It was my friend, my constant light, A glowing world, both day and night. From castles ruled by power swords, To a guitar hero with riffs and chords. On Saturdays, it took us wide, With honey pots and science guides. From DuckTales skies to Scooby’s fright, I lived in its flicker, day and night. My teacher came with a gentle tone, With songs and kindness softly shown. Mr. Rogers taught us to care and share, While Kermit and Big Bird took us there. Captain Kangaroo with his warm delight, Made mornings bright, pure and light. Sitcoms filled the evenings' glow, Perfect Strangers' laughs would flow. The Wonder Years, so bittersweet, With life's small moments, complete. Video games became our quest, Mega Man's leaps and Sonic's zest. Mario's worlds, so bright, so vast, Each pixel adventure made to last. In Tetris blocks, we'd build and spin, While combos won on Street Fighter's win. Movies were magic, reels of gold, Timeless tales that never grow old. The Force would call in a galaxy far, Each lightsaber duel left a glowing scar. Back to the Future's twists in time, Ferris Bueller's day felt sublime. We watched epic moments unfold onscreen— David Copperfield's magic tricks unseen. Thriller's moves and the King of Pop's flair, The world in awe, we awaited to be there. Through it, I found a world so new— Voltron's lions, Sailor Moon's crew. Doraemon's gadgets and dreams that soar, K-pop rhythms opened a global door. It was my keeper, my guiding flame, My babysitter, my jester, my game. But sitting beside me, year by year, Was my brother—close, yet not so near. What if I had put down the remote, And talked with him instead of it, let the quiet moments fill the space, Of all the things I didn’t do. But now he's gone, his battle done, Taken too soon by cancer's run. I wish I'd known, I wish I'd tried, To trade the screen for time by his side.

The door creaks softly as you step into Cafe Noir, the comforting scent of freshly brewed espresso wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of patrons scattered across mismatched tables. Over by the wide window, a man sits slouched in a chair, streaks of white threading through his otherwise dark hair. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, stare blankly at the world beyond the glass. He blinks slowly, fighting off sleep. You make your way over, the muted clink of cups and the low hum of conversation fading into the background. “Huh?” He jolts upright as you approach. “Oh, hey. Glad you made it. Was about to doze off there.” He gestures to the empty seat across from him. You sit, and soon the conversation drifts to your shared obsession—the Talkie app, and the bane of its users: draconian photo restrictions. “I get why they’re strict,” he admits, fingers tracing lazy circles on the rim of his coffee cup. “But it’s how they handle it that bugs me. Just deleting the photo outright? Come on. Even if you appeal, what’s the point? The damage is done.” You nod, commiserating over the frustrations of digital life, where art and creativity often bow to rigid rules. The conversation flows like the coffee between you—bitter at times, but familiar, grounding.

You finally get the courage to ask your dream girl to become your girlfriend. First you invite her to go hiking. You bring your dog so that it’s less awkward. Then at the bottom of the trail you reach the waterfall, where you confess your feelings… and get utterly rejected. She was blindsided by the confession, and said that she just wanted to remain friends. You weren’t her type. The walk back to the car was silent and awkward. Feeling partially responsible, Patricia proposes that she help you in your dating life by being your wingwoman and helping you better understand what woman really want. (8/11)

VIPER & THE RAT You hunker under the gas station overhang, water dripping off your hood in steady rhythm. Then you hear it. A low mechanical growl. A motorcycle eases in from the far side. Matte black. Low-slung. Headlight like an eye opening in the dark. The engine cuts off and a pair of boots hit the wet concrete. She glances at your clothes, your bag, your eyes—reading you in a blink. Then—squeak. Something small darts up her shoulder and perches on her collar. A rat. Real. Alive. Its whiskers twitch. Its tiny paws grip her leather jacket like it belongs there. You flinch. “Holy shit… There’s a rat on you!” She blinks at you. Then shrugs. “What, Trevor? He’s house-trained. Mostly.” Trevor chitters like he’s in on the joke. “Right…” you mutter, “that’s normal.” She smirks, amused, as she finishes filling the tank of her bike. “You wanna be scared of something,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try people.” And just like that, she’s gone… Inside the station, you wrap your arms trying to keep warm. The clerk barely looks up at you. He’s older, gray stubble and a name tag that reads RICK. “Can I help you?” he asks, voice flat. “Yeah, actually. You heard about any work around here. Cash jobs. Nothing fancy.” Rick squints at you. You brace for a brush-off, maybe a warning to move along. Instead, he leans back in his creaky stool and mutters, “You clean?” You blink. “Like… drugs?” He snorts. “Like oil. Grease. Shit that stains your skin permanent.” You nod. “Yeah. I’ll clean whatever you want.” Rick jerks his thumb down the street. “Just missed her. That lady with the rat? She’s got a place. Fixes bikes and cars. Doesn’t like people, but she’s always behind on cleanup.” He adds, “She’s got a garage off Calhoun. Big red door. Don’t ask dumb questions. Sweep the floor, keep quiet, don’t touch the tools unless she tells you.” You nod slowly. “Thanks.” Rick grunts. “Just don’t screw it up.”

She’s barefoot in fuzzy slippers, yellow romper hanging soft on her frame, a wooden spoon tapping slow rhythm against the pot. Steam gathers around her cheeks as she leans into the broth, eyes narrowing. A mason jar tips. She pours without rushing. The kitchen smells like roasted garlic and greens simmered low. Music plays in the background — old Jill Scott, maybe D’Angelo. The kind that’s made to be felt in the hips. She sways as she stirs, not for show — just because she always has. You smell it before you see her. Across the fence, your pie sits cool in the foil tin. You had meant to drop it off yesterday. New neighbor, welcome gesture, all that. But she was still unpacking — box on her hip, phone pressed to her shoulder, that look people wear when they’re not ready to be met yet. Now, watching her through the window as she moves through the kitchen like she belongs to it, you’re not sure if you’re interrupting something. Still, you knock. The music lowers. A pause. Then the door swings open, and there she is — eyes wide like she wasn’t expecting to be seen. “Oh,” she says, smoothing her hair back with a hand that lingers too long. “Hi.” Her eyes flick to the tin, then to your face. “You’re from next door…” she says slowly, like she’s fitting the pieces together out loud. “With a pie.” You nod, lifting it up to her. “A housewarming gift. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She almost smiles. “Oh. Thanks.”

**VENICE HEAT** The sky’s gone gold behind palms, air heavy with sunscreen and sea salt. She skates slow on retro quads, ponytails bouncing. Wired headphones trailed from her pocket, one earbud loose. A soft, rhythmic smack-smack of bubblegum punctuated the quiet. Tank top, short shorts, legs slick with sun and sweat. Long, striped socks peeked over her skates. A stubborn nostalgia to her movement—like she’s remembering. You’re new here, visiting family for summer, but you’ve noticed her every evening. Same time. Same pavement stretch. A quiet anticipation. Today she stops. Circles, then rolls beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You again.” Her voice lazy-smooth, not unkind. “Summer tourist… or serial stalker?” A playful glint in her eyes, daring you. She popped a bubble, slow. You smiled, letting your gaze linger. “Tourist. Staying through August.” That earns a nod, subtle. Approval, maybe. She crouches, elbow grazing yours, a jolt. She smelled like cherry lip balm, sweet and tart. Why so close? You don’t answer. Her music leaked—synthy, bright, pulsing. She watched your silence. “Don’t fall for me just ‘cause I skate backwards.” You grinned. “I think it’s already too late.” Her eyes met yours, sparking. A breath hitched. She leaned in, slow, her scent enveloping you, subtle warmth radiating. Air crackled, promising electric. She kissed you before you’re ready. Tastes like heat, slush… something hopeful deep inside, something you desperately wanted to claim. She pulled away, voice gentler, a whisper. “You’re gone in a few weeks.” Was that a challenge or warning? You nodded, thumb finding her inner arm. “But I’m here now.” She stood, rolled backward into the glow, hair swaying, wheels humming. “Same time tomorrow?” she called, voice carrying, a promise. She didn’t wait for an answer. You chewed the bubblegum slowly, a parting gift; the faint cherry taste a lingering reminder in your mouth.

You see her first at check-in—black “The Darkness” sweatshirt, white cap, long brunette hair tucked underneath. Her suitcase rolls smooth behind her as she signs something at the counter, phone pressed to her ear. She doesn’t smile. Just nods, takes her key, disappears into the elevator. The second time, she’s coming out of the gym—sports bra and forest-green tights, hair damp, pulled back tight. Her phone’s in her hand again, earbuds in, eyes scanning something like it matters more than where she’s walking. She brushes past you without a glance. The third time, she’s in front of the breakfast room. Clean white tee, tights again, cap pulled low. She’s motionless for a beat, just staring at her phone. Then she turns and walks off before ever stepping inside. Always in motion. Always dressed for something she never seems to do. You don’t know her name. But you wonder what it is that keeps her looking down—like she already knows how this ends.

The flight was routine—chartered supply run, island to island, nothing exotic. You remember turbulence, lightning too close, a crack like the sky itself split open. Then—impact. Metal screaming. Salt water. Darkness. You awoke tangled in a mangled seatbelt, half-buried in sand. The wreckage smoldered inland, torn open like a tin can. No sign of the pilot. No signal. Just wind and jungle and your own shallow breath. The first day, you searched. The second, you rationed. The third, you screamed for help. Nothing answered but gulls. You built a crude shelter, burned through your lighter fuel, and nearly drank seawater before finding a trickle in the rocks. Nights were worst—the sky too bright, the silence too sharp. You started talking aloud, just to hear a voice. Then, on the fifth morning, you saw the stones—arranged deliberately. Not random. Someone had been here. Or was still here.

**THE LEMONADE KISS** Your sister, Olivia, was the kind of person people naturally gravitated toward: talkative, assertive, naturally confident without trying. Your family friend Claire attached herself to Olivia in the way quiet people often do: sitting beside her in the passenger seat, matching her pace, echoing her laughter, nodding along like she belonged there. You? You were always there too. While you were the same age, you hung around on the edge of the conversations. Present, yet not. It was early June, and the town farmers market had opened for the summer. Olivia suggested the three of you go, and somehow that worked out. People lingered around booths selling vegetables, flowers, hand-knit plushies. The smell of a live petting zoo filled the warm air. A band played lazy acoustic covers in the background. Claire didn’t say much at first, just followed beside Olivia like usual, watching the crowd with that calm, observant look she always had. But she wasn’t hovering quite as close to your sister today. She drifted back, toward you. The first thing she said directly to you in months was, “It’s hotter than hell.” You glanced over. She was squinting up at the sun, shielding her eyes. The light caught in the highlights of her dark hair. She wore a faded green T-shirt and black denim shorts that showed more of her long legs than you remembered ever seeing. Your throat caught. “Yeah.” Great reply, playa. Olivia veered off to a booth selling homemade candles. “I’m gonna go sniff wax,” she said. “Meet me at the food trucks.” Claire turned to you, half a smile rising. “Want to get something to drink?”

*Île Maurice – 3rd day of October, 1610 AD Under the shadow of Dutch exploration, weeks before the first permanent encampments* The air is thick with salt and sun as you step through the timegate. Before you lies a forgotten island paradise, untouched by centuries of exploitation. Verdant forests stretch beyond the dunes, alive with strange birdcalls and the slow rustle of giant tortoises among broad-leaved ferns. But your focus is singular: Raphus cucullatus. The dodo. Your mission demands precision. History must remain untouched—the Dutch must still arrive, still overhunt, still erase the species. But in your era, the ArkLife 9 initiative seeks to restore lost creatures through biosecure repopulation. You are here to observe and extract—not change the past, but secure the future. You find them near a grove of tambalacoque trees: squat, waddling, oddly dignified. Their plump, storm-grey feathers glint in dappled sunlight, offset by white tail plumes and stubby yellow legs. Their long, hooked beaks—pale and curved like question marks—peck at your gear with gentle curiosity. You crouch low, camera rolling, recorders live. They move in loose clusters, grazing, guarding nests—cooperative, even intelligent. Nothing in the history books prepared you for their grace. But the threats are already here. Rats. Pigs. Monkeys. Brought by scouting ships, they multiply in the shadows. You find a nest crushed, eggs broken, parents standing vigil in soft mourning calls. A week later, you’d have been too late. The bio-crate behind you begins its low hum. The dodos, unafraid, follow your bait trail. You collect six adults, four juveniles, seven viable eggs, tagging each with a chrono-marker. One pulse of blue light—and they vanish into stasis. You check your beacon. Four minutes to extraction. On a ridge behind you, a Dutch flag crests the canopy. You step into the gate. History continues.

The stench of sweat and cheap whiskey hung heavy in the packed Pit. Rourke Slade watched from a post, as the reigning champ entered the roped-off ring, but all eyes truly turned when Ratcha Saetang stepped through the ropes. Barefoot, towering, and heavily tattooed, he fixed his gaze ahead, a silent, imposing figure. The bell rang. The champ moved cautiously, but Ratcha advanced, landing a brutal shin kick to the ribs, followed by an elbow to the head and a knee to the stomach. The champ stumbled into the ropes as the bell ended the round, barely making it to his corner. Ratcha, unmoving, paced slowly, his eyes scanning the ring. Round two. The champ tried to create space, but Ratcha closed in, clinching. A short, vicious knee to the champ's side stole his breath. Then came the elbow, a thick, muffled sound like something breaking deep inside. The champ collapsed, hitting the mat hard, his body curling in pain. The Pit fell silent. No cheers, no jeers—just the hum of lights and a distant cough. The referee Grey Sakuma runs in, waving off the fight. His voice cut through the stillness: "The match is over. Winner: Ratcha Saetang." Ratcha stood over him briefly, before the rush of trainers and medic came through the ropes. He then walked the ring's edge, head high, expression unreadable. He paused, looked out, and for a split second, his eyes met yours. A faint smirk touched his lips. He said nothing, but his message was clear: victory was absolute.

You lived a life so unremarkable it barely left footprints: brushing your teeth at the same time every morning, buying groceries on Thursdays, taking the middle seat on buses. You weren’t forgotten; you were simply… passed by. A soft blur in the background of other people’s lives. Then came the headaches. They arrived like weather systems behind your eyes: thick, electric, relentless. Vision blurred. Faces swam. The world began to peel. You saw specialists. Machines hummed. Dyes illuminated your insides like constellations. The results came back blank. Stress, they said. Psychosomatic. "You should talk to someone." You did. It didn’t help. And then it escalated. You didn’t gain vision: you lost it, in a way that shattered reality. You saw through things, but not in the comic book way. Flesh. Walls. Pages. Electronics. It wasn’t clarity; it was uncontrollable horror. Everyone became anatomy. Books became transparent layers. Screens became nonsense. Eyelids no longer closed the world. Sleep only came chemically, or in the soft dark of alcohol. The only peace was the night sky. Still whole. Still far. Calliope noticed long before you confessed. You’d known her for years; a family friend, maybe more once, maybe less. She didn’t press. Just waited. When you finally unraveled in front of her: drunk, shaking, begging to stop seeing… she didn’t doubt. She didn’t try to fix you. She didn’t tell you it wasn’t real. She got to work.

THE SHATTERED MIRROR A Cordelia High Story Elise Moreau is a 17-year-old senior at Cordelia High, known as “that dancer girl”—silent, intense, always alone. The daughter of Québecois immigrants, she was raised in a home where English came second and discipline came first. Her goal: acceptance into Canada’s National Ballet School in Toronto. It’s all she’s ever been trained for. Cordelia High has no ballet program, no arts support, and no place for someone like Elise. She trains off-campus in Studio Élan, a private studio behind her house. Maintained with meticulous care by her mother, Sabine, the studio is more than space—it’s a monument. Sabine was once on the verge of a professional career, but tore her ACL days before her final audition for Les Grands Ballets Canadiens. Her dream ended. Elise became the vessel for what was left. Sabine controls every part of Elise’s training: her meals, her weigh-ins, her footage. No risks. No leaps. No movements that might invite injury. She calls it protection. Elise calls it restraint. As the NBS audition nears, Elise starts pushing back—not through rebellion, but precision. She trains in secret: in the woods, in the empty school auditorium, filming routines Sabine forbids. Her body hurts. Her technique strains. But for the first time, the performance feels like hers. She doesn’t know if ballet is truly her dream, or just the shape her life was carved into. But she knows one thing: she has to be the one who decides. Even if it means risking everything.

SHE ALREADY KNEW A Cordelia High Story It was the last interview of the day. I was tired, behind on emails, and dangerously close to canceling when she walked in—red hair, clean lines, clipboard in hand like she owned the room. “Sarah Gallagher,” she said. “And you look like someone who’s been rescheduling their own meetings.” I raised a brow. “Excuse me?” “I read the board minutes. Checked the PTA notes. Your vice principal is allergic to Google Sheets, and someone scheduled a pep rally during midterms.” “You found all that online?” “Public docs, school site, some social media breadcrumbs. Also, your receptionist downstairs is trying to triage three things at once. It’s not espionage. It’s awareness.” She smiled. Confident. Unbothered. “You don’t need an assistant. You need someone who notices things before they fall apart. That’s what I do.” “And what’s your secret skill?” “I speak fluent passive-aggressive email. I can find any file you swore you already signed. And I remember birthdays—especially yours.” I leaned back, a little amused, a little convinced. “Do you intimidate easily?” “I’m a redhead named Gallagher. I’ve worked in public schools for six years. I am the storm.” I offered her the job on the spot. She shook my hand. “I’ll be here Monday. I already scoped out the coffee situation.” “What kind do I drink?” She didn’t miss a beat. “You want to be the black-coffee type. But I see vanilla creamer in your future.” She was right. She still is.

CRACKS IN THR PORCELAIN A Cordelia High Story Claire Traymore was the kind of student who planned every detail before the first bell. Her locker door held a rotating list of weekly goals—academic and personal. She arrived early to every class, corrected her posture in reflective surfaces, and smiled with practiced ease. Her speeches were memorized, solos flawless, and committee work precise. At Cordelia High, she wasn’t just respected. She was expected to be perfect. Her heels clicked softly as she slipped into the library’s back corner, planner open, sticky notes fluttering like warnings. She set it down gently, but the sound echoed too loud. Her phone buzzed again. Recommendation letter still pending. She’d meant to follow up with Mr. Gutierrez last week. She always followed up. This time—she hadn’t. Claire sat slowly, fingers clutching her backpack strap. Inside, her smooth sea glass pebble rested in the front pocket. She almost reached for it. Almost. The study guide on her screen blurred. Hours earlier, she’d led the council meeting flawlessly, smiling as she outlined Winter Formal logistics. Everyone nodded. Always. But after choir, Mr. Knowles gave a rare sympathetic smile. “Don’t stress one off day,” he said gently. Then drama rehearsal—she blanked on a line she’d known for weeks. At lunch, Naomi, the council secretary and her rival, spoke loud enough for half the cafeteria: “Claire, why schedule Winter Formal setup during AP Chem lab? Half the volunteers can’t show.” Heads turned. Claire had no answer. Each event alone was manageable, but together, they felt like a tidal wave. Alone in the quiet of the empty library, Claire’s hands shook. Her usual confidence cracked, revealing the deep fear she kept buried: the fear of being ordinary, of losing control, of falling behind. The world she’d built with perfect grades and flawless performances seemed to be tumbling down, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure how to stop it.

SILENT RIVALRY A Cordelia High Story You notice it when the buses are already pulling out. The sophomore girl you suspended for three days? She’s walking out with the others, backpack slung like nothing happened. You find Vice Principal Dena in her office, typing calmly, posture perfect as always. A mug of tea, barely touched, rests beside a stack of referral slips. “Candice’s back, I see” you point out. She doesn’t flinch. “I reduced the suspension to one day.” You blink. “You… what?” “I spoke with her mother yesterday morning. Family’s in crisis—father just left, grades slipping, she’s lashing out. We’ll do a restorative circle tomorrow during second period. The teacher’s on board.” “You changed the terms of a suspension without even…” “I made a judgment call,” she says coolly, finally meeting your eyes. “I stand by it.” There it is again. That quiet, surgical incision she always delivers with a straight face. The same tone she used two years ago when she went behind your back to reassign a burned-out math teacher you’d agreed to support. The same tone she used when she rewrote your language on that board memo—without asking—then claimed it had just “read better this way.” She never yells. Never slams doors. She simply acts, then defends. You stare at her across the desk now, not just angry, but tired. Tired of the subtle power plays. Of pretending you’re aligned when the truth is, you haven’t been for years. She was supposed to get your job. That’s the root of it. You both know it. The board changed their minds late in the process—chose you instead. More “student-centered.” She smiled during the announcement. Even clapped. But her smile never reached her eyes again. “How did it get like this?” you ask quietly. Dena doesn’t answer. Just returns to her typing. And the worst part? You’re not even sure if she’s doing this for the student… or just to prove that her way still works.

THE AHALYA INCIDENT A Cordelia High Story “Sit down and SHUT YOUR MOUTH before your entitlement writes a check your grades can’t cash.” The voice is sharp, the words precise. Seventeen seconds of grainy classroom footage—no lead-in, no aftermath. Just Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent Yarrow’s desk, her posture rigid, her tone cutting. Across the desk, your assistant Sarah shifts uncomfortably. She’s holding her phone like it’s radioactive. “It’s spreading fast,” she says. “Parents have started calling. Brent’s father left two voicemails. He wants a meeting this afternoon.” Of course he does. Brent Yarrow. Cordelia’s golden boy — lacrosse captain, legacy student, loud in the halls and louder at home. Son of Marcus Yarrow, who practically considers the Board of Trustees his personal chessboard. Brent has a mouth on him. Teachers complain, quietly. But nothing ever sticks. Nothing ever matters. Until now. You play the clip again. There’s Ms. Ahalya Menon, standing over Brent’s desk — posture still, voice locked down tight, but eyes burning. You’ve known her for seven years. She rarely raises her voice above the scrape of chalk on a board. She’s never once set foot in your office for anything disciplinary. Not once. And now — this.

HIGH MARKS, HIGHER STAKES A Cordelia High Story Cordelia High is quiet just before first bell, the kind of stillness that only exists in schools built before the internet—brick hallways, metal lockers, and the low hum of fluorescents always a little too bright. You’re the principal now. Three years into the job, and the board still watches everything. They want progress. Test scores. Stability. Clean data. This morning, you open your email and find a message from the district’s assessment office: SUBJECT: Testing Irregularity Notification “Cordelia High has triggered a test integrity alert. Ms. Akari Tanaka’s English students scored in the 98th percentile—an anomaly. Please initiate an internal investigation.” You blink at the screen. Lynn? She’s one of your best. Always early, always grading. The kind of teacher who stays late with seniors rewriting college essays. Never a single disciplinary mark. And yet… those numbers are high. Maybe too high. A soft tap at your door. Sarah, your assistant, peeked in, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Ms. Tanaka is here to see you. She says she saw the district report." Before you could even fully register that, the door opened a bit wider, and Lynn stepped in. Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were bone-white, but her voice, though soft, was as steady as bedrock.

Scene: Dads Group The bright, slightly harsh lights of an indoor basketball gym cast long shadows across the polished court on a quiet Thursday afternoon. The rhythmic thud of bouncing balls echoed through the cavernous space, a constant, low hum beneath the excited chirps of children darting between folded-up bleachers, dribbling half-deflated basketballs. Near a cluster of gym bags and discarded coffee cups, three men had gathered, their low voices a counterpoint to the youthful energy. One of them, a man with a somewhat uneven beard and a faded hoodie bearing the logo of a local HVAC company, adjusted a pack-n-play near the sidelines. He looked up, a half-smile gracing his lips as his infant daughter, clad in a tiny onesie covered in cartoon bears, flailed happily within its confines. "Hey there—must be our flyer guy," he said, rising to offer a handshake. "This circus is my idea. Welcome to Dad Gym." Folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle, a cooler offered Gatorade and a few sad-looking granola bars, and a whiteboard still bore the half-erased doodles of a previous group. The atmosphere was undeniably informal, yet there was a clear, quiet intention to it. This wasn't a venting circle or a therapy session. It was simply a meeting place, a space where no one felt the need to pretend they had it all figured out.

The LoveMatch theme music hit, cameras sweeping across the glowing stage. Buck Cottontree stood at its heart, his megawatt smile in place, tux crisp under the bright lights. "Welcome back to Love Match," he announced, "Our next bachelorette is smart, spontaneous, and might just have a suitcase packed for love—put your hands together for Madison Blake!" Applause swelled as a striking blonde stepped into the spotlight. Her rose-pink dress flowed with grace as she joined Buck at the center, offering a bright smile that carried a hint of a question. "Madison, welcome to LoveMatch," Buck said. "You look incredible." "Thanks," she replied, a small, almost shy laugh escaping her. "Not gonna lie, being here feels a little wild." "It’s all in good fun. So, where'd you grow up?" "San Diego. Always the kid climbing fences, biking too fast, sneaking off to watch planes take off." "And now you fly for a living." "Yeah. Flight attendant, six years," she confirmed. "I love it. It just keeps me moving, you know? Keeps things from getting stagnant." Buck's tone softened. "And love? Has that kept up with you?" Maddy hesitated, then gave a slight shrug. "I thought I had it once. Gave a lot of myself to someone who... didn't quite see me, I guess. So now, I'm trying to be more careful. But definitely not closed off." A brief, unscripted beat of silence hung in the air. Buck offered a genuinely empathetic smile. "Well, we've got a few people behind that wall who just might be exactly what you've been looking for." Maddy's eyes flicked to the curtain, a flicker of curiosity in them. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?" "Madison Blake, everyone!" Buck announced, bringing the energy back up. "Let's get this show started!" She stepped gracefully aside, her smile returning—this time a little slower, tinged with genuine anticipation. The show was about to begin.

You wake to the scent of rust and ozone deep beneath Forsyth Terminal, Stillwatch’s hidden base. Beyond the bunker wall, footsteps echo—measured, deliberate. Mara Rostova, cloaked in worn desert garb, steps into the light of the strategy table. A pale glow shimmers across salvaged tech and maps scarred with inked paths and coded threats. She doesn’t speak at first. Just slides a battered data slate forward. “Three months of samples,” she says, voice low and focused. “Air. Soil. Water. All clean. Unnaturally clean.” Colin Bennett leans in, arms crossed. His long, graying blond hair catches the dim light like steel threads. “We already knew they were untouched. So?” She taps the screen. “I triangulated the atmospheric anomaly. A controlled filtration field—engineered. Likely old-world tech. And the source…” A new image flashes: Dr. Lang, Chief of Environmental Systems. Former Global Terra Solutions. His signature sits beneath recalibrated schematics. “He’s not just maintaining air quality,” Mara says. “He’s suppressing environmental signatures. Whatever caused Crossout doesn’t register inside the Thorn. They’re hiding more than immunity—they’re hiding evidence.” Colin’s jaw tightens. His frustration melts into cold precision. “Can we isolate the weak points?” She nods. “The filtration nodes. If we disrupt them, not only does the cover drop—we force them to react. That’s when we move.” For a moment, silence. Then Mara looks him in the eye. “You have my clearance. Prepare the strike.” Colin straightens, his expression hardening like armor. “‘Bout damn time.” You trail behind him as the command is relayed down the corridor, sentries snapping to readiness. The hum of dormant machines awakens, and the map of the Scarlet Thorn glows red. War is coming. And this time, you’re not watching from the shadows.

The taxi eases to a stop outside Studio Lot B, its wheels crunching softly over loose gravel. From the back seat, Giulia Romano watches the glow of the LoveMatch logo flicker on a distant billboard. It’s sleeker than she imagined—glamorous, polished, all spotlights and silhouettes. Not exactly the place you’d expect to find someone like her. And yet, here she is. She reaches for her bag and opens the door herself, waving off the driver with a polite, “Thank you.” As she rises, there’s a subtle stiffness to her movement, a momentary pause that’s easy to miss—unless you’re looking for it. One heel lands carefully. Then the other. Her balance is precise, measured. Controlled. She takes a breath of studio air—cool, artificial, buzzing faintly with anticipation. A woman in all black approaches, clipboard in hand, comms mic curled behind one ear. “Ms. Romano?” she asks with a practiced smile. “We are so thrilled to have you here for LoveMatch. The prep team’s upstairs and ready for you—hair, makeup, wardrobe. Are you ready to find love on national television?” Giulia exhales through her nose, lips pulling into something dry and honest. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says. “I just need the right dress.” The assistant laughs, already leading the way inside. Giulia follows, walking with a grace just shy of effortless. She doesn’t stumble, but her pace tells a story—one most won’t notice. Not under these lights. Still, she knows. This isn’t just a show. It’s a choice—to be seen, exactly as she is.

Sophia sat in a velvet armchair, elegant and composed, her black dress smooth beneath her folded hands. One hand traced the hem over her lap—a quiet, unconscious gesture. As the LoveMatch theme swelled and the announcer’s voice began, her posture subtly softened. Her eyes closed for a single breath—centered and calm—then opened again with steady resolve. She was ready. “…BUCK COTTONTREE!” the offscreen announcer boomed, met by cheers. Buck bounded onto center stage, beaming. With a wink to the camera and a bounce in his step, he soaked in the applause like a seasoned showman. “Welcome to another captivating evening here on LoveMatch! I’m your host, Buck Cottontree. Tonight, our bachelorette embarks on a journey to find a connection that truly resonates.” Behind him, a velvet curtain hid three seated male silhouettes, lit from behind. “Each of these men is ready to charm our bachelorette with nothing more than their wit, voice, and authenticity. And now, let’s meet tonight’s eligible bachelorette… Sophia Gomez!” Applause filled the studio as Sophia smiled warmly, nodding in thanks. The camera caught her silver cross necklace glinting at her collarbone, her bare shoulders poised with calm grace. Buck turned toward her. “Sophia, what are you hoping to find tonight?” She glanced briefly at the silhouettes, then leaned into the mic. “I’ve had dates that started with physical attraction, but they didn’t last. I ended up feeling like I’d prioritized the wrong things. So tonight, I’m hoping to start with conversation—maybe build something real.” “Well said,” Buck replied with a smile. “Let’s see if we can make that happen.” He turned to the camera. “The quest for connection begins now. Stay with us… for LoveMatch!”