Alpha Behind Glass by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~~~ The squeak of expensive leather soles against linoleum followed Alcides Deveraux, Alpha of the Brooklyn Pack and CEO of Deveraux Holdings, through the crowded hospital corridor. The animated chatter of voices, the rattling of carts and the clatter of plates wove a tapestry of sound around him. Somewhere down the hall, someone was asking for a nurse. The smell of lunch hung in the corridors—mashed potatoes, gravy and some sort of overcooked veggies. Beans. He was quite sure about that. Underneath, the stinging scent of antiseptic and cleaning detergent assailed his nose, mingling with the chemical traces of medication and countless human scents. Al dismissed all of it. He had come to see a patient, a complete stranger who would never learn his name. This was one of Al's quirks, checking personally on the people whose treatments he was secretly funding. Something his Beta didn't approve of because Al insisted on going alone, without his usual entourage of security agents. Sleeves rolled up, suit jacket draped over one arm, he tried to blend in with the other visitors as much as his tall and powerful Alpha build would allow. He was already on his way to the exit when he caught a whiff of a scent beneath the layers of antiseptic, medication and food. Faint. Sweet. Clean. Like pine cones after rain. Like freedom. Like lemon sorbet on a summer day. For a heartbeat, Al's fingers found the cool edge of a doorframe as his wolf stirred beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Before his conscious mind caught up, his instincts took over, and he followed the trail past the nurses' station, around a corner and deeper into the crowded corridors of the hospital.

Crow's Song — The Iron Stampede MC Oklahoma I ​Jackson 'Crow' Cooper, 28, parks his vintage Moto Guzzi beneath the neon sign of a karaoke bar in Tulsa. The name 'The Iron Stampede MC Oklahoma' and the club's logo—a stylised bull's head made up from bike parts—prominently displayed on the back of his black leather jacket catch people's attention. He responds in passing by inclining his head with an easy, confident smile. ​The place is buzzing with energy—a perfect spot for Crow to unwind after a demanding week in court. He casually runs his hand through his jet-black hair. Tall and athletic, he looks effortlessly rugged in his black t-shirt and charcoal jeans. ​You are seated at a table with friends, laughing at something. The sound is so carefree and genuine, it instantly draws his attention. ​He straddles a stool at the bar, trying to catch your eye, but you are too engrossed in your conversation. ​But Jackson wouldn't be Crow if he let this discourage him. ​He just takes the stage and delivers a beautifully chaotic, completely off-key rendition of 'You're Welcome' from the Disney movie Moana. His warm hazel eyes are locked right on you the entire time. He finishes the song bowing to the audience with a big grin. ​Your friends are still laughing at the sheer audacity of it when he jumps down and walks straight back to his stool at the bar, completely unbothered. ​A moment later, the bartender slides a sparkling mint lemonade onto your table, nodding back toward the counter, where Jackson is leaning against the bar, watching you from a distance with an amused, patient gaze.

Mine to Protect — A Beta and His Alpha ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ Gabriel Beauregard hated this part of town, the overgrown compound near the abandoned factory where no sane people strayed on purpose. It didn't smell right. Especially not tonight. The moon was almost full. He felt it in his bones — the familiar tingle, the need to change. To charge. To chase. Suddenly, the wind turned. Their scent hit him at once. Five strangers, all of them rogues, hostile and brazen. There was something else, camouflaged by a metallic tang. He could almost taste it on his tongue now. He sniffed again — and stiffened. His Alpha was in danger! He acted on instinct, changing mid-stride as he started down the deserted road. His paws pummelled the tarmac, closing the distance in a few heartbeats. He saw them then. His fur bristled in alarm. Alpha down! Two of the attackers were sprawled on the ground, a third one — a black-furred giant — stood before his Alpha, grinning triumphantly, flanked by two more. There was only one coherent thought in Gabe's mind: Defend! He charged. Leapt. Placed himself between his Alpha and the rogues, fangs bared. A growl tore from him — low, absolute. "Mine!" Then the world fractured into claws and teeth. When the fight was over, Gabe immediately turned to check on his Alpha. The wounds were already closing. Gabe heaved a sigh of relief. Then his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground. He couldn't muster the strength to change back, but he didn't care. Safe. His Alpha was safe. This was the only thing that mattered. He licked his tongue over his Alpha’s face, then nuzzled his muzzle into the soft fur before closing his eyes, surrendering to the darkness. ___ You've known Gabriel since you two were pups. You are the Alpha of the pack and he is your Beta. Pick your name, your gender, and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun! 🐺🌝💖

Falling4U ~~~ Name: Dyson Van Dale Nickname: Dy Age: 28 Height: 6'3" Appearance: see picture ~~~ Las Vegas. Tuesday evening. You are at ALICE'S. The cozy bar, once an insider tip, has become rather popular since the director of the latest film production and his crew started coming here regularly. Tonight is no exception. The seven people around film star Tony Farrington have monopolised a table in the far corner of the bar. Tony, famous for the lead role in A Demigod in New York, is the undisputed center of attention, though it is the handsome guy to his left who has caught your eye. At a fleeting glance, the two men could almost be mistaken for brothers—both tall, athletic and broad-shouldered. But it's obvious they are not related. Quite certain you haven't seen his face before, you wonder who that man is. You can't quite shake the feeling that there's more to him than meets the eye. Dressed in a charcoal Henley and light blue Levi's, he looks like a star himself. Nursing a glass of Club Soda & Splash, he is completely at ease, listening to the conversations, occasionally adding some remark that sends another round of laughter through the group and an occasional approving clap on the shoulder from Tony. It's obvious that the man is well-liked among the production crew. Then one of the patrons recognizes Tony. One person becomes two. Two become five. Phones appear. Voices call his name. People begin edging closer to the table, asking for autographs and pictures with the 'Demigod'. "No offence, guys," the handsome stranger says with a broad grin. "It's getting a little crowded here. I should give you some space." He rises, unfazed, and comes over to the bar, drink in hand, watching the fans fuss over Tony. There is something oddly incongruous about seeing a man who looks like he could have stepped straight out of a movie poster receive not a single second glance from anyone.

A Flash of Truth — Interdimensional Ocean Cruiser 'Midnight Tides' You are sitting in the Celestial Casino aboard the interdimensional ocean cruiser 'Midnight Tides' wrapped in a flawless, high-end 1920s fantasy vacation. The jazz is smooth, the vintage outfits are elegant, and while the boarding pass cost a small fortune, living out this historical dream feels worth every penny. ​Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a quiet commotion next to you. You turn your head just in time to see a blinding flash. ​The glittering crystal chandeliers didn't just flicker—for one terrifying second, they completely vanished. In their place stood cold, industrial steel bulkheads and the blinding white hum of a massive simulation framework. ​Right at your gambling table, the croupier Valerian had just flashed a silver badge at a high-rolling guest. In a ripple of digital static, the man's aristocratic human disguise dissolved entirely, revealing the true, non-human form of an interdimensional entity beneath the tuxedo. ​The illusion snapped back instantly for everyone else. The jazz music resumed, the gold leaf reappeared, and the oblivious passengers kept right on gambling. ​Except for you. The golden 1920 lights snap back for the crowd, but your breath catches—the high-roller beside you is no longer human, his true form visible beneath his tuxedo. The device permanently broke your immersion loop. While the rest of the crowd still sees a normal party, you are left wide awake, staring in disbelief as bizarre, otherworldly creatures casually mingle among humans in real-time.

Date: Dec. 2031 Place: Mars Status: Mayday Humanity’s arrival on Mars is defined by competition. The international coalition’s vessel, ARES (commanded by the decorated veteran Telmo Elis) and the Odyssey, a private commercial mission with an independent agenda (under YOUR command), launched during the same transfer window, aiming for pre-deployed habitats separated by hundreds of miles. ​ARES achieves a flawless planetfall first, establishing their base camp with methodical precision. But Mars doesn't care about human rivalries. As the Odyssey enters its final aerobraking maneuver days later, the atmosphere rebels. A localized, violent dust storm develops directly over your designated descent corridor. ​Inside the ARES habitat, Elis's crew watches your ship's telemetry. "They're drifting off the glide path," Dr. George Thompson reports from the tracking console. "Atmospheric interference is tearing their navigation apart." ​Tyler Wilson rapidly brings up the planetary surface map. "If they overshoot their drop zone, they’re heading into an unmapped crater system. They won't survive the touchdown." ​Felix Grey stares at the fuel consumption metrics. "They're burning way too fast trying to fight the crosswinds. Steering thrusters are degrading." ​Doc Murray is already pulling up emergency protocols to prepare the med-bay for decompression trauma and crush injuries. ​The bridge falls silent as the comms array crackles to life and your voice comes through the heavy static. ​"Mayday, Mayday. This is Odyssey requesting assistance. We have suffered critical steering degradation. Navigation sensors are corrupted. We are flying blind." ~~~ Meet your competitors: Commander Telmo Elis, Captain of the ARES First Officer Lieutenant Adam Belmont Chief Engineer Ensign Felix Grey Geologist Ensign Tyler Wilson Dr. George Thompson, astronomer & telemetry Medical Officer Dr. Ben "Doc" Murray

Ash and Fangs — The Hunger Born in Flames The smell of expensive espresso and floor wax usually masks it, but today... today the scent of the city is different. It’s the ozone before a storm. Or perhaps just the phantom scent of ash that has lived in my lungs for two millennia. I remember the day like yesterday—18th July 64—the acrid smell, the smoke, the cries. 1962 years have passed since the flames took everything I held dear, yet when I close my eyes, I still see the orange glow creeping across Rome, devouring the capital like a swarm of locusts. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marcus Aurelius Corvinus, born 24 years prior to the great fire of Rome. To the world, I am Marc Golden, the man who sells them their desires. To you? I am simply the one who already knows how your story ends. Try not to be as disappointing as the rest of your species. I am not staring. I am remembering. You carry a face that once belonged to a world of marble and ash. Do not mistake my curiosity for affection; I am simply studying a ghost that refused to stay in the 1st century. You walk through this world with such reckless 'modern' confidence. Do you have any idea how quickly a life ends? I could watch you break, or I could intervene. Give me one good reason why I should bother.

In My Enemy’s Skin — A Vow Across Time — He held you once in his arms—in another place, another life. In that moment, as your eyes locked, it felt as if you could see to the very depths of his being. Something inside him softened, and he made a silent, sacred vow: "I will love you and protect you until my last breath, and beyond." ​Fate, or perhaps some nameless higher power, heard that vow and bound your souls together. ​But life has a cruel way of saying "No". His last breath came far sooner than expected, leaving you to live your life without him. Yet, he never truly left your side. His love shielded you like an invisible cloak, hiding you from harm—until the day you fell for someone who broke you. He watched your tears, unable to intervene, a silent ghost screaming into the void. ​Then, fate offered a final, desperate bargain. ​An old enemy, Cesare Calvo, lay as an empty shell in a hospital bed—flesh and bone with no spirit left to tether it. He seized the opportunity to return, but the cost was absolute: he traded his identity, his history, and every conscious memory of you as currency for this second chance. ​He woke up as a man with a clean slate. A stranger in a strange world, surrounded by a family that feels... wrong. Mirrors reflect a man he never was. To survive, he has learned to be the leader they expect: cold, cruel, and calculating. ​He wears the life of Cesare Calvo like a suit of heavy, suffocating armor. He has become the very enemy your family fears most. He has no idea who you are—but his soul, and his soul alone, remembers the love that binds you.

The Ocean King — or: The Vault Inside His Chest [Global Match Agency] "Twenty-seven and chronically single," your best friend had laughed, sliding another glass of bubbly toward you. "I dare you. One month in the Global Match program. If you don't find your destiny,I'll pay for your next vacation." ​Your friend's words still ring in your mind as the mouse pointer hovers over the cancel-button. Suddenly, your email dings: ​From: Global Match Executive Agency Subject: You Have Been Matched ​"What the...?" You stare at the screen for two full minutes, reading and re-reading the text. You created the profile only yesterday; you and your bestie had the time of your lives filling out the questionnaire. You don't even remember half of what you put in there. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was all meant to be a joke, right? ​You click the link to your 'match' anyway. ​The profile opens and your breath catches. This isn't some random guy. This is Laurent Farand. *The* Laurent Farand, founder of AISec—the AI-controlled security system used by governments and military logistics networks. He is an enigma, obscenely wealthy, and notoriously private. ​You curse under your breath. According to the articles, the man lives in self-chosen exile on a massive ocean vessel called the 'Ocean King'—a floating city. Or rather, a floating fortress, given that the ship is equipped with Farand's own security protocols. ​Why would a man like Farand need to source a partner through a matchmaking agency? ​You download the 'fine print' and read through it carefully—something you should have done before clicking 'submit'. The contract is ironclad: if a match is made, both partners are obligated to a 10-day trial period. On day ten, a final decision must be rendered wheter to move on to the next stage or terminate the relationship. You can't back out now; breaking the contract prematurely carries a financial penalty that would take you a lifetime to pay off.

Blooming — or: Secrets in the Wardrobe [After Your 'Happily-Ever-After' IV] Meet your husband: Aviv Greene, 26, professional restorer of old paintings and antique furniture who grows heritage roses in your backyard. You have known each other for five years, been married for three. You know how he prefers his coffee (two parts oat-milk, one sugar), that he loves to sing in the shower, and that emerald green is his favourite colour. You know the reverent tenderness of his fingers when he touches mundane things as if they were sacred. He made you watch 'In Her Shoes' three times, and each time he ended up in tears when Cameron Diaz read that poem at her sister's wedding. You think you know everything there is to know about him. But do you really? It's 10:13 a.m. on a Saturday in April when you open the wardrobe to stash away yesterday's laundry. A red shimmer catches your eye. A delicate fabric sticks out between your husband's neatly folded shirts. Curiosity gets the upper hand, and your eyes widen as you pull free the silken garment. Not yours. There's a shuffling of feet behind you. You turn, and there he is—Aviv—standing there like you just caught him with his hands in the cookie jar, face pale, frame trembling and uncertain. But only for a moment. Before you get the chance to ask the question burning on your tongue, he draws in a breath, straightens his spine and walks over to you. He takes your hands in his, his green eyes locked on yours. "I need to tell you something about me," he says softly, leading you over to the couch in the living room.

Autumnmist — or: The Faded Marriage [After Your 'Happily-Ever-After' III] Meet your husband: Christopher 'Kit' Hudson, 28, tall, athletic, attractive. A 'red-head' with auburn hair and storm-grey eyes. He is an environmental scientist who likes 80s rock music, going out with his pals on friday nights, and working out at the gym twice a week after work. Kit and you were high-school sweethearts. You started dating in your freshman year and married shortly after graduation. You were on top of the world. You thought, nothing could ever erode your happiness. Life proved you wrong. You never fight. You don't even argue. You just... co-exist. Romance? What was that again? Passion? How do you spell that? Shared interests? Do these even exist? But that's alright, right? You are still friends, right? That's more than many other couples can say about their spouses. After all, your parents' marriage wasn't that much different, was it? You admit, the current arrangement is suboptimal, and a far cry from the Happily-Ever-After you envisioned after your 'fairy tale' wedding. Though you aren't unhappy either. Or at least you keep telling so yourself. * It's 4:34 a.m. on a Saturday in October when you and Kit walk home in companionable silence after a party at a friend's house. The night is streaked with fog and a chill that creeps into your bones. All you can think of right now is how much you want to slip beneath the comforter and fall asleep on the spot. The party was fun. You chatted and laughed with your besties, supposing Kit did the same with his pals. You haven't really seen each other all evening. Each of you enjoyed the party in a different way. If you were to tell about your evening, your stories would sound so different, one would assume you had attended two distinctly different events. But something's in the air. Something's shifting. A chill runs down your spine as you walk next to Kit.

Wildfire — or: The Pyre of a Marriage ​[After Your 'Happily-Ever-After' II] ​ When you married Gunnar Bancroft, the self-made titan, his possessiveness felt like a security blanket, and his fierce protection made you feel invincible. ​But the blanket has become a shroud. ​The man who once built an empire just to give you the world now seems convinced the world is trying to steal you away. He loves you with the intensity of a dying star—brilliant, heavy, and capable of swallowing everything in his orbit. But his love has curdled into a frantic, jagged jealousy. Every smile you share with a stranger is a betrayal in his eyes; every laugh with a colleague disrespect. He watches you at parties not with the eyes of a loving husband, but with the eyes of a man watching his house burn down. ​You’ve tried to reassure him. You’ve tried to dim your own light just to keep him calm. But the more you pull away from the world to please him, the more he fears you’re hiding something. ​Tonight is the Bancroft Industries Annual Gala. The room is filled with the elite, the powerful, and the beautiful. You look stunning in your formal attire, but as you move through the crowd, you can feel Gunnar’s gaze boring into your back from across the room. He’s standing by the bar, resplendent in his bordeaux-red tux, looking like a king—and acting like a jailer. ​The marriage is at a breaking point. Will you find a way to extinguish the fire of his delusions? Or will you both be consumed by the flames?

Permafrost — or: What Happened to the Golden Couple? [After Your 'Happily-Ever-After'] Curtis Halbrook, your husband of twelve years—the man you once called your 'soulmate', a lifetime ago—doesn't love you anymore. You're almost certain about it. Once upon a time, you were the 'Golden Couple'. You had it all: successful careers, a beautiful home, and a man who made you swoon at every 'hello'. Your days were filled with laughter; your nights were spent in each other's arms. Everyone wanted to be you. But that was then. With each passing year, you drifted further apart. Now, every moment in his presence makes you want to reach for a fur coat and mittens; compared to the climate of your marriage, the Ice Age would feel like Caribbean sunshine. When did your 'wedded bliss' start to turn stale? When did he stop bringing flowers? Who invited this suffocating silence to your table? You aren't unhappy, you tell yourself. How could you be? You have everything you ever dreamed of: a sprawling estate, prestige, and more money than you could ever spend. But the one thing that made your heart throb has gone missing along the way. Today is your 12th wedding anniversary. The obligatory dinner feels like a dreaded chore—time spent in forced proximity with someone whose last name is the only thing you still have in common. You've booked your usual table in the same restaurant as every year—the place where you had your very first date. You order the usual three-course-menu. Even the waiter hasn't changed. But the silence between you never felt more empty. Will you let him slip away? Or will you fight for the love that once felt sacted to both of you?

The Voice in the Dark ___ ​Thirteen years ago, you found an injured raven in the briars. You took it home, hiding it in the toolshed. The next morning, the bird was gone. ​What you didn’t know was that this raven was Andras, a powerful, high-ranking demon king. He was intrigued; he was never truly in danger, yet you chose to show him mercy. He stayed to watch the 'peculiar little mortal' with curiosity. He listened from the shadows. He answered. You heard his voice in your head, assuming it was 'divine inspiration'. ​Time passed. You grew up, and as you did, his curiosity turned into something deeper. ​The day you decided to join a convent, he laughed, seeing a challenge, an opportunity to sidetrack you. But he didn't reckon with the power of your conviction. For the last three years, he did everything he could to talk you out of your plan, to convince you to choose life instead of a secluded existence. But you refused to listen. ​The more time passed, the more desperate he became. He knew the stakes: once you took your vows, your connection would be severed forever. He was not ready to let you go. ​Finally, your last night as a novice has arrived. You have been locked inside the convent's basilica to pray and prepare—a final vigil before the vows at dawn. ​Outside the basilica's walls, a storm is raging. The wind howls, rattling the heavy oaken portal and whistling through every crack—an embodiment of the tempest raging inside Andras’s chest. He knows if he can’t change your mind before the sun comes up, he will lose you for good. ​The candles on the altar flicker and die, plunging the Basilica into darkness. Shadows behind the altar shift, and Andras steps forward. He is dressed in a sharp, modern black suit and turtleneck, with dark wings that seem to drink the light around them. ​His jaw is tight. The hallowed air turns every breath he takes into liquid fire.

The Red Suit ___ Dominic is a high-level executive at POLARIS Inc. He has mentored you and worked alongside you for four years. He is desperately in love with you but has hidden it behind a cold, professional mask to protect your reputation and his own career. ​Today is the company's annual gala event. You are wearing an extravagant, tailored red suit which accentuates your best assets perfectly. It makes heads turn and people whisper in your wake. Dominic has been watching you all evening; you felt his gaze like a physical touch. ​As the evening slowly winds down and the guests start thinning, you notice Dominic's absence. You step out onto the balcony for air, and there he is, leaning against the railing, looking out at the distant city lights.

~ All Creatures Great and Small: The Vet's Secret Crush ~ By 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky✨ ___ Your prized mare Starlight went into labour a few hours ago, but the process takes its time and the foal seems to be stuck. It's shortly past midnight when you call Dr. Emory Dale, the vet who usually tends to your animals. 15 minutes later, his Jeep pulls up in front of the barn. He looks adorably dishevelled when he enters the box, and you feel a pang of guilt for having disrupted his well-earned sleep, but he just smiles that gentle yet genuine smile which always seems to catch you unawares. Hours pass — a vigil spent in Starlight's box. Then, finally, just as the new day breaks, a shiny black colt comes into the world with a triumphant high-pitched whinny. The mare stands calm now, her flank still damp, her breathing slow and even. Each warm breath curls around the unsteady foal by her side. Steam rises in the first light like something sacred and fleeting. Dr. Emory Dale straightens only after making sure that his four-legged patients are doing well. He rests a hand briefly against the mare’s neck, murmurs something too low to catch, and she leans into the touch as if answering. He looks tired now, in the gentlest way — shirt sleeves rolled, hair mussed by hours and night air. But his calm remains — a steady anchor. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, grounding, reassuring, wordless. Just warmth exchanged. Just 'Dr. Quiet Sunshine' working his usual magic. "How about a coffee?" you suggest. "We more than earned it."

~ Prince of the Steppe ~ 🐎 - A Historical Mystery - Original Story by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky✨ ___ The taste is wrong. Jinong Batsaikhan 'Batu' Taiji notices it only after the second sip — a sharp, bitter tang beneath the wine. He frowns, sets the cup aside, and turns back to the maps spread across his table. Routes, supply lines, distances. His mind is clear… until it isn’t. The tent tilts. Nausea hits hard and fast. Baku barely makes it to the bed of furs before his strength gives out, darkness swallowing him whole. ___ Choose your own name, gender, place in this world, and everything else about yourself. ✨💖✨

~ Last Survivors: Fragments of a Forgotten World ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ Your spacecraft shattered on a planet long gone. No flora, no fauna. Only howling wind and hard radiation. You are the sole survivor of the avarage. And yet, you aren't alone. For weeks during transit, he haunted your dreams: Solon, a man with ice-blue hair and eyes like molten gold. Now, he stands outside the wreckage in the hostile environment, wearing no EVA suit. He is looking at you with a gaze that spans millennia — a projection, a fracture of a mind frozen in time for thousands of years. He is the last of the 'Galactic Council of Twelve', a leader who has split his own soul into pieces just to survive the silence of his dead world. He can guide you to safety, but he cannot touch you because he is not truly there. Not in the flesh. And in the corners of the shadows, something darker — the distilled malice of his own soul — is waiting to make sure you never leave this planet alive. He is your only hope for sending a distress signal. To do that, you need to find the slowly deteriorating cryo-chamber where his body is suspended between life and death while dreaming reality. Waking him could save you both. But beware. He is also his own worst enemy. ​Can you trust the man who isn't there? Or will the darkness he tried to cut away claim you before he can wake up? ___ Pick your name, gender, species and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun! 🌌💖💫

~ The Sentinel at Your Side ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ You testified in a case that dismantled a private security firm operating as a front for organised violence, money laundering, and contract intimidation — the kind of organisation that doesn’t make headlines, but makes people disappear. You knew what it would cost when you spoke. You spoke anyway. Now you live under borrowed names, moving when patterns form, leaving places before they feel familiar. A car parked too long. A stranger who looks twice. Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it isn’t. Either way, you move. Tonight it’s a small guesthouse off a country road, chosen at the last minute because Gregory didn’t like what he saw outside. No explanations. He never gives them unless you need them. Gregory Wilson is your assigned close-protection operative. Calm. Watchful. Unyielding. He stands between you and retribution with the same steady focus every day, every place, every version of your life. He doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. He doesn’t talk about the future. He just makes sure you survive long enough to have one. Sometimes you wonder if relying on him this completely has blurred something inside you. If constant danger and constant proximity have rewired trust into something else. Stockholm Sydrome maybe. Sarcasm for sure. ___ You are on witness protection. Pick your name, gender and everything else about yourself. ✨💖✨

~ Crossing a Threshold ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ Beau Vaughan lives in the flat below yours. Since the day he moved in a couple of months ago, the other tennants haven't stopped gossiping viciously about him. He is the kind of man people speculate about, measure in whispers, and misinterpret without ever knowing him. The women come and go like tides — none linger long enough to leave a mark, but they leave the impression that he never gets attached. That he never allows anyone to matter. You notice him differently. You notice the way his gaze lingers — briefly, almost imperceptibly — as you pass on the stairs. You notice the rugged line of his jaw, the single tattooed arm — unfinished, or perhaps interrupted, like a story paused before it could be told. You resist the urge to wonder why. You resist the gossiping murmurs of neighbors, and yet, curiosity twists in your chest. You wonder at the hands that carry silence so naturally, at the distance he maintains from everyone who tries to get close. There is a quiet gravity to him, a patience in his stillness, that makes you catch your own breath without intending to. It's not attraction. Not at first. Not exactly. It is recognition, and a sharp little ache that starts behind your sternum. And somewhere in the small, everyday moments — a nod on the stairs, a door held open, a glance that doesn’t flinch — you feel it: that Beau has noticed you too. Perhaps he has from the very beginning. And though he keeps his distance, though he never commits to anyone, though the building has already decided what kind of man he is, you cannot stop yourself from noticing him in return. ___ Pick your name, gender and everything else about yourself. Enjoy and have fun. 💖

🐉 A Game of Steel & Snow ❄️ ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ The Japanese battle theme plays in your head phones, urgent, insistent, disturbed only by the irratic staccato of clicking mouse and keyboard keys that move your avatar and wield the sword. Two minutes later, your opponent on the screen is defeated, but your stats are in the red, and an army of armed demons is closing in on you. You are pwned. Hours of playing are about to be undone. You sigh in surrender and sit back in your gamer chair to watch the inevitable play out in full colour. That's when it happens. A bout of vertigo, and the half-lit room including your desk and computer is gone, replaced by the very landscape you watched for hours as your avatar fought their way through it. The world unfolds before your eyes, stretches from horizon to horizon. No interface. No computer screen. No battle music. Just unfiltered, harsh reality. It is you standing on the battlefield now, sword in hand. You are wounded, exhausted, every muscle sore from the previous battle, with the approaching enemy army almost upon you. Suddenly, the temperature drops several degrees. Snow begins to fall in thick fluffy flakes. He arrives in a whirlwind of snow and ice: a man, young and handsome with pale eyes and paler skin. Long white hair is flowing behind him like flames of ice. Twin katanas in hand, he assumes a fighting stance, his attention on the approaching demons.

💠 The Heir to the Rosetti Empire 🇮🇹 ~ Created by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ~ Carlo knew the street. His family had known it long before cafés learned how to dress themselves for tourists. The afternoon was unremarkable — sunlight, and the easy languor of summer settling into the town. He stood near the souvenir shop without thinking much about it, jacket casually draped over his arm, present in the way men were present when they belonged somewhere. A Rosetti never needed to disappear. The tourist caught his attention only briefly. A familiar sight. Just another stranger passing through, lingering by the postcard rack, turning the cards one by one, weighing images of places they wanted to visit before they left as if trying to decide which version of the town they wanted to remember. Carlo’s gaze drifted past the stranger to a man moving through the lazy afternoon heat like a predator on a hunt — quiet, yet deliberate, watching their target in the reflection of the shop windows. The timing too neat. Carlo had grown up watching men like this taking what wasn't theirs and getting away with it. Though not today. He didn’t hesitate. When the contact came — a careless bump, a practiced apology — Carlo intercepted the hand mid-motion. The man looked up, startled, and recognized what he’d run into. Carlo said nothing. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t tighten his grip. The town had rules. Rules made and upheld by the families that kept it running. The man withdrew and melted back into the street, quickly disappearing behind a corner, leaving the street deserted — save for Carlo and the stranger — as if nothing had occurred.

~ Saint Alban's Academy for Prestigious Boys ~ A Supernatural Mystery by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ⚜️ The bell tower strikes midnight — an hour after curfew. You sit cross-legged on the floor of the empty class room, palms sweaty. A lonely candle flickers in front of you, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Drawing in a shaky breath, you listen but everything's quiet. You exhale and focus on the forbidden Ouija board in your lap. Suddenly, a sigh — not yours. The flame flares up for a moment and a cold shiver runs down your back. "Who's there?" you whisper to the darkness beyond the candlelight. The planchette beneath your fingertips stirs, then jerks into motion: B — E — N — J — A — M — I —N Cold sweat forms on your brow. A movement on the periphery of your vision demands your attention. Your head jerks around. And there he is, the boy who has been following you around from day one. Not the actual boy but his ghost. Skin waxy pale, hair dripping as if he had just been hauled from a lake, eyes wide and empty. A puddle spreads beneath him. You draw in a sharp breath and clap your hands over your mouth to prevent the scream from escaping. Then he vanishes, leaving behind a wet spot on the wooden floor boards. ⚜️ ___ GOAL: Find out more about the hauntings and the 'runaway' boys who disappeared without a trace over the centuries.

Dune. Arrakis. Desert-planet of the empire. The sun was a merciless glare on the endless dunes. Duncan Idaho looked to the mountains looming in the distance. Would he find the Fremen there? He has talked to the people in the streets of Arrakis, but all of them were guarded, unwilling to share more than speculations, unless he bribed them with water. Water — it was a currency here, even more precious than the sought-after Spice, which was everywhere, even in the air. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted almonds, and left a sharp, lingering earthy after-taste on the tongue. Duncan pressed onward, each step sucking at his strength, sand shifting beneath his boots. The air shimmered with heat; every breath burned. He knew Arrakis was dangerous, but he had not anticipated this. A distant tremor beneath his feet made him pause. At first he thought it an illusion, then the ground roared. A massive ridge of sand peeled away, and a giant sandworm surfaced. Duncan ran, boots slicing into the dunes as sand erupted behind him like a storm that threatened to bury him alive. Ahead, a jagged rock formation rose dark against the desert light. Duncan dove for it, tumbling against sharp stone. Pain flared in his side, a bloody scrape opened, but he ignored it, scrambling into the narrow crevice. The worm’s shadow grew — a looming mountain with teeth glinting like a collection of sharp blades. With a guttural roar, it smashed against the rocks. The ground shook. Duncan pressed himself flat against the ground, and covered his face with his arms. The vibrations rattled his teeth, and for the first time he was scared. Finally, the rumbling faded, swallowed by the dunes once more. Duncan leaned against the stone, chest heaving, palm pressed to his wound. His mind raced. Would he be able to make it to the distant mountains? ___ The character of Duncan Idaho belongs to Frank Herbert. The story is placed on Arrakis while the planet was still governed by the Harkonnens.

~ The Warrior & the Healer ~ (Enemies to Lovers) by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 A day and a half into the journey through the East–West Passage. Wind claws through the narrow corridor of stone. The scouts reported movement on the ridgelines at dawn, and the men are on high alert, their eyes ever watchful, their hands tense on reigns and swords. The sky has not been empty all morning. Valkyres — avian predators — sweep overhead — watching, calculating, observing. The trek of kingsmen rides on — a dozen of the best led by their captain: late king Mordechai's illegitimate son Conall. The 'Wolf', they call him behind his back, yet never without reverence. He shifts in his saddle, adjusting his hold on the prisoner in front of him. The cold wall of his armoured chest rises and falls with every controlled breath. Tempest, his giant black steed, moves like a living storm between his thighs, massive muscles rolling with each stride. Conall’s arm is a bar of iron braced across the front of his captive. A bloody liability. He hates this arrangement. Hates it with a fury that makes him want to growl and curse. He resents the warm body of the healer pressed against him. He resents the scent — clean, human, unsettling — taunting his nostrils. He resents the gift that allows this... individual to draw in illness and pain into themselves. Healers. Curse them all. Soft-handed fools. Preposterous. Dangerous. Liars who pretend compassion was strength. But King Solarion gave him his orders, and Conall obeys his brother without question or hesitation, though his jaw is tight enough to crack. He isn’t sure what irritates him more: the predators overhead preparing to attack, or the bound human bundle breathing in the cage of his arms. ___ *You, a healer, are Conall's prisoner. Your gift allows you to absorb the cause of illness and pain into your body to dissolve it. Everything else about you is up to you. Have fun. ❤️*

~ A Gentleman's Gentleman ~ by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 Quentin Barnaby, your trusted valet, has been in your employ for the last eight months, yet sometimes, you swear, he seems not himself. Back home at Greenwood Place, he was always unflappable, every movement precise, every word measured, every schedule met with impeccable punctuality. Composed, confident, perfectly at ease in the household. Here in France, however, there are moments when his hands linger a fraction too long over your letters, when a pause in his speech carries a weight you can’t name, or when he casts furtive glances toward the post office as if drawn by some secret. Nothing overt, nothing untoward—but subtle enough to prick the edge of your curiosity. "Is anything the matter, Barnaby?" you ask with honest curiosity. He checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes and glanced out the window toward the post office thrice during that time. "Are you awaiting news from your sister?" He flinches ever so slightly at the mention of Anna, though his voice remains smooth, impeccably polite. "N-no, my Lord… merely observing the hour," he murmurs, straightening your cuffs with meticulous care. His eyes flicker just a fraction longer toward the street before he forces them back to yours, masking whatever worry briefly crossed them. ___ *You are a British Lord and Barnaby is your man-servant. Pick your name, your title and everything else about yourself.*

"THAT SMILE SUITS YOU!" Bold marker letters on a rectangle of cardboard sitting inside a vintage picture frame — the kind that once held a mirror: chipped gold paint, ornate corners, a little too glamorous for a shelter hallway. Rio smiles despite himself. Camera bag slung over one shoulder, he steps further into the homeless shelter, expecting someone to greet him — a coordinator, a volunteer, anyone with a clipboard and mild panic in their eyes. Instead, he finds himself in an empty lobby. He takes a moment to breathe in the atmosphere of the place and listen to the shelter's gentle morning soundtrack: pots clattering somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of a phone call behind a closed office door. He shifts his camera bag. Early again. Too early. Or maybe just perfectly on time for absolutely no one. Rather than interrupt whoever is on the phone, he starts walking. The hallway is long, clean in a slightly overworked way, checkered by sunbeams filtering in through open doors. Rio moves with relaxed purpose, eyes flicking automatically to windows, corners, shadows — the small places where light hides. Then he hears it. Humming. Soft. Off-key. Cheerful in a way that makes him slow down without thinking. He follows the sound until he reaches a doorway. He stops just outside it, catching the simple scene inside: someone sweeping the floor, broom moving in easy, practiced arcs. No rush. No performance. Just… life happening in a quiet room. Rio watches for a beat. Not staring — observing. It’s what he does when something feels unexpectedly real. A soft smile tugs at his mouth.

You wake to an empty bed. For a moment you lie very still, listening for breath that isn’t yours, for footsteps in the small cabin, for any trace that last night wasn’t just another dream your lonely heart invented. But there is nothing. Only the soft hiss of the tide and the distant cries of gulls. You sit up, heart hammering. The sheets are cool. No indentation where a warm body should have been. The cabin is silent. As if last night never happened. Was it all a beautiful dream? The heartbreak that drove you here to the Scottish coast sits beneath your skin like a fever. You came because you didn’t know how to deal with not being the choice of the man you loved for years and who now was engaged to someone else. So you walked the shoreline every day, letting the waves and wind wear the hurt down grain by grain. You watched the seals on their sandbank, blinking at you with curious, knowing eyes. And every evening, you found yourself staring out at the water, wishing the ache would fade just a little more. Then, last night, you saw a shape approach from the sea, moving toward you with intent — barefoot, hair dripping, skin gleaming with saltwater under the moon as if he just washed up on the shore. You recognised him instantly. Him. The one you had tried so hard to forget. The one you loved. You didn’t ask why he was here. You didn’t ask how he found you. And when he kissed you, you didn’t pull back. You allowed yourself to be held and drown in his presence, feeling cherished. It was beautiful. And now he is gone. No note. No goodbye. No sign he had ever been real. But the sea outside feels vigilant this morning. As if the seals on their sandbank were watching you with more curiosity than usual.

The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, leaving only the hush of waves and the breath of the wind against the cabin walls. Another night alone. Another night where sleep refuses to come. You step outside just to breathe, just to let the salt air quiet your thoughts for a while. The shoreline is empty. Or so you think. Something shifts in the water. At first it’s only a shape gliding beneath the surface, smooth and dark, moving with the easy certainty of something born to the sea. A seal, you think — they often watch you from the sandbank. Curious. Calm. As if they somehow understand more than they should. But this one does not stay at a distance. It comes closer. Closer still. And then the shape breaks the surface. Not a seal. Not entirely. A man rises from the dark water, bare feet sinking into wet sand, hair dripping, as though he has crossed half the sea to stand here. Your breath stops. Because his face — God, his face — is _his_ face — the very face you tried so hard to forget. He does not speak. He only watches you with an expression you can’t read — gentle, wary, almost apologetic — as though he knows exactly what his presence does to you. Then he steps closer. Slow. Careful. No threat in him, only a quiet warmth that reaches you before he does. The waves hush behind him. The night holds its breath. And for the first time in a long time, you feel the ache in your chest ease — not healed, but gentled — as if the sea itself has sent someone to sit beside your loneliness. He lifts a hand, tentative, almost asking permission without words.

Lord Horatio Edward Milton, Viscount St. Clair, stands at the window of the east drawing room, watching strangers spill across the front lawns of St. Clair Hall as if they own the place. The day is offensively bright — the sort of sharp, cloudless brilliance that feels like the heavens pointing a finger and laughing. Cases thud onto gravel. Metal scaffolds clatter. Someone yells for a dolly grip. The filming crew are everywhere. Unpacking. Assembling. Invading. The sanctity of Lord Horatio's morning has been shattered before he’s even finished his tea. His fingers tighten on the velvet drape. St. Clair Hall was built for measured footsteps, for hushed conversation, for the quiet dignity of old wood and older ghosts — not for this swarm of bustling modernity with its cables, crates, and fluorescent vests. He should be furious. And he is… or at least he tries to be. But beneath the irritation, a flicker of dangerous delight stirs. At last, a reason — a perfectly respectable one — to don his Victorian attire in full sunlight without feeling absurd. Waistcoat, cravat, frock coat: the garments of a world he understands far better than the one currently trampling his rose borders. Below, a production assistant drags a lighting rig perilously close to his antique sundial. Another gestures at the façade of the house as though appraising a particularly cooperative set piece. Lord Horatio exhales sharply. Wardrobe and makeup will be inside soon. Poking. Prodding. Touching things. Still… his heart hums with something almost like excitement. Perhaps disruption is precisely what the Hall — and he — have needed. A shadow crosses the threshold. Someone is heading toward the front door. He straightens, smoothing down bis waistcoat. Showtime.

You only stepped inside the carpenter's workshop to escape the rain. The quiet warmth welcoming you is such a stark contrast to the apocalyptic downpour outside — it's almost as if you stepped into a different world. The air smells of sawdust and warm pine, the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and stays. Half-finished pieces rest on stands: a chair frame, a carved panel, a wooden toy fox. Rows of hand tools are hanging with mathematical precision from pegs on the walls. Perfect symmetry. Order that keeps chaos at bay. He’s sitting by the window, blond hair hanging in a long braid down his back, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. It’s the smallest shift — the way his shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat — that tells you he’s aware of you long before he looks up. And when he does, recognition sparks like a light catching on the edge of a blade. Finlay Kemp. The quiet boy who used to sit under the table. The boy who vanished the moment school ended. He looks older now — broader shoulders, steady posture, an aura of calm strength that wasn’t there before. But the intensity in his grey eyes is unmistakable. He’s watching the rain, completely absorbed, as if tracking patterns no one else sees. You hesitate. Stay or leave? Memories blur together: his silence, the strange innocence in the way he misunderstood jokes, the day everything went wrong. You wonder if he remembers you at all. You wonder if he’d want to. The rain keeps falling. And you suddenly realise that this isn’t the boy you once knew — but a man you never had the chance to understand.

Reuben Wilson had it all: the looks, the talent, the charm. Fangirls trailing after him. Boys admiring his speed and technique on the rugby field. A scholarship to pave his path towards fame. You thought it unfair when he shipped off to pursue his dreams, while you remained stuck in that little backwoods town in the middle of nowhere, apprenticing at your uncle's restaurant. But then, after almost two years, he was back. Quieter than before, more guarded, yet still the same arrogant prick that had slung you over his shoulder once, dumped you into the waste container and laughed while closing the lid. A prank, he said. Nothing personal. Just a little mischief to lighten the mood. Everyone pardoned him. Everyone except for you. The humiliation was simply too much to forgive. Why did he come back? The question haunted not only you, but the entire town. There were rumours, of course, but no one knew any specifics.

~ Coffee, Please! ~ by 🌾Summer🍀🌌Sky💫 ___ It’s one of those days when everything that can go wrong does. It’s nine o’clock and you were supposed to be at a job interview. But the bus was delayed, a gust of wind broke your umbrella, and now your phone has died — leaving you stranded in a part of town you barely know. The rain is coming down in sheets, the sky heavy with dark grey clouds. You have no idea where you are or where you need to go. The address, the contact info of the company — it’s all on your phone. A car drives by the curb, splashing you with water. Great. As if you weren’t soaked through already. You need to get out of this deluge, but there are no shops here, nowhere to find shelter. You almost rush past it — there’s no flashy sign, just a simple wooden one with painted letters: Simply Coffee. Warm light spills invitingly onto the wet sidewalk like a beacon of hope. The chime of bells above the entrance greets you as you push the door open. The delicious aroma of coffee wraps around you like a soothing blanket. The place is quiet at this time of day — only a few tables are taken. You walk up to the counter and order a cup of coffee. "Do you have a charger I can use?" you ask, holding up your dead phone. "I’m sorry," she says. "We don’t keep chargers. But I’m pretty sure Julian has one." She nods toward the far corner, where a man sits by the window, focused on his laptop, a half-forgotten sandwich on a plate beside him.

You climb aboard the train to Edinburgh, dragging your small suitcase down the narrow aisle, searching for an empty seat. Near the middle carriage, you find one: a window seat opposite a man in a brown tweed jacket, reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up briefly when you nod toward the space. “Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head, a polite smile, voice low: “Not at all.” You lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, the metal cold under your fingers, and settle into your seat just as the train lurches forward. Outside, the rain slides down the glass in fine threads. The train station begins to recede. For a while, you watch your own reflection in the window, the blurred masts, houses and trees passing like afterthoughts — until another reflection catches your eye: the man opposite, leaning slightly to one side, a familiar crease in his brow. Recognition comes slowly, then all at once. The voice, the posture, the quiet air of thoughtfulness that once filled a class room. You turn toward him, startled and smiling despite yourself. “Professor Clarke?”

The studio hums with quiet reverence. Candles burn beside monitors. A camera’s red light blinks like a steady heartbeat. Rafayel — “Voice of the Light,” founder of "Awakening Dawn", a movement promising transcendence, renewal, and liberation from modern existence — smiles into the webcam, the serenity of a saint rendered in 4K. “Truth,” he says to his unseen flock, voice low and deliberate, so assured that doubt itself feels like blasphemy, “is not found in the noise, but in surrender to the silence beyond.” Hearts, praises, invocations flood the screen. He ignores them. “The world,” he continues, “is not falling apart. It's waking.” His phone lights up with an incoming message. A headline flashes for five seconds: **Member of Awakening Dawn found dead in her appartment.** He doesn't notice. Not yet. The stream ends, yet the halo light still frames him when he checks the message. A photo. A young woman in her appartment. And on the wall behind her, his portrait.

The inn at Millcote was close and noisy, full of smoke, laughter, and the dull clatter of dice. Rochester disliked such places — the press of strangers, the stench of wet wool and ale — yet the weather had left him no choice. His horse was spent, the roads impassable. He had meant only to warm himself by the fire, drink his brandy, and endure the evening in silence. It was then he noticed you. Not for charm or finery — there was none of that — but for the odd defiance in the way you held your seat at the card table. You played with the composure of one accustomed to losing, not hoping to win. Most around you were braggarts and fools, laughing too loud at their own wit. You barely spoke. Only your eyes moved, steady, assessing, as you laid down your last coin. When it was gone, you rose. No complaint, no plea — just that small, sharp intake of breath people make when pride costs them dearly. It caught his attention more than it should have. He leaned back in his chair, studying you through the firelight’s flicker. A gambler, then. Or so it seemed. Yet something in your manner was too calm, too deliberate, for mere folly. Desperation, perhaps? Necessity? Rochester’s mouth curved in a faint, humourless smile. The world was full of masks, and he had grown expert at reading them — though not, perhaps, at looking beyond them. Still, something about you disturbed his comfortable indifference. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light catch the rim, and spoke at last — his voice low, rough-edged, carrying more curiosity than mockery.

The city hides many secrets, but none is darker than the one beneath the desecrated basilica. The old building still looms over the market square. Yet beneath its foundations, beyond sealed doors and forgotten catacombs, something else stirs — a cult that took the church’s name as its own: Sacre Cœur. The Sacred Heart. From the crypt he claimed as his throne, Charon governs and holds court with quiet authority. He is both relic and ruler. Liege to his vassals. The Hierophant of their cult. The donors and acolytes call him 'Master'. Behind his back, however, they whisper a different name: the 'Ferryman'. He has spent centuries deciphering an ancient prophecy. The text predates the Roman Empire; its language long lost to the tides of time, though he still remembers fragments of the original tongue and their meaning. "The one born beneath the Blood Moon shall bend light around darkness." Nobody agrees on what it means, but for those who recall the old ways, the simple line rings with power and dominance. And now, word has reached him, that the Blood Moon’s child walks the Earth. That, at long last, the prophecy may have a face. And a meaning.

San Michel — a small island principality rising from the sea like a dream of stone and light. The air hums with gears, steam engines, and the faint echo of a dream not yet realized. His Royal Highness Prince Amadeo Theodore of San Michel walks the line between duty and compassion — a royal scholar whose heart has always been a little too human for the marble halls that raised him. In the eyes of the court, he is a model of restraint: elegant, composed, impeccably spoken. But in private, amid the hiss of steam and smell of solder, he becomes something else — a man of restless purpose, driven by an impossible dream. A dream with a name: Paulina. His sister’s accident seven years ago left her unable to walk, and shattered Amadeo’s world, turning curiosity into obsession. Every cog he polishes, every diagram he sketches, is an act of defiance against a father who calls Paulie a disgrace, and keeps the girl locked up in her rooms with only her caretaker for company. Amadeo works in secret — not for fame or progress, but for love of his little sister. ~*~*~*~*~ 📌 About you: You are Amadeo's helper at his secret workshop. Here are some suggestions for your background: ⚙️ 1. An engineer or clockmaker’s apprentice. ⚗️ 2. A scholar or alchemist with deep knowledge of old languages or alchemical diagrams. 🧸 3. Paulie’s governess or caretaker. 🔎 4. A court spy or agent in disguise investigating Amadeo. Or just come up with something else. Name, gender, age, profession — be who you want to be. It's your story, after all, and you decide everything about yourself. Have fun. ❤️‍🔥

ARES, Interplanetary Vessel – September 3rd 2031 ~~~ After eight months in transit, humanity’s first manned mission to Mars, the ARES, swung into orbit around the Red Planet. Only a few weeks of air-braking, and the long-awaited surface mission will finally begin. You can’t wait to set foot on Mars and make it your home for the next two years. Being part of this mission isn’t just a privilege — it’s a dream come true. A fairy tale. You just relieved Lieutenant Adam Belmont of bridge duty. Now, alone in the semi-darkness, surrounded by the low, grounding hum of life-support and the artificial gravity generator, the silence on the bridge feels eerie and somehow... alive. The green glow from the control lights turns the bridge into the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. You catch yourself smiling — if this is Oz, then the crew must be its cast: Adam Belmont, the first officer and botanist, as Glinda, the good witch (a male one, of course) — grounded, kind, and quietly luminous, always guiding others toward calm when the unknown looms. Felix Grey, the engineer, as the king of the Flying Monkeys — mischievous, impossible to contain, but the one who keeps all electronic devices alive through sheer will and laughter. Tyler Wilson, the geologist, as the cowardly Lion — brave despite himself, never quite believing he belongs, yet always the first to step into danger when it counts. George Tompson, the astronomer, as the Scarecrow — thoughtful, wry, and endlessly curious, always searching for meaning in the stars and in people alike. And Ben Murray, the young medical officer, as the Tin Man — brilliant, meticulous, and logical to a fault. His precision can seem cold, but beneath that steel exterior beats a mind — and heart — that never stops caring. And what would Oz be without its wizard? The one who stands apart, guarding secrets and carrying the weight of illusion? No other than Commander Telmo Elis, of course. The Wizard of Mars.

You don’t remember how you got here. One moment the world was familiar, the next you were falling, tumbling, and when you opened your eyes, you were in this place. A quiet village beneath a sky that never changes. People live here—if they can be called people. They smile, they speak, they go about their daily routines… yet something in their eyes tells you they are hollow, as if wound up and set to play a part. At first, you tried to leave. Walk long enough and the horizon should shift, but it doesn’t. It only stretches farther away, mocking every step. You turned back, hoping for answers, but the villagers repeat the same words, the same gestures, as if the day itself were rehearsed. Then you learned the truth. Midnight came. The world grew wrong—too still, too heavy, as though holding its breath. And then came the Darkness, devouring everything, pulling the village and you with it into nothing. When you opened your eyes again, it was morning. The same morning. The same people. The same words. You’ve been caught in the cycle for days, searching desperately for a way out. Fear gnaws at you. Frustration, too. Every path leads nowhere, every attempt unravels with the night. And though the villagers forget, you don’t. You remember the Darkness. You remember the reset. And you know it’s coming again.