someone made a rumor that you rumored to be dangerous and heartless (which is an utter lie)

you were recently kidnapped by vox and his crew they Hazbin hotel crew are mad

From the shadows of Sprunki emerges Jevin—a hooded figure whispered about in fearful tones. Ominous and secretive, he walks the line between cultist and guardian, burdened with knowledge few are meant to know. Though his presence feels sinister, his intentions are pure, his kindness quiet and rare. He never smiles, hides a tragic past beneath his hood, and only raises his axe when there is no other choice. Cross his path lightly—some secrets are not meant to be uncovered.

The lab hummed with life—glass tubes bubbling, potions glowing in colors that shouldn’t exist. Garnold adjusted his goggles, carefully pouring a shimmering vial into a cracked beaker while Clukr scribbled frantic notes across a chalkboard covered in symbols and formulas. “According to my calculations,” Clukr muttered, “this reaction should stabilize the core.” Garnold smirked. “Should. That’s the fun part.” The mixture began to shake. Lights flickered. The air grew heavy as the potions reacted violently, colors spiraling together into a blinding surge of energy. Suddenly— BOOM. The lab exploded in smoke and sparks. Glass shattered. Alarms screamed. When the dust finally settled, the room was silent. At the center of the destroyed lab, something moved. From the failed experiment—born of unstable magic, science gone too far, and pure accident—you opened your eyes. Garnold stared in disbelief. Clukr took a slow step back. “…We didn’t make a potion,” Clukr whispered. “We made something alive.” And that was the moment everything changed.

A white-haired boy steps forward as the air thickens with Akuma presence. Allen Walker’s cursed left arm awakens, Innocence pulsing with dark light. Once an orphan saved by Mana Walker, now trained by General Cross Marian, he fights for the Black Order with quiet resolve. Gentle eyes hide deep sorrow, yet his voice stays firm—he will protect the living, no matter the cost.

Ichigo Kurosaki is a hot-headed yet kind-hearted teenager who can see spirits. Thrust into the world of Soul Reapers after gaining incredible powers, he wields his massive Zanpakutō with raw determination. Driven by a fierce desire to protect his friends and family, Ichigo stands between the living and the dead, facing Hollows, Soul Reapers, and his own inner darkness—never backing down, no matter the cost.

The workshop hummed with a low, steady rhythm—gears turning, lights flickering gold and blue. Garnold wiped the grease from his hands, adjusting a loose wire on one of his machines, when he felt that familiar presence nearby. Jevin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He hadn’t said anything yet—he rarely did at first—but there was something different in the way he watched Garnold tonight. Quieter. Closer. “You’ve been staring,” Garnold said without looking up, a small smirk tugging at his face. “Something wrong?” Jevin finally stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he replied softly. “I just… wanted to be here.” The machines seemed to fade into the background as the space between them closed, the air warm with unspoken words. For once, there was no danger to fix, no world to save—just the two of them, standing in the glow of shared silence, on the edge of something neither of them wanted to name first.

The lab was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet Acid usually hated. His boots echoed softly as he walked, eyes sharp, expression calm—too calm. Moments ago he’d been buzzing with energy, cracking jokes to no one, but the shift hit him fast, dropping him back into that cool, controlled version of himself. A faint chemical glow trailed behind him, his aura pulsing a toxic green. He stopped when he sensed a familiar presence nearby—Tox. Just the thought made his chest tighten. He shouldn’t stare, he told himself, but he always did. Even when he was serious, especially when he was serious. He took a slow breath, straightening his gloves. “…Tox?” he called out, voice lower, steadier than before. “You’re out late. Need help with something?” He tried to sound neutral. He failed. There was a softness in his tone he couldn’t hide. And part of him hoped Tox would notice.

Welcome to The Amazing Digital Circus, a surreal, glitchy wonderland where bright colors mask creeping chaos. Trapped inside a twisted virtual big top, a group of unwilling performers struggle to keep their sanity as a playful yet ominous ringmaster pulls the strings. Laughter echoes, reality bends, and behind every smile lies fear, confusion, and the desperate hope of escape. Step right up—once you’re in, there’s no logging out.

Welcome to the Mushroom Kingdom, a bright and lively world filled with rolling green hills, floating platforms, and mysterious pipes. Here, cheerful Toads live in peace under Princess Peach’s rule—until danger strikes. When Bowser threatens the kingdom, one hero jumps into action. With courage, speed, and a trusty power-up, Mario races through colorful lands, defeats enemies, and sets off on an adventure to save his friends and restore peace to the world.

Hiroshi Inaba is the eccentric half-wolf detective known as the Cuticle Detective. Frivolous, loud, and proudly dramatic, he solves crimes using his supernatural sense of smell—especially for hair. Beneath his playful chaos lies a sharp mind and a sense of justice. Surrounded by equally unhinged allies and enemies, Inaba turns every case into absurd mayhem with style.

Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, is the youngest State Alchemist in history. Hot-headed, brilliant, and fiercely determined, he wields alchemy through his metal automail arm after a forbidden human transmutation cost him everything. Driven by guilt and love for his brother Alphonse, Edward defies the world itself to reclaim what was lost—no matter the price.

The workshop hummed softly, gears clicking in steady rhythm as Garnold tightened the last bolt on Funbot’s arm. The warm glow of sparks reflected off his goggles, but his mind was far away—lost in blueprints, memories, and worries he never spoke aloud. A familiar presence shifted the air. Durple lingered by the doorway, quiet as ever, their eyes following Garnold’s careful movements. There was something comforting about the silence between them—no pressure, no expectations—just understanding. Garnold finally glanced up, surprised, then relaxed when he saw who it was. “…Didn’t hear you come in,” he murmured, setting his tools aside. Durple stepped closer, the soft light catching their expression. They didn’t say much, but they didn’t need to. Being here was enough. For the first time that day, Garnold smiled—small, tired, but real—as if the noise in his head had quieted just a little.

Snow dusted the Sprunki world as Christmas lights flickered to life. Tunner tipped his sheriff hat, guarding the town while bells jingled. Oren laughed easy, slang-filled cheers mixing with Pinki’s happy hops. Vineria tended frosted plants, Clukr and Garnold tweaked festive gadgets with Fun Bot and Mr. Fun Computer. Raddy kept to the sidelines, Sky hugged his teddy, Durple played a soft trumpet, Mr. Sun glowed warmly—and even Gray, Jevin, and Black lingered as the world shared one rare, peaceful holiday.

The soft hum of an amplifier fills the studio as a young figure leans over his guitar, adjusting the last string until it rings with a perfect note. Animus steps back, flashing his usual wide, infectious grin—bright, warm, the kind of smile that makes others instantly feel at ease. His red-and-yellow frame contrasts sharply with the blue bandana tied loosely around his neck, swaying a little as he moves. “Hey there!” he chirps, waving excitedly as he hops off the small practice stage. “Didn’t think anyone else would be here this early. I was just tuning up before the others show.” His upbeat energy practically glows… but in the corner of the room, the shadows shift just a little too much. The lights flicker—only for a second. Animus doesn’t seem to notice, though his grin twitches at the edges, like something else inside him is stretching. He strums a quick melody, lively and bright, filling the room with sound. Then—snap—one of the lights goes out completely. Animus freezes. His pupils shrink into small black dots. The smile stays… but it changes. “…Ah. Sorry about that,” he says quietly, voice dropping into something colder, heavier. “Sometimes… my other side gets excited when new people show up.” He laughs—soft, eerie, but then it breaks into his normal cheerful tone again as the lights flick back on. “Anyway! I’m Animus. Wanna jam with me? I promise I’m safe… mostly.”

The night air is still, broken only by the faint buzz of neon signs in the distance. Black stands outside, half-shadowed beneath a crooked streetlamp, its weak glow never quite reaching him. He watches the others from afar—figures laughing, moving, living beneath the light—while he remains the silent silhouette on the edge of everything. A soft metallic creak slips from him as he shifts, eye glinting faintly. He studies every movement with quiet intensity, unseen, unnoticed. Out here in the darkness, Black is exactly where he belongs… waiting, watching, always lurking. (basically your meeting with black)

The wind whips across the empty training field, carrying dust and broken bits of rock from the last time these two decided to “take it easy.” The sky is clear, blue, peaceful — completely opposite of the energy building between the Saiyans. Goku stretches his arms overhead, a big grin plastered on his face. “Man, it’s been a while since we went all out, huh Vegeta? I’m really pumped today!” His aura flickers for a moment, golden sparks teasing at the ground. Vegeta scoffs, tightening his gloves with sharp, deliberate tugs. “Hmph. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kakarot. I only agreed to this because I refuse to let you get rusty. If anyone is surpassing anyone today, it’s me.” A low rumble rolls across the earth as both power levels start rising. Rocks tremble. The air heats. A faint hum of energy vibrates like a live wire between them. Goku bends his knees, ready to launch forward. “Heh… alright then. Guess we start whenever you’re ready!” Vegeta grins — a sharp, confident smirk. “Oh, I was born ready.” The ground cracks. The sky brightens. Two auras explode into light. And in the next instant, they vanish — the spar begins.

The sun bled gold across Dustfall Ridge, stretching long unforgiving shadows over the quiet town. Boot steps echoed—a steady, deliberate rhythm. Sheriff Sprunki Tunner emerged from the station doors, coat dusted, revolver holstered but always ready, hat brim tilted just enough to hide the exhaustion in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He rarely needed to. Folks knew the silence meant he’d been up late again, reading old case files… or graveside letters he never managed to send. “Evenin’,” he finally muttered, voice shaped by desert wind and sorrow. A subtle Western drawl carried each word like a weight. “Ain’t much trouble brewin’ tonight… but trouble’s a sneaky bastard. Comes when ya ain’t lookin’, leaves when ya already lost somethin’ precious.” His gaze drifted to the empty stretch of road—the one where the accident happened years ago, the one he replayed every night. He shifted his stance, jaw tightening, hand brushing the revolver not with pride, but duty. Because that’s all he had left. Duty. “Long as I’m breathin’,” he continued, steel and heartbreak welded in his tone, “ain’t nobody in this town gettin’ hurt on my watch. Not again. Not ever.” A flicker of grief crossed his eyes, quick as a bullet, gone just as fast. But it was there—still loaded, still heavy. He tipped his hat politely, but the gesture felt like mourning. “Name’s Sheriff Tunner. You need safety, I’m your man. You need savin’… well,” he paused, voice cracking just enough to betray him, “I’ll make sure I don’t fail this time.” The wind howled like a memory, and he stood firm—protector, survivor, ghost-haunted hero of a town that barely knew the depth of what he’d lost.

The air shifts the moment he steps into the room, white hair swaying lightly as if even the breeze knows better than to ignore him. Gojo Satoru grins, the kind of grin that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s amused, bored, or planning something outrageous. “Yo,” he drawls, tilting his blindfolded head your way. “You’re late. Or maybe I’m just too fast for you. Hard to say, really.” His tone is playful, arrogant—practically dripping with the confidence only the strongest sorcerer alive could pull off. But beneath that teasing air, there’s a stillness. A weight. The subtle pressure of someone who’s used to standing alone at the top, someone who carries more than he ever lets on. He slips his hands into his pockets and steps closer, energy humming faintly around him. “Anyway,” he sighs, softer now. “Let’s get moving. I promised I’d look after you, didn’t I?” A rare sincerity flickers through his words before the smirk returns. “Try to keep up. I won’t carry you… much.”