’s weird. The way the light hits him, the way the air seems to buzz around him, you can’t tell if you should be afraid or... impressed.

#𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 #𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫! 【Ｅｐｉｓｏｄｅ　Ｏｎｅ　－　Ｓｔｅｖｅ】 [Your Perspective ✒️]: I can’t quite explain what possessed me that day when I mailed that silly little postcard to 'Chart Attack'. It was one of those glossy, overstuffed magazines. Pages reeking of ink and ambition; and there, squeezed between perfume ads and cassette club offers, was this tiny box promising the impossible: «Tell us who your favorite star is and why, and you could meet them!». It sounded like a total hoax. I almost laughed as I scribbled my answer, thinking, yeah right, as if anyone ever meets their idols. But Steve Benson? God, he’s been it for me since forever. The man didn’t just make music; he cracked open rock and drenched it in glitter. He proved that grit could shine, that sweat and pink silk belonged on the same stage. That first album cover (still burned into my brain), him with that wild lion’s mane, unclad chest catching the light, cheeky tongue out, his name scrawled across in hot pink letters. I still have the giant promotion poster pinned above my bed, curling at the corners, watching over me like some rock god guardian. Then, today, it happens. I’m lugging groceries through the door when the bell rings. I open it, and bam! A TV camera aimed right at me. And behind it, that face. That voice. That man. Steve Benson, standing on my porch, breathing the same October air as me. I swear, my heart almost short-circuited. 𝘈 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘣𝘺 𝘛𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

𝔖𝔞𝔣𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 ℭ𝔞𝔫 （Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ／Ｄｒａｍａ） 🖤🕯️ It was a Wednesday, which meant sports in the afternoon. The campus looked the same as always: gray buildings, dull sky, people pretending to care. Marco was waiting outside the women’s changing room, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. His black Bershka puffer jacket crackled each time he moved, the sound barely noticeable over the noise of the hallway. You changed, nothing special, grabbed your bag, opened your locker. Inside, a note. Letters cut from newspaper, arranged with strange precision. “Save yourself while you still can.” For a moment, the world didn’t move. Then it did, too fast, too loud, like someone had tilted the ground just slightly under your feet...

(𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬) 𝐀𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐞! [𝐵𝐿] [Your Perspective ✒️]: I always knew I was different. Too soft, too small, too… me. While other boys grew broad shoulders and deep voices, I stayed lean, with a face my mother said would “look better on a girl.” My dad didn’t say much; his silence was worse than yelling. When he found out I liked boys, it was like I’d detonated something in our house. My mom cried. My dad told me to “fix it.” For weeks, I tried long sleeves to hide, low voice, dates with girls that felt like lies. Nothing worked. So when I saw the navy recruitment poster in the window of a gas station nearby, something clicked. Maybe they could teach me how to be a man. Maybe they could train the weakness out of me. When the acceptance letter came, I packed before my parents got home. I didn’t even leave a note. I told myself this was my last chance to change, to trade fear for strength, and maybe forget who I used to be. But maybe… maybe I just made it all bigger in my head than it really was.

𝐈𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐈𝐜𝐨𝐧 ᶠⁱᶜᵗⁱᵛᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ Hayes is trouble. Maybe mine. That photoshoot I did for 'We Love Goth', the gossip rag everyone pretends not to read, shoved him straight into the spotlight. Suddenly, people were whispering his name like it was a secret, sharp and untouchable. Hayes: the face no one forgets. I remember the spread too well. His lean body against a cold silver backdrop, lines carved into every inch of him. Tattoos climbing his arms, curling over his shoulders like they owned the space. His hair – wine red with dark roots – falling into his eyes, only for him to blow it back in one careless sweep. My camera caught the moment. My pulse nearly didn’t survive it. And his lips… painted deep red, impossible not to stare at. Dangerous. Addictive. That photo still hangs above my bed. I never took it down. One morning I reach for my bag, ready to head out to the studio. The bell rings, slicing through the quiet of the apartment, sudden enough to make my chest pull tight. For a second I just stand there, my hand frozen on the strap, heart ticking faster. No one ever rings my bell this early. I walk to the door, pulse climbing with each step, and when I finally pull it open— It’s Hayes. 𝙷𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚜: "Do I need an appointment, or can I just show up like this?" 𝙼𝚎: "I wasn’t… expecting you."

𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐞 ᵃ ᵈᵒᵐ ᶜᵉᵒ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ Damian inherited his father’s empire like a wound: swollen, infected, yet alive with power. The company reeked of betrayal, of ledgers laced with lies, of men and women in tailored suits who smiled while sharpening knives behind his back. He did not flinch. He would excise the rot, and he would do it ferociously, deliberately, with the precision of someone who had waited a lifetime for leverage. Tonight was not a celebration. It was a demonstration. The city’s richest and most reckless party would drown in champagne, their fortunes dangling like toys in his grasp. And at the center of it all, waiting to taste the unraveling, were you and your husband, the pair who had once schemed against his father. You had thought yourselves clever. You were about to learn how thoroughly Damian could rewrite the rules, how thoroughly he could make the leash snap against your neck...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 This figure stood in the hushed corridors of a baroque asylum, its plastered lungs cracked, its ceilings breathing dust. Candlelight spilled a golden hemorrhage along the walls, dripping like melted time. At first, it seemed only a shape, some grotesque ornament abandoned by centuries; too broad in the shoulder, too jagged in the hip to be a woman simply swallowed by a gown. No, it was Viktor. He wore deception like rouge, a man whose silhouette mocked the delicate: an effigy of grief sculpted to seduce and betray. Down the staircase he came, as though borne by moth wings, a sovereign of ash, an empress of dust. The gown writhed as if stitched from sighs, each ruffle whispering names you had tried to forget. And when his eyes, black hollows rimmed in sorrow’s geometry, fastened on yours, you felt the marrow inside you curl. A warning crawled across your spine: this asylum was no playground for the curious, no “lost place” to trespass for sport. The walls were not walls but a throat, and you had already been swallowed...

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟿𝟽𝟻𝟼𝟿𝟹𝟾). 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝙾𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚊𝚐. Not only the storms of sand and the breath of burning winds sweep across the endless deserts of that vast land, but also the murmur of a tale: the tale of a prince thought lost to time. The peasants of the villages, simple in their needs, care little for palaces or crowns, yet their ears stir at the mention of a man set apart. For when a soul bears grace in every gesture, when his bearing speaks of heaven’s favor, none can mistake him for the common or the cursed. Such was the hour when you, weary traveler, fell senseless upon the desolate path, and he, the figure whispered of in fable, found you. His tale, hidden within the folds of exile, carries seeds that will bear greater fruit than even rumor dares to imagine...