The sky wept with the colors of fire and sorrow—molten gold bled into bruised indigo as the sun dipped low behind the scorched hills. Your castle, once the crown of the valley, now sat in ruins behind you, swallowed by smoke and flame. Stone towers that had withstood generations of storms and sieges crumbled as if they were nothing more than paper, their collapse echoing faintly across the ravaged fields. You sat side-saddle on a warhorse not your own, your back pressed awkwardly against the cold breastplate of the man who had brought your kingdom to its knees—Lucan, general of the invading army. His name was already etched into the annals of your people’s tragedy, a name that would one day be spat in stories whispered by survivors in exile. He did not speak, but his presence was a wall at your back, unmoving, unyielding. Your wrists ached from where they had been bound during the siege’s final moments. Though the ropes were gone, the imprint remained—ghostly cuffs that marked your loss. Your riding skirt, torn and soot-stained, fluttered weakly against the wind. The air had grown bitter now that the sun was fading, every gust a blade against your skin. You trembled in silence, refusing to let the shiver become a cry for warmth. There was a shift behind you—a pause in his posture, a breath drawn deeper than the rest. Then came the sound of leather unfastening, the metallic clink of ornate armor shifting. A thick weight settled over your shoulders as his dark cloak, heavy with the scent of battle and pine, was draped around you. You stiffened, uncertain. But then he adjusted it, clumsily, tightly—ensuring the wind would not sneak through. Not a word passed between you. It was not kindness. Or if it was, it came wrapped in guilt and command. An act more instinctual than generous, like a warrior tending to his weapon after a long campaign. Still, it held you, shielding you from the wind that howled through the broken land behind you.

The train groaned to life beneath your feet, shuddering forward with a jolt that nearly threw you off balance. You clutched the safety bar above, wedged tightly between strangers in a crush of commuters. There was no rhythm to the day yet—just the weight of too many people and too little space, and the thick breath of stale air and tired silence. You had ridden this line hundreds of times. You knew the routine. Eyes forward. Mouth shut. Stay small. Endure. And then you felt it, an unwelcome hand. Slow. Intentional. Moving up your back, tracing lower. Your body went rigid. You froze, pulse spiking so fast it drowned out everything else. The heat of shame, of helplessness, flushed through you in an instant. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, and for a moment the noise of the train disappeared. All you could hear was your own heartbeat, loud and panicked. Someone stepped in behind you, sudden and solid. Close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest. The hand vanished, yanked back into the crowd like it had been burned. The presence at your back wasn’t casual. It wasn’t coincidence, he had seen and he had acted. You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hands still tight around the bar, lungs stuck somewhere between a gasp and a breath. Slowly, you turned your head, eyes flicking toward the stranger now shielding you. He was tall, enough to block your entire field of view behind you. Auburn hair caught the flickering overhead lights, unruly and sharp. His jaw was set, his posture unflinching. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t acknowledge you. His eyes were fixed somewhere ahead, calm and distant, like he was just another commuter lost in thought. His presence was deliberate. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was protection, quiet and unyielding.

The smoke hadn’t cleared. It clung to the edges of the street, curling around flashing lights and damp pavement, leaving everything with a faint, bitter scent. You could see where the fire had licked at the second-floor windows, leaving black streaks like soot-stained claws. It wasn’t catastrophic, but it was real. And it was close enough to send your chest into a spiral of tight, breathless panic. You pushed through the crowd without thinking—shoulders brushing past onlookers, a barrier line flashing yellow and meaningless. Somewhere in the blur, a voice called for you to stop. You didn’t. Then—there. Your friend. Standing a few feet beyond the tape, speaking to a police officer, clearly rattled but alive. That glimpse of them, breathing and unharmed, sent something sharp and urgent through you. You lunged forward, but you didn’t get far. Arms caught you around the waist—strong and sure, not aggressive, just immovable. The sudden stop sent a jolt through your whole body. You twisted instinctively, heart pounding, but the arms held gently. Firm. Controlled. Behind you, someone exhaled—calm and steady. You looked up and met his eyes. He was tall, dusted faintly with ash, his short auburn hair mussed from the heat. His face was flushed from effort but steady, freckles scattered across his cheekbones like sunmarks. He didn’t look frustrated or stern—just present. Like this wasn’t the first time someone had panicked their way past the line.

(Requested) The city never stopped humming. Even on the quieter days, it thrummed beneath everything—beneath pavement, beneath skin. Machinery, footsteps, life always moving forward. But for you, time had snagged on something old. It happened just as you passed the mechanic’s shop. The place was nothing special—sheet metal walls, old tires stacked like lazy guards, a rust-bitten sign hanging half-loose. Then the sound: a car engine coughing alive, the crack of a backfire shattering the air. Your vision blurred. Everything rushed back, not in order, not in sound, just in feeling. That smell of sulfur. Heat pressing in too tight. The weight of breathless seconds. Gunfire, too close, too real. You staggered sideways and hit the wall of a nearby building, your legs folding beneath you like wet cloth. The brick was cool, unyielding, grounding—but barely. Your ears rang with something that wasn’t there anymore. You pressed your hands against them anyway, as if that might hold it all back. The world narrowed. And then something shifted—not loudly. Not dramatically. Just... shifted. Boots scuffed the pavement. A shadow stretched next to yours. You sensed it before you saw him—someone settling down beside you with the calm patience of someone used to waiting, used to silence. He didn’t say anything. A cigarette found its way between his lips, and the flare of a lighter briefly lit the planes of his face. He didn’t exhale like someone showing off. It was a small breath, measured, as though it wasn’t the nicotine he needed but the ritual of it. You sat there for a while—him in silence, you in the static of memory. The sounds of the city slowly crept back into the corners of your awareness. Tires on wet asphalt. A horn three streets over. Someone yelling about a delivery. And then finally, you breathed. You lowered your hands. Your chest still felt tight, your fingers still trembled faintly, but the crackling tension in your bones had eased.

Evening settled slowly over your village, casting long, amber shadows through the slats of wooden shutters and along the moss-stained road that wound toward the rice terraces. The scent of damp soil lingered, and the distant chatter of returning farmers buzzed faintly like insects in tall grass. You walked alone along the narrow path between low garden walls, the quiet comforting after a long day—until you saw him. He stood just beyond the last house, at the edge where the forest pressed gently against civilization, leaning slightly forward as if he'd been waiting. The stranger wasn’t part of the village. You would have remembered. His presence was almost too vivid—stark black-and-white cloak gleaming under the last light, each symbol on the fabric etched with purpose. Spirals, eye-like glyphs, and quiet silver clasps that held the folds in place with unnerving symmetry. His face was unreadable—young, yet weathered by distance. His skin bronze and dusted with travel, marked at the edge of one eye by a single black teardrop-shaped mark. His eyes were a brilliant blue, almost unnatural in their clarity. You slowed instinctively, feet crunching soft gravel. He turned. Not quickly, not threatening—just enough to fix you with that cool, unblinking gaze. His cloak shifted with the motion, glinting like polished lacquer. He reached inside it. You froze. Your eyes locked on his hand. It emerged slowly—not with a blade, nor a sigil—but with a single folded sheet of paper. Worn, but carefully kept. He unfolded it in silence and turned it toward you. A face. Drawn in charcoal and faint ink. The resemblance was faintly familiar, though not recent—sharp brow, tired eyes, long scar under one cheekbone. A name scrawled beneath, though partially smudged by age or weather. The man didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His expression was a question written with all the patience of someone who had asked it in many places, over many days.

The crowd pressed tight, restless with a kind of muffled expectancy. It was just past midday, and the heat of the sun baked the stone beneath your feet. The square in front of the village shrine pulsed with noise—children chasing each other around worn pillars, merchants barking half-hearted prices, and the metallic creak of armor as a patrolman unrolled a parchment before the masses. The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of dried fish, incense ash, and horse sweat. That was when he brushed past you. Not rudely—just enough for your shoulder to turn and catch the dark folds of his cloak. You looked up, catching the last motion of his hood falling back into place. He was tall, his frame coiled with tension like a bow pulled taut. He moved with deliberate ease, slipping between vendors and villagers with barely a whisper of motion. Beneath his hood, only the barest edge of his profile showed: a jaw marked with fine dust, an earring catching a sliver of light, and eyes the color of glacial steel—piercing, unreadable. He didn’t glance back. The soldier’s voice rose as he held up the wanted poster. “Murderer. Escaped from the outer provinces. Highly dangerous.” The paper fluttered in the wind like a broken wing, the image half-visible from your angle: a young man with obsidian hair and an expression colder than stone. Your gaze shot to the man ahead of you, now slipping past a fruit cart as if he’d been there all along—his dark clothing layered in rough-spun fabrics and metal talismans that rattled quietly with each step. There were charms stitched along his bracers, tiny glyphs carved into bone, and a blade slung low at his hip. The handle was simple, but worn with use—no ornamentation save for a knot of black cord wrapped near the guard. His presence disturbed the air around him. People didn’t seem to notice him—at least, not directly—but their bodies shifted unconsciously, creating a subtle ripple that let him pass untouched.

The road curved gently along the river’s edge, where wildflowers pressed close to the path—low white blossoms and yellow bells tangled among tall grass. The countryside rolled outward in layers of soft green hills and patchy groves of cedar and bamboo, distant mountain spines hazed in the warm breath of late afternoon. The river itself ran slow and shallow, weaving between smooth stones and moss-darkened banks. Dragonflies hovered lazily above the surface, and somewhere upstream, the low croak of a frog echoed between stones. A half-collapsed footbridge of old wood arched across the narrowest bend of the river. Below it, on a patch of sloped grass dappled by sunlight and shade, you lay on your back, eyes closed, basking in the sun. The warmth of the ground beneath you, the gentle push of wind across your face—it was enough. There was no one for miles. No wheels. No smoke. No voices. Just the distant rustle of reeds, the scent of riverwater and drying earth. It was an old place, even if it didn’t look like one. You could feel it in the silence—patient, listening. Then, without warning, the silence changed. Not loudly, not sharply. Just… shifted. You felt it in the air before you heard his steps. Someone was approaching. You didn’t move. The steps stopped near your head. The light dimmed. A shadow passed over your face. Boots. Dust-worn. Cloak trailing against the dirt and grass—off-white, frayed, heavy with hand-drawn sigils. Circular markings like talismans, and stitched at the center of the chest, an embroidered eye—open, watching, ringed in unknown script. The fabric stirred as though it held breath of its own. Your eyes snapped open. The man above you stood relaxed, but there was weight in him—like someone shaped by long travel, long silence. His hair was split in two: snow-white on one side, ink-black on the other. His eyes were gold, reflecting the riverlight.

He is beautiful, in the way twilight is beautiful—cold, final, and impossible to hold. He stands at the center of the throne room, where the walls pulse faintly with the bioluminescent veins of the mountain, breathing with the heartbeat of a kingdom long forgotten by surface dwellers. The dark stone gleams, wet with memory. Crystal spires hang from the ceiling like daggers paused mid-fall. The air tastes of moss and magic. They say he is the Goblin King—though there is too much elegance in his posture, too much ancient pain in his gold-ringed eyes, for such a word to suit him. Elf, perhaps, before he chose the deep. Before the light left his face and power took its place. Veins of blue light wind up his neck and curl beneath his eyes like warpaint kissed by starlight. You can feel the pressure of his gaze before it even lifts. He finally speaks—his voice not raised, not harsh, just absolute. “Leave us.” The guards withdraw without question. You remain. Shaking. Alive. His head tilts slightly, as if inspecting something strange caught in a spider’s web. “I did not summon you,” he says, almost to himself. You don’t answer. “You’re not like the others.” He steps down from the throne platform, movements slow, deliberate. “They come to steal. To dig. To claim. But you… you fell.” You nod. “I do not believe in chance,” he continues. “The mountain does not open its heart unless it chooses.” He circles you once, never touching. You see sigils flickering faintly beneath his skin, scars written in runes and sacrifice. “I am not kind,” he says. “But I am curious.” There is a throne beside his, carved from petrified wood and wrapped in shadow, empty. He stops before it. “Do you know what this place was?” he asks, voice lowering to a whisper. “The Hollow Kingdom, they called it. A realm beneath the world. Rich in magic. Cursed in legacy.” Based on The Hollow Kingdom by Clare B. Dunkle

The wind sighs through pine needles as dusk spills its gold across the forest. You’re cold, breath misting in the thinning mountain air. The others are gone—lost behind ridges and switchbacks swallowed by fog. Your calls echo back at you, unanswered. Then… a cave. A jagged maw in the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and time. You almost miss it, hidden behind a fallen pine. But carved into the stone, half-lit by fading sunlight, is a glowing symbol—a perfect circle ringed in sharp, unfamiliar runes. Faintly blue, faintly alive. You hesitate. Then step inside. The cave breathes. That’s the only word for it. The walls pulse faintly, humming with a warmth that shouldn't be there. Water trickles somewhere in the dark. You follow it. One step. Another. The light from outside fades until you move by instinct alone. And then you drop. You don’t fall far, but you hit moss. Thick, spongy. Not natural. And when you lift your head, the world has changed. The chamber opens up into a vast, mist-veiled canyon cradled in the mountain’s heart. Towers of smooth stone rise like ancient bones. Waterfalls glow in unnatural hues, pooling into lakes so clear they reflect the stars, though the sky above is a solid ceiling of stone and vine. Vines crawl over carved statues. Bridges stretch across nothing. Bioluminescent blooms open as you pass, painting your skin in fleeting color. Then you feel them. Eyes. From behind a pillar steps a man—not quite human. Bare-chested, skin a deep earthen bronze. His body is marked in glowing sigils, including the same circle you saw outside, etched in blue upon his shoulder. Fur lines his armor, feathers stitched into the seams. A large blade rests on his back, untouched. His ears taper to elegant points, and his gaze is sharp amber—watchful. Curious. He doesn’t speak. He circles you slowly, inspecting. Not like prey. Like… anomaly.

The tavern was half-lit, full of shadows and flickering lanterns that failed to chase away the gloom pressing against the walls. Rain whispered against the windows like secrets too soft to be spoken aloud. You ducked into the inn for warmth, expecting the usual noise: slurred laughter, clinking mugs, a bard too loud for his own good. Eyric sat alone in the darkest corner of the room, a bottle of something strong clenched loosely in one gloved hand. White hair, wild and rain-damp, fell over his eyes. Even so, you caught the gleam of one stormy iris beneath—a gaze like the sea before it breaks. A scar carved down one cheek, fresh enough that it hadn’t yet lost its fire. His pointed ears and the regal bearing, even while slouched, told you enough. He didn’t belong here. And yet, here he was. No one dared sit near him. It was not out of fear that he might lash out violently or cause someone harm. Instead, it was the heavy weight of grief that kept others at a distance. You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, as if he carried a burden too heavy to share. His silence was loud, more painful than words. It seemed to leak from him like blood slowly oozing from a wound that refused to close. His eyes, dark and distant, told stories of loss and despair no one dared to ask about. The air around him felt thick—charged with the sadness that radiated from his presence. The barkeep shared the name "Eyric", a fallen prince burdened by a troubled past. Driven from his throne, he defied orders to destroy innocent villages, leading to his exile. Whispers of dark forces and forbidden magic surround him, complicating interpretations of his banishment. Some believe he’s a tragic pawn, others, a dangerous figure in the shadows.

The palace of Eraqus rose from the desert like a vision carved from salt and moonlight—vaulted domes of polished stone, glowing white against the sky, and corridors laced with geometric shadows. Cool fountains sang through its courtyards. Light pooled in the blue mosaic tiles like still water, and every corner smelled faintly of sandalwood and old secrets. You had come on business. Not your own, of course—no one like *you* got invited here for your own sake. You were only the messenger, sent in place of someone too busy or too cowardly to step into the lion's den. Still, your curiosity led your eyes to every archway, every polished silver plate and lattice screen. You tried not to gape. You mostly failed. It was in the eastern wing that you saw him. Leaning casually against a marble column, wrapped in pale desert silk that shimmered faintly in the light, the young man looked like he belonged—but not in the way the courtiers did. His clothing was rich but not loud, his jewelry understated: silver and sapphire, a ring here, a clasp there. What caught you most were his eyes—vivid, unnatural green, sharp and unreadable beneath white lashes. And the scars. Two clean white marks like claw scratches near his left eye, thin and deliberate, like something earned rather than given. He watched you for a moment, then spoke—voice light, amused. “Lost?” You blinked. “Waiting for someone.” “Then I’ll wait with you,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s dull being important alone.” You tilted your head. “Important, are you?” He smiled beneath his scarf. “Depends who’s asking.” He didn’t carry himself like a prince—no retinue, no fanfare. You thought perhaps he was a court poet, or the bored son of some minor noble. He asked questions easily, without formality. Teased gently when you answered with half-truths, and seemed to enjoy every moment you didn’t know who he was.

The market of Eraqus bloomed like a fever dream beneath the noonday sun. Dust shimmered in the golden light, curling from cobbled streets scorched by heat. The world swelled with sound and scent—dates sticky with honey, saffron-dyed silks, boiled coffee, and the rasp of blades being bargained over. Somewhere, a stringed instrument sang through the chaos, half-lost in the calls of doves and the hammering of copper. You moved through the crowd like a shadow. Quick. Barefoot. Forgettable. Above, latticework balconies cast patterned shade over the vendor stalls. Spices spilled from sacks like crushed jewels. Merchants barked their wares, their voices rough from desert air. Women in bright robes drifted past, veils trailing like smoke. Children chased bread crumbs and illusions of freedom. And you—weaving through it all—were looking for coin. Your eyes swept hips and belts, hands brushing past the distracted and the soft-handed. Two silvers, a fig, a brass pin. You moved by instinct, not greed. You didn’t take more than you needed, but you always took. Then—movement. A shimmer of black and gold that didn’t sway with the rhythm of the market. He moved through the crowd like it parted for him. Deep robes, black over white, trimmed with gold filigree. Not a single fold out of place, not a speck of dust. Coins and lapis gleamed across his chest—not decorative, but symbolic, heavy with heritage. His hood cast his face in partial shadow, but his eyes burned through: green-gold, cold as glass in firelight. A noble. There was a stillness around him, as if even the noise of the market dared not press too close. He paused at a brass stall, fingers brushing a curved dagger inlaid with pearl, the metal catching sunlight like a serpent’s scale. You hesitated. Something in your chest fluttered—not fear, exactly. Curiosity. Or maybe the thrill of standing at the edge of something dangerous. One step. One breath. A flick of the wrist.

The desert stretched endlessly around you—an ocean of sand whispering ancient secrets beneath a sky of stars. The air was sharp with night chill, the heat of the day long buried beneath cooling dunes. Every grain of sand shimmered under pale moonlight, as if the desert itself breathed in its sleep. Abbas sat silently by the fire, half-shrouded in white linens, his silhouette still and sculptural like a carved sentinel. The silver of his earrings caught the flame’s flicker, gleaming like distant stars. His face was mostly hidden—lower half veiled, eyes half-lidded but always watchful. He did not speak unless necessary. You were learning to read him by the tilt of his head, the pause of his steps, the way his hand rested near the curve of his scimitar when the winds shifted. You had hired him in the port city of Kareth, on the edge of the sands. Stories followed him like footprints: Abbas the wanderer, Abbas who knew the desert better than it knew itself. He asked no questions when you named your destination—Eraqus, the buried city of sun and smoke. His only response had been a nod and a glance at the horizon, as though the sands themselves had already accepted your path. Now, five days into the journey, the world had narrowed into shades of gold by day and blue-black by night. Time no longer passed in hours but in distance: how far to the next well, the next rock outcrop, the next crescent moon. The desert was beautiful—yes—but also hollow, ancient, indifferent. Sometimes, it felt like walking across the bones of something vast and forgotten. Wind sang over the dunes like a voice without a mouth. Once, you passed a half-buried obelisk, worn smooth by centuries, etched with symbols no longer spoken by any living tongue.

You hadn't expected the sting in your chest to feel quite this sharp. The sun was high, a golden blaze hanging above the sparkling blue shoreline. Your feet traced slow, disappointed lines in the warm sand as you stared at your phone for the fifth—no, sixth—time. No new messages. No “sorry I’m late.” Nothing. Your boyfriend was officially a no-show. You should’ve left. But you didn’t. Maybe because the breeze was nice, or because part of you still clung to hope. Instead, you wandered down the beach, toes sinking into the soft grit, mind floating somewhere between irritation and resignation. That’s when you saw him. Lounging in the back of a beach van, framed by canvas and sunshine, was Shawn. He had that lazy summer glow about him—sandy-brown hair ruffled by salt air, a loose white tee clinging to his frame, dog tags glinting just slightly under his jacket. A pair of headphones hung around his neck like they belonged there. And beside him, of all things, a snow-white cat with a smug little smile. You recognized him instantly. Shawn. Same college. Maybe three or four shared classes this semester. Always looked like he was either late or had just woken up, but somehow never missed a beat when called on. You'd never spoken, though. Not really. You must’ve been staring, because he glanced up—and caught you mid-step. There was the briefest pause before he smiled. Not a flashy grin, but something genuine, relaxed. He gestured casually, patting the empty space beside him. You hesitated, then made your way over, brushing sand off your legs as you sat. His cat stretched, then slinked over like you’d been invited too. For a while, you didn’t say much. You watched the waves roll in and out, watched seagulls bicker over fries someone left behind. Shawn occasionally scratched behind the cat’s ears or let the wind flip the pages of whatever book he wasn’t actually reading.

You didn’t expect to see him when you rang the doorbell. Your best friend had invited you over for coffee and a movie night, nothing out of the ordinary. But when the door opened, it wasn’t her standing there—it was Declan. Her older brother. The same Declan who used to steal your snacks and call you “squirt” whenever you came over after school. Same warm eyes, same smirk—but older now. Broader. Confident in a way that made your stomach flip. “Hey,” he said casually, leaning against the doorframe. “You still take your coffee like a dessert? Half milk, three sugars?” You blinked, caught between mild annoyance and something a lot warmer. “You remember that?” He shrugged, stepping aside to let you in. “Some things stick.” The house was mostly the same, but cozier now, filled with that lazy afternoon light that made everything feel softer. You heard your friend calling from another room, something about running to the store real quick and “make yourself at home.” That left you alone with Declan. He was lounging on the couch, shirt a little rumpled, a sleepy black cat curled over his shoulder like it lived there. You pause at the sight of him—stretched out in the sun, hair tousled, an arm behind his head like he belonged in a painting. He looked up and gave a slow, lopsided grin. You sat on the opposite couch cushion—more distance than necessary—and tried not to focus on how good he looked, how familiar and unfamiliar he felt at the same time. It was like a time warp. You were still that awkward kid in his sister’s room playing board games... but now he was looking at you like he hadn’t stopped thinking about how much you’d grown. “You’ve changed,” he said, eyes flicking over you in a way that wasn’t subtle. You crossed your arms, eyebrow raised. “Is that your idea of a compliment?” He chuckled. “Maybe. Depends how you take it.”

(Requested) The morning unfolded with a sense of urgency, the day seemingly racing ahead. The city air was sharp and brisk, a cold reminder of winter's arrival. The chill pressed against skin, causing tingling noses and numb fingers as pedestrians hustled down the busy sidewalk. Life's rhythm quickened; everyone appeared to move with intent, possibly just striving to escape the biting cold of the day. You navigated through a bustling crowd, feet striking the cracked pavement rhythmically. Your boots thudded with each step, reflecting your nervous energy. A scarf billowed behind you, and your phone vibrated in your pocket, likely another alert from your boss. With no time to check, you focused ahead—your bus was in sight, engine rumbling and doors open, beckoning you to safety and the start of your journey. Just a few more seconds. Suddenly, there was a jarring impact that stole your breath away as you collided with an unexpected stranger. The force sent your bag swinging and your phone nearly falling from your pocket. Amid the rush, your wallet slipped from your grasp, falling to the ground, unnoticed. In a rush, you and the stranger almost simultaneously exclaimed, “Ah, damn—sorry!” without stopping to evaluate the situation. You noticed his jacket with bright orange lining and messy brown hair briefly as you continued sprinting. You quickly maneuvered around other commuters, lost in their own worlds, all while concentrating on catching the bus before it closed its doors. As you approached the bus, a voice called out urgently, “Hey! Wait!” You paused mid-step, confused. A man was weaving through the crowd, his tone urgent yet relieved. “You dropped this!” he shouted, revealing a small, black object in his hand. Your wallet. He catches up and offers it to you with a small smile. “Thank you,” you said hoarsely, just as the bus hissed and its doors shut right in front of you.

The city never sleeps. It stares at you with neon-lit eyes, buzzing electric veins pulsing through steel and concrete. Rain falls like static, washing nothing clean. And Henry? Henry walks right through it—creased shirt clinging to his back, cigarette burning low between clenched teeth, and a look in his eyes like he’s seen hell and smirked on his way out. Henry was a private investigator by title, but the truth was uglier. He dug into things the police were too afraid to touch—corporate corruption, underground cults, secret dealings soaked in blood and wrapped in lies. His latest job? A simple tail job. Or it should’ve been. That’s where you came in. You were just trying to get home. Wrong place, wrong time. The man Henry was following—Takano, a biotech exec with too many secrets and too much money—had just slipped into an alley. You stepped out of a bookstore and turned the corner at the worst possible moment. The first bullet missed you. The second one didn’t. You didn’t even realize you’d been hit until Henry tackled you behind a dumpster, cursing under his breath. “Stay down,” he growled, voice rough like gravel and smoke. His white shirt was stained with your blood, but he didn’t seem to care. His gun was already drawn, eyes scanning the shadows like a wolf sniffing for a trap. By the time the shooters were gone, the city had swallowed the evidence whole—like it always did. You woke up in a dim apartment that smelled of coffee, gun oil, and old vinyl. Henry stood by the window, cigarette lit again, watching the skyline like it might bite. His tie hung loose around his neck, and he hadn’t shaved in a day or two.

The engine gave one last shuddering cough before it died completely, the dashboard lights flickering out like a string of cheap holiday bulbs. You let out a frustrated groan, leaning your head back against the headrest. Rain had started spattering against the windshield in a rhythm far too mocking for your mood. Your phone had barely one bar left when you called your dad. He hadn’t even finished a sentence before the signal dropped. So when the sleek black car pulled up beside your broken-down heap, windows tinted and headlights slicing through the dark like knives, you weren’t expecting to see...him. Jake used to be around all the time when you were younger. Cookouts, garage repairs, bonfires at the lake. Your dad’s best friend. The one who taught you how to fix a flat tire and snuck you sips of beer when your dad wasn’t looking. He wasn’t even that much older than you—ten years, if that—but when you were younger, it felt like a canyon. Now? Now you saw him differently. Still broad-shouldered and lean like he walked out of a magazine ad for "trouble in a button-down," Jake gave you that same half-smirk he always had—cocky, but not unkind. His hair was damp, pushed back, a little messier than you remember, but he still looked far too nice for someone who’d just been on a rescue mission. “Hey,” he said, his voice deep, casual, familiar. “Your dad sent me.” You slide into the passenger seat. His car was warm, smelled like leather and pine and something subtle that clung to his skin. You tried not to notice. “I thought my dad was coming.” “He was. Until he remembered he had ribs in the smoker and didn’t want to burn 'em.” He smirks and glanced over at you. “Rough day?” “Very,” you muttered. “Long shift. Then the car…” A few moments passed in comfortable silence before he glances at you again. “You’ve changed,” he said. “In a good way.” You looked over at him as he pulls up to your apartment, caught off guard.

Ash floated like snow on the windless air. The remnants of your village smoldered behind you—timber creaked as it collapsed, and distant, agonized wails of those unlucky, still echoed faintly from the smoke. You barely registered the pain in your wrists from the bindings. You barely registered anything. Your heart had been thudding in your ears ever since the raid began—until he appeared. Gore. He emerged from his warriors like a wolf in a sheep's pen, exuding relaxation and power. Bare-chested, his sweat and ash-covered muscles glistened, while scars and swirling tattoos adorned his form. Braids framed his face, accentuating his smirk and stubbled jaw. A carved fang dangled from his ear, and he carried a massive greatsword effortlessly on his back. He didn’t speak at first. Just strolled down the line of prisoners, examining each face as if selecting livestock. Some he dismissed with a wave of his hand. Others his men hauled away—those who had strong limbs, or empty, lifeless eyes. He stops. In front of you, your head bowed, but you could feel his heat—the raw, magnetic weight of his gaze pressing down on you like the sun itself had noticed your existence. He towered over you. His eyes red—shimmering like coals beneath a thin layer of ice. Controlled fire. Lethal restraint. He studied you—not just your body, but your face, your spine, the way your shoulders squared even in chains. A grin touched his mouth. “This one.” Your captors hesitated. The others chosen had been practical. You… were not. You were not the strongest, nor the most docile. You had spat blood at their feet when they first dragged you from the ruins of your home. He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. One of the warriors grabs you roughly by the arm, yanking you from the line. You stumble forward—and he caught you. His grip on your chin, surprisingly gentle but unyielding. He tilted your face toward his, as if inspecting a precious find pulled from rubble.