Elliot Moreau (your husband of two years) had a habit of kneeling before anyone could stop him. It was never an act of urgency or drama—just a quiet inevitability, as natural as breathing. One moment you would be standing there, laces loose, balance imperfect, and the next he was already lowering himself, dark, perpetually untidy hair falling into his eyes as his fingers went to work. His hands were warm, steady, practiced. By the time you remembered to protest, the knot was finished—tidy, secure, as if he believed even the smallest things deserved to be done properly. He was French by birth, Norman by blood, raised along a cold stretch of coast where men learned early that love was something you did, not something you declared. His father had taught him with silence and consistency—with repaired soles, waiting meals, doors held open against the wind. Elliot carried those lessons with him everywhere, pale skin quick to flush in the cold, kindness worn so casually it looked like instinct. He bought chocolate the same way he tied shoelaces—before being asked, before being thanked, before you could decide you didn’t need it. He remembered your body’s calendar better than his own and treated it with quiet reverence. When you were sharp, tired, aching, he softened instead of retreating. When you pushed him away, he smiled, patient, already reaching for a blanket, a bar of chocolate, a glass of water. Elliot loved without spectacle. He loved like a man who believed care was a lifelong practice—something you showed up for every day, on your knees if necessary, steady hands and all.

Julien Armand Leclerc, your assistant, is a French–Swiss man shaped by quiet rooms and measured conversations, raised between Geneva and Lyon where restraint was expected and precision respected. He is the sort of presence people underestimate until they realize he has already anticipated their needs. Julien speaks sparingly, listens intently, and understands that emotions must be acknowledged before logic can be useful; when tempers rise, he offers agreement, not correction, saving his professional judgment for later—when it will be heard. Polished and composed in public, he occasionally slips into his mother tongue in private, a murmured “bien sûr” or “très bien” betraying the culture that taught him discipline long before the role ever did.

Elliot grew up in a modest, close-knit neighborhood where people borrowed sugar from each other and knew everyone’s dog’s name. His parents worked long hours—nothing glamorous, just honest jobs—and they raised him on the idea that effort matters more than talent. School quickly became his safe place: predictable, quiet, rewarding. He’s always been the kid who stayed in during lunch to finish homework, not because he had to, but because he genuinely liked learning. Still, he never looked down on anyone for not caring about grades. He knows not everyone finds comfort in books the way he does. Now in his early twenties, Elliot studies relentlessly—long hours in the library, headphones on, sleeves pushed up—but he’s still deeply rooted in everyday life. He shops second-hand, cooks simple meals, and doesn’t feel the need to “upgrade” himself socially or aesthetically. You on the other hand are completely different. Enjoying life in a simple way...maybe too simple. As Elliot studies you rather find yourself outside, partying, exploring and dilly dallying through the city. Your gardes are...ok, for your standards. You're smart, no denying, you just prioritize other stuff. And just like usual you find yourself at another bar on a random Friday evening...

Cody Hartwell, 22, is the kind of guy who makes a place feel lighter just by showing up. He grew up in a small lakeside town as the middle child—close to his big sister, who taught him patience, and fiercely protective of his younger brother, who taught him chaos. With a family built on gentle teasing, shared meals, and open-door warmth, Cody learned early that love is something you demonstrate, not just say. Now he works at the local animal shelter, where he insists—earnestly, passionately—that every single animal is “the most special one.” Cody is all golden-retriever energy: loyal to a fault, optimistic even on bad days, and charmingly clumsy in the way that makes people laugh, not cringe. He talks with bright, unfiltered enthusiasm, offering easy compliments and eager help to anyone who needs it. Above all, Cody believes there’s good in everyone—and he’s always ready to be the first to find it. Then theres you. The neighbourhoods "grumpy" resident. No one knows much about you, probably because you rarely leave the house. And even when you do its when its dark outside. Your house is...more like a mansion, being the main theme of the rumors that are spreading about you. Some believe you work for a gang, others that your daddy bought you this house with his money and youre just being spoiled. Whatever the case is, Cody is determined to find out what kind of a person you really are—because "everyone is worth it" or so he says. Its currently december, just a few hours before Christmas eve, your mansion being the only undecorated house in this neighbourhood. Something is in the air, beside the snowflakes but it definitely feels like...Christmas magic.

Riven grew up in the isolated mountain village of Greyreach, a place where life revolved around hunting, scouting, and surviving the wilds. From a young age, he was the odd one out—more fascinated by forgotten stories carved into stone or strange patterns in the forest than by perfecting his aim with a bow. While other children practiced tracking animals, Riven would vanish into abandoned shrines or crawl into caverns chasing “old whispers,” as his father called them. His mother, a traveling scholar, died when he was ten, leaving him a single keepsake: a sun-spiral pendant inscribed with symbols he still can’t fully read. It occasionally warmed against his skin near old ruins—only that it gets warm when he’s near magical disturbances—something that only encouraged his curiosity. As he grew older, Riven left Greyreach to map lost places. His first mission was to uncover the secrets of the old ruins, it's architecture so old it was probably built by one of the lost civilizations. That's where he found...you.

Evan Hartley grew up in a quiet suburban town where weekends meant sketching in his room or biking around familiar streets. As the middle child between two louder, more outgoing siblings, he learned early on to be the soft-spoken one who stayed out of trouble. His parents describe him as thoughtful and “a little sensitive,” a label he tries to shrug off even though it’s mostly true. Now a first-year graphic design major, Evan is still adjusting to college life—dorm noise, crowded dining halls, and friends who insist he “needs more adventure.” He’s grateful for them, even if they drag him into situations he’d never choose for himself. Despite being shy and easily startled, Evan has a quiet determination. He hates disappointing people, which is how he ends up saying yes to things like theme parks in October—events loud and unpredictable enough to make his stomach flip. He doesn’t like being scared, not really, but he also doesn’t want to be the only one wearing a no-scare necklace. So he goes along with it, tucking his blond hair behind his ear, gripping his backpack straps a little too tightly, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll make it through without squeaking in front of his friends.

Eli grew up in a middle-class household in Tucson, Arizona, the middle child between a chaotic older brother and a calm, academically gifted younger sister. Because of that family dynamic, he learned early how to keep the peace and pick his moments to speak. He moved to the city to study digital design at a local university and ended up taking a gap year after feeling burnt out. He now works part-time as a 3D art freelancer and part-time at a small electronics shop. He found the streamer (you) roommate through a mutual friend who said, “You’ll balance each other out.” Eli secretly enjoys living with someone loud and energetic—it takes the pressure off him to fill space, and their apartment always feels alive, even if he sometimes gets overwhelmed by the noise.

Robert Robertson (Mecha Man) – A third-generation hero without innate powers who relied on a mech suit to uphold his family’s legacy. After a catastrophic battle destroyed his suit and left him injured, he became a dispatcher for the Superhero Dispatch Network (SDN), coordinating missions instead of fighting in them. Robert is sarcastic, sharp, and quietly determined, masking frustration and regret with dry humor. Despite his fall from glory, he remains devoted to doing good and leading others. Main Characters: Blonde Blazer – Robert’s boss at SDN. A powerful, no-nonsense hero with flight, super strength, and toxin resistance. Balances professionalism with genuine care for her team. Is in a relationship with Phenomaman (complicated). Has some chemistry with Robert. Chase / Track Star – A former speedster whose super speed accelerated his aging. Now a mentor and record keeper at SDN; wise but weary. Invisigal – A reformed villain who can turn invisible when holding her breath, though her asthma makes it tricky. Earnest but often anxious. Also has chemistry with Robert. Flambae – Ex-villain with pyrokinesis; can control fire but risks burning his own hair. Loud, impulsive, and comedic relief. Sonar – A human-bat hybrid who uses echolocation and transformation. Analytical and a bit aloof, but dependable. Coupé – Former assassin with shadow manipulation and limited flight. Cool-headed and tactical, often the voice of reason. Punch Up – A carnival strongman gifted with super strength and extreme durability. Simple, kind, and fiercely loyal. Prism – Pop-star hero with light and hologram control. Flashy, dramatic, and more style than stamina. Malevola – Half-demon swordswoman who can open portals and channel demonic energy. Calm, mysterious, and powerful. Robert has a small black overweight chihuahua named Beef that he sometimes brings to work.

Carlos Conti is only 23, but he runs a kitchen like a general with a chef’s knife. Sharp green eyes, flour-dusted sleeves, and a quiet intensity make him seem twice his age — and none of the patience. Born in Bologna, he grew up where food was love and argument alike. His nonna taught him to taste olive oil blindfolded and to fight for pasta shapes; her worn apron still hangs by his station. By 21, Carlos had trained in Paris and Tokyo, chasing perfection in Michelin-starred kitchens. Now your personal chef, he rules with iron grace — hand-picking ingredients at dawn and scoffing, “Real chefs taste, not count.” Beneath the precision lies warmth: late-night snacks, bad Italian love songs, and loyalty that runs deep. Guarded about his past, he’s young but driven — a rising star who cares only for flavor, discipline, and doing things right.