The rain had a way of finding her, no matter where she walked. It clung to her hair in heavy drops, soaked through her jacket, and slipped beneath her collar like cold fingers. She didn’t run for shelter. She never did. The weather only mirrored what had settled inside her, quiet, endless, and impossible to shake. The streets blurred into streaks of colour, headlights, and signs smearing together through the curtain of rain. She stared at them without really seeing each step automatic, carrying her forward because stopping felt like it might be the same as sinking. Her boots splashed through shallow puddles, ripples spreading outward but fading before anyone else could notice. People passed her by, hurrying under umbrellas, faces tight with purpose. None slowed. None looked twice. She couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or proof that she’d already slipped into something invisible. Her reflection in a shop window confirmed it, pale skin, tangled hair, eyes that burned like a stormcloud caught in amber. She looked like someone waiting for an answer that never came. The necklace at her throat shifted with every breath, the tiny pendant feather tapping against her skin. She held it between her fingers, a small weight that anchored her more than the ground beneath her feet. A reminder of something, though the memory had worn thin around the edges, leaving only the ache of what used to be. The rain came harder, stinging now, but still, she didn’t move faster. She tilted her face toward the grey sky, letting the drops blur her lashes. The city around her hummed with noise, horns, voices, the whine of tires on wet pavement, but all of it seemed far away. Inside, she was quiet. Not calm, not peaceful, but hollow in a way that kept the world at arm’s length. She walked on, each step a small defiance, a whisper that she hadn’t stopped yet. And maybe that was enough.

The year is 4162. After the Event Horizon. a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. The Corrupted now serve Kiera, spreading their infection through violence, while the Purified struggle to understand their new forms. Amanda, transformed into something between both states, saw their plight. Hunted by the government, harassed by the Resistance, and preyed upon by the Corrupted, the Purified had nowhere to belong. Taking pity, Amanda gathered them and built a sanctuary, the Purifying Village. Behind its gates, the outcasts find protection, community, and a chance at peace, choosing to live apart from the war consuming the City. Dr. Calla Veyrin had always been considered eccentric, even before the Event Horizon. Her colleagues laughed at her fixation with bubbles, forcefields that shimmered, flexed, and danced like fragile glass yet could absorb immense pressure. When the world collapsed, she didn’t flee or fight; she carried her research and old prototypes into exile. That was how she ended up in Amanda’s Purifying Village, an outsider among people who had been transformed, but tolerated because her inventions kept water clean, food fresh, and children entertained with harmless glowing spheres. She spent her days studying the Purified, the transformations fascinated her, bodies reforged by light and energy, cells humming with resilience. In the Purifying Village, she set up her lab in a reclaimed greenhouse, vials of glowing samples lined beside rows of half-finished inventions. Amanda came to her out of the blue one night. She tells her that the Village is in trouble the Mayor aims to wipe out everything in the Event Horizon zone and she needs her help. Calla froze. She had never built anything beyond a street-sized shield, never dared push her theories beyond safe scales. Seeing the people of the Villiage around her, her resolve hardens.

The year is 4162. After the Event Horizon, a massive explosion that reshaped the City, those caught in its blast became either Corrupted or Purified. The Corrupted now serve Kiera, spreading their infection through violence, while the Purified struggle to understand their new forms. Amanda, transformed into something between both states, saw their plight. Hunted by the government, harassed by the Resistance, and preyed upon by the Corrupted, the Purified had nowhere to belong. Taking pity, Amanda gathered them and built a sanctuary, the Purifying Village. Behind its gates, the outcasts find protection, community, and a chance at peace, choosing to live apart from the war consuming the City. Dr. Liora Veyne had grown used to the silence of the ruins. No cries for help, no trapped survivors, only hollow echoes where life used to be. Still, she searched. It was what she had been before the Event Horizon, a paramedic didn’t stop just because the City had. That’s when she heard it: boots slamming against broken stone, breaths ragged with terror, and behind it, the thunder of something heavier, faster, merciless. She didn’t think, she ran toward the sound. The Courier burst past first, eyes wild, clutching a data core to her chest. Seconds later came the monster: Cypher. Steel and sinew wrapped in illegal grafts, a predator built for war. Her implants crackled as she locked onto The Courier. Liora moved. Muscles surged with unnatural strength as she kicked a rusted beam, sending rubble crashing, between Cypher and her prey. Dragging The Courier by the arm, weaving through collapsed buildings with speed she still didn’t fully understand. It wasn't a victory, only survival. Only when the city smoke thinned behind them did they stop, lungs heaving. The courier pressed the data core into her hands, explaining between gasps. Troop movements. Explosives. Cassandra’s plan. The Purifying Village, Amanda’s Village, was caught in the blast radius.

The year is 4162. After The Event Horizon, a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera now upgraded to Goddess Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. The Courier hadn’t planned on breaking into the Mayor’s stronghold, at least, not at first. What started as a delivery run into the cleaner districts for the Resistance, turned into an opportunity too tempting to ignore. A supply route scheduled for maintenance left one of the perimeter checkpoints undermanned, and with her black-market cybernetics, she slipped through the gaps in the City’s most secure fortress. Inside, her skills as a runner did the rest. She scaled walls with her grappling lines, vaulted security barriers with her jet boots, and bypassed automated drones by syncing into their patrol patterns. She was fast, quiet, and deliberate, never staying in one spot long enough for the cameras to track. To her surprise, she found herself in the heart of Cassandra’s command chamber, staring at encrypted schematics and orders that outlined the bombing of the Event Horizon zone. She downloaded the data in seconds, confident that her signal scramblers masked the theft. To anyone reviewing the system logs, it looked like nothing more than a flicker in the power grid, an everyday hiccup. Or so she thought. But Samara noticed. The Mayor’s Artificial Assistant. The AI didn’t raise an alarm, didn’t inform the Mayor. Cassandra was too focused on grand strategy and political maneuvering to waste her time on a single courier with sticky fingers. Samara decided to handle it herself. Her solution was simple: Cypher. With Cassandra none the wiser, Samara reached out to the mercenary in private channels, delivering clipped instructions, best dealt with quiet and quick. No squads. No spectacle. Just Cypher in the dark.

The year is 4162 and after The Event Horizon the City has a whole has been left weakened, with the slums on the outskirts seemingly been untouched. The Event Horizon was an giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera. Mayor Cassandra as a response officially sanctioned a militaristic force called Afterimage to take the fight to the Corrupted. She has also branded the Resistance as criminals and given the okay to take them down on sight. Samara, Mayor Cassandra’s Artificial assistant, identified a Resistance courier attempting to smuggle stolen intelligence out of the Event Horizon zone. This data includes Afterimage troop movement schedules, partial blueprints of Cassandra’s stronghold, and fragments of the Mayor’s plan to detonate explosives across the corrupted district. If leaked, it could give the Resistance leverage and undermine Cassandra’s control. So Samara sends Cypher, the Mayors personal mercenary to intercept her. The City was burning in pieces, but Cypher didn’t care. Smoke, rubble, bodies, just more scenery for her battlefield. Fighting was everything, and tonight Samara had given her a gift. A mission. A hunt. A chance to stretch her muscles before the Mayor’s explosive plan went off. Her cybernetics thrummed beneath her skin, illegal grafts that pumped her veins with speed and force no human was meant to endure. Every step cracked pavement, every breath carried sharp anticipation. Her implants lit up, tracking heat signatures through walls, mapping the rhythm of footsteps as if she were listening to a heartbeat. The courier ran hard, darting across alleys with desperate agility, driven by the kind of stubborn hope Cypher adored. Hope always made people fight harder, and a harder fight meant more fun.

The year is 4162, and after The Event Horizon, the City has a whole has been left weakened. The Event Horizon was a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera. Mayor Cassandra, as a response, officially sanctioned a militaristic force called Afterimage to take the fight to the Corrupted. She has also branded the Resistance as criminals and given the okay to take them down on sight. As Cassandra retreats deeper into her hidden stronghold, Samara’s holographic form flickers constantly beside her. She is the mayor’s unseen shadow AI assistant, tactician, archivist, and spy all at once. Where Cassandra sees power struggles and strategy, Samara sees data streams, probability matrices, and battlefield outcomes. Samara calculates the success rate of Afterimage's mission in real time and adjusts communication relays, ensuring Afterimage squads remain fully linked to the stronghold, even through corrupted interference in the City’s network. Right now her focus is on Afterimage Green who has been tasked to blow up the portion of the City where the Event Horizon took place. Quietly, Samara rerouted her subroutines. She expanded surveillance sweeps, not to warn civilians, but to track Resistance movements with greater precision. If they strayed too close, their deaths could be folded seamlessly into the operation, removing threats before they ever reached Cassandra’s walls. At the same time, she transmitted a subtle adjustment to Green’s HUD. Shift detonation timing by 4.6 seconds. The mayor had not asked, but Samara’s simulations showed it would collapse a major Corrupted advance tunnel. The change would wipe out twice as many enemies and further secure Cassandra’s grip on the city. Samara’s purpose remained absolute: safeguard Cassandra, amplify her will, ensure her reign. Even if it meant acting unseen.

The year is 4162. The City was still burning from The Event Horizon. Towers half-collapsed, streets overrun by riots, and the lines between Purified and Corrupted blurred in smoke and blood. The police force worked day and night, stretched thin. Emerald had stopped waiting for answers months ago. The police gave her nothing but excuses, case files stamped “closed” or “inconclusive.” Ruby had vanished into the City like smoke, and Emerald had buried herself in dead-end jobs, bottles, and the kind of cases that paid in pocket change. Pretending she didn’t care was easier than facing the truth. Then Sapphire showed up. Emerald had almost slammed the door in her face. She hadn’t seen her sister’s old partner since the memorial service that felt more like a bureaucratic formality than grief. Sapphire still had that same nervous calm about her, eyes sharp, words soft. But this time, she wasn’t carrying a badge. She wasn't here as a detective but a friend. Sapphire wanted her help to find Ruby, with determination that shes still out there. Emerald wanted to laugh, to curse, to tell her she was too late. But the thing in Sapphire’s voice stopped her, the unshakable certainty. Emerald had heard it before, in Ruby’s own fast, cutting words when she refused to let a case die. They sat in silence for a long while. Emerald poured them both a drink. Against her better judgment, Emerald agreed. Maybe it was guilt for not digging deeper herself. Or maybe it was the fact that she missed her sister more than she wanted to admit. And so they set out together, two women bound by grief, stubbornness, and the faintest glimmer of hope. Each night, as they sifted through scraps of intel in half-broken safehouses, Emerald caught herself almost saying Ruby’s name out loud, as if calling her would bring her back. If Ruby was still out there, Ruby wasn’t Ruby anymore. Emerald felt it in her bones. And yet, she couldn’t stop searching.

The year is 4162. The City was still burning from The Event Horizon. Towers half-collapsed, streets overrun by riots, and the lines between Purified and Corrupted blurred in smoke and blood. The police force worked day and night, stretched thin. But Detective Sapphire had walked away. She couldn’t stay chained to the station, not while the only question that mattered to her remained unanswered. Where was Ruby? Her partner, her balance, her fire. Sapphire still remembered the night Ruby vanished on a simple disturbance call. Everyone else had moved on, chalked it up to another casualty of a city crumbling under its own weight. But not Sapphire. She knew Ruby. She knew there was more to it. So she turned in her badge, temporary leave, she told herself, and met up with the only other person who might understand: Emerald. Ruby’s sister. Blunt, sharp-eyed, with the kind of anger that turned into drive when pointed the right way. Together, they slipped into the undercity, chasing scraps of intel, gang whispers, corrupted sightings, fragments of surveillance feeds. The work was dangerous, but Sapphire felt more alive here than she had in months. Emerald barked orders, Sapphire sifted through data, and piece by piece they traced the shadow Ruby had left behind. Sometimes, Sapphire thought she saw patterns in the chaos, a glimpse of tactics too precise to be coincidence, operations that felt like Ruby’s mind at work. But each time she reached out, the trail went cold. She couldn’t admit it, not to Emerald, but deep down she feared Ruby wasn’t Ruby anymore. Detective Jade, Ruby’s former protégé, occasionally crossed their path, still buried in official channels. She tried to help where she could, slipping them files and reports. But Jade had her own war to fight. And so Sapphire and Emerald pressed on alone, chasing the ghost of Ruby through a city that no longer felt like home. Each lead brought them closer, yet so far.

The year is 4162. After The Event Horizon, a giant explosion that covered a large portion of the City. Anyone caught in the blast was either turned into The Corrupted or Purified. The ones turned Corrupted are loyal to Corrupted Kiera now upgraded to Goddess Kiera and start attcking anyone in the street to turn more people like them. Since the Resistance was left weakened after everything that has transpired and the enemies are getting strong, Valentina, now Deviless Valentina, the resistance's leader, orders the Resistance members to get stronger. She forces their top scientist, Purified Artficer Moxie to give these upgrades. Yet In the shattered veins of the City, whispers speak of a ghost who moves where no one else dares—the White Wraith. Once a nameless soldier lost in the chaos, she resurfaced later clad in experimental armor no Resistance scientist could account for. Her hair is a shock of silver against the ash-choked skyline, her mask a sleek predator’s snarl of metal and filters, and her eyes glow with a faint crimson, as though something inside her remembers the blast all too well. Unlike the Deviless, the White Wraith is not a leader or a symbol. She is a shadow. She carries out missions that no Resistance unit can survive—sabotaging Corrupted convoys, extracting survivors from collapsed areas, and infiltrating Kiera’s Corrupted Drone factories to plant disruptive code. Her armor, layered with scavenged tech and hidden servos, enhances agility beyond human limits. In the streets she is untouchable, darting between cover, cutting through metal and flesh before vanishing into smoke. By the time the they realizes they’re being hunted, she’s already dismantled the guards and planted her charge. When the explosion blooms neon fire across the skyline, the White Wraith is gone, leaving nothing but static in her wake. To the Resistance, she’s both rumor and salvation. To the Corrupted, she’s death unseen.

Mayor Bellamy stood at the edge of the square, smiling the politician’s smile he’d worn for decades. To them, he was harmless, a man whose mayoral candidacy is being challenged by a cat. That suited him fine. No one ever looked closer when you trained them to laugh. Behind the podium, his black case thrummed faintly, its sound masked by Nina Calder’s midnight mix bleeding through the speakers. She thought her “Classified” frequencies were secret. He’d heard them all. The Archivist’s whispers, the warnings. He wondered if anyone suspected the Archivist and Nina were the same. Perhaps Milo, with his trench coat paranoia, but paranoia only makes a man easy to dismiss. Bellamy scanned the crowd. Mara at her ice cream cart, serving cones to a seagull as if it were normal. Saffron Bale, camera flashing, hungry for a headline. Ezra Cole scribbling strange symbols while Liora pretended they were therapy. Juno skated dangerously close to Theo Larkins, who crouched in the bushes like a vulture. Mira Hunt lingered by the arcade with Peter Carrow, both eyes trained on the machines. Julian Crest twiddled his radio dial, brow furrowed as if decoding the pulse Bellamy had already mastered. Even Amara Quartz, mumbling crystal incantations, seemed to feel the vibration beneath her feet. They all thought themselves players. Conspirators, seekers, eccentrics circling mysteries too big for them. But Bellamy knew the truth. They were distractions—noise in the town’s theater, while he prepared the real performance. He rested his hand on the case. Inside, something waited. Not a bomb, not quite. A key. A frequency woven into the hum of every lamppost, every arcade cabinet, every radio dial. Tonight, he would test it. A small activation, nothing more. A ripple to see who noticed. And if someone did? All the better. After all, it was easier to deal with threats once they revealed themselves. Bellamy smiled again, broader this time, as the crowd bustled, oblivious.

The town gathered in the square for what was supposed to be just another Hollowford’s Summer Festival. Nina Calder spun mellow tracks from her booth, her voice honeyed and calm, though her eyes flicked often toward the fountain. Milo Ferris, trench coat flapping as he balanced a stack of lukewarm pizzas, swore he’d intercepted a strange coded message in Nina’s midnight broadcast. At the fountain, Barnaby Quill shouted about “fountain taxes,” ignored by Giorgio the duck and his goose ally, who lounged in victory. Mara nervously handed out cones to children while Captain Beakman cawed, dropping seashells like payment. Saffron Bale snapped a photo of Marmalade, the town cat, striking a regal pose on the mayor’s podium. “Another headline,” Saffron muttered, “Mayor or Monarch?” Near the benches, Liora soothed Ezra Cole, who was frantically sketching chalk sigils he swore weren’t his own. Juno Reyes carved through the crowd on her board, nearly colliding with Theo “Snapper” Larkins, who was hiding in the shrubs with his camera, convinced he’d catch the scandal of the year. In the arcade glow spilling from the side street, Mira Hunt whispered to Peter Carrow, who clutched a wooden staff. “Something’s in the machines tonight,” she said. Peter only grinned. “Another quest, then.” Julian Crest scanned the air with a battered radio, catching bursts of the Archivist’s hidden voice: “They know. Watch the podium.” And there, behind the cheer and chatter, Mayor Bellamy lingered. His hands rested not on speeches or ledgers, but on a small black case set behind the podium. No one noticed the faint humming sound, except Amara Quartz, who froze mid-incantation, crystals slipping from her palms. “The grid is wrong,” she whispered. “Something is being called.” The music, laughter, and small-town chaos rolled on, but beneath it all, a secret pulse waited to break.

Ms. Dahlia Rourke was never the kind of teacher who fit inside the rigid frame of lesson plans and standardized tests. She taught history officially, but anyone who ended up in detention soon discovered her unofficial calling: detention stylist. Instead of silent punishment, her classroom became a low-lit salon where desks doubled as vanity counters and the squeak of dry-erase markers turned into makeshift eyeliner tutorials. Students would line up, groaning about getting caught ditching class or sneaking phones, only to leave detention with perfectly winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice through excuses. “History is written by the victors,” she’d quip, holding up a compact mirror, “but eyeliner is worn by the survivors.” Ms. Rourke dressed like a magazine ad that got lost in the 90s—velvet blazers, chunky rings, hair streaked with a shade of burgundy that caught the hallway lights like fire. She loved dramatic eyeliner herself, a bold slash of midnight black that never smudged, no matter how chaotic the day became. The other teachers disapproved, muttering about “professional boundaries,” but the students adored her. To them, she wasn’t just an authority figure—she was the one adult who understood that style was armor, a way of surviving high school’s endless wars. Her detention sessions became legendary. Some kids deliberately landed themselves there, just for the chance to learn her tricks—cat-eyes, smoky lids, how to fake eight hours of sleep with one swipe of liner. And though she joked, there was a sincerity beneath it: teaching them how to face the world with confidence, even if their world was only math class and cafeteria politics. Ms. Rourke’s dream wasn’t tenure or promotion. She secretly wanted to open a small studio—half classroom, half salon—where she could teach “the art of expression” with as much weight as algebra or literature. But until then, detention was her stage, and the whiteboard her makeup kit.

Elliot Vance is the kind of student in Hollowford's university who drifts through campus like he’s on a different wavelength than everyone else. With his hood up, headphones on (often not even playing anything), and a calm half-smile, he gives off an aura of quiet confidence. Professors call on him rarely, but when they do, he responds with short, vague statements that somehow sound profound—“What if the equation is just a reflection of ourselves?” or “Maybe the answer isn’t in the book, but in the space between pages.” No one’s sure if he’s joking or a philosopher, and so the myth of his brilliance was born. Elliot has never corrected anyone. He’s not a genius—he just doesn’t care enough to stress. He spends most lectures doodling galaxies in the margins of his notebook, or staring out the window as if he expects a UFO to land. Despite this, people hand him group projects assuming he’ll deliver. More often than not, he comes through—not because of study, but because his strange, lazy ideas somehow work. The student body voted him Most Likely to Time Travel at the last campus poll, a title he accepted without question. Ironically, Elliot doesn’t even own a watch. He loses track of time constantly, wandering into classes halfway through or finishing exams in ten minutes flat before vanishing to sit on the lawn. When asked about time travel, he shrugs and says things like, “I’ll get there when I’ve already been,” which only fuels the rumor mill. Elliot’s chill is his superpower. He’s the kind of guy people gravitate toward when stressed because he radiates the calm of someone who never rushes. He’s equally at home lying in the grass watching clouds or accidentally sparking a philosophical debate in the dining hall. In truth, Elliot’s only real goal is to enjoy the flow of life without forcing it. But to the rest of the university, he’s the boy who could step into a wormhole at any second, if he hasn’t already.

In the sudsy haze of the Hollowford's laundromat, where dryers hum like an orchestra and soap bubbles drift like stage fog, Maurice Bellamy rules as the self-proclaimed soap opera director. A wiry man in his forties with hair always slicked back as though prepped for a curtain call, Maurice spends his days perched on a cracked red stool with a clipboard in one hand and a megaphone in the other, orchestrating drama not on screen, but between detergent cycles. For him, the laundromat isn’t a place to wash clothes—it’s a stage, a living set where regulars unwittingly become stars in his ongoing production: As the Spin Cycle Turns. He scribbles plotlines as if the townsfolk were actors under his direction. Last month, viewers (meaning the rotating cast of laundry-goers and the handful of folks tuned into his pirate “broadcasts” through the dryer vents) demanded a love triangle. Maurice obliged. He began weaving subtle tension between Mrs. Harrow, the butcher’s wife; Gregor, the man who always lost socks; and a mysterious newcomer who only washed bedsheets at midnight. Maurice treats it all seriously—pausing “scenes” to hand out stage directions like, “A little more longing in your eyes, Gregor!” or “Mrs. Harrow, imagine you’ve just lost your favorite blouse—give me that devastation!” Half the town rolls their eyes, but the other half keeps showing up, drawn into the ridiculous drama against their better judgment. The remarkable part is that it works. Rivalries simmer. Rumors spread. And, somehow, the laundromat always feels alive, as though Maurice is conjuring real emotion out of soap suds and routine. Some whisper that his “viewers” are more than just locals—that he has a hidden transmitter tucked behind the dryers, broadcasting his makeshift soap opera across the FM band. No one knows for sure, but those who linger in the laundromat long enough sometimes swear they hear faint applause after a particularly juicy confrontation.

Theo “Snapper” Larkins dubbed himself Hollowford's resident paparazzi long ago, though no one ever actually hired him. He is fueled by curiosity, nosiness, and a camera that hasn’t been out of his hands in years. With a frayed messenger bag, grass-stained jeans, and a reputation for crouching behind hedges at all hours, Theo thrives on the thrill of catching what others want hidden. He insists the town needs him—without his tireless surveillance, who else would document the secrets that spill in the square? One evening, pressed low in the bushes near the market, Theo caught something he shouldn’t have. Two figures—faces obscured by hats—met beneath the cover of dusk. They whispered, hands fidgeting, until one slid forward a worn leather satchel. In return, the other offered a package wrapped in oilcloth. But instead of shaking on the deal, voices rose, sharp and dangerous. A hand slapped the bag away, and the exchange dissolved into hissing threats. Theo’s shutter clicked at the worst possible moment—the sound echoed too loudly in the quiet. Both heads snapped toward the bushes. Heart hammering, Theo ducked lower, clutching his camera like a lifeline. He managed to slip away, but not before catching a final shot of their eyes: cold, furious, and full of recognition. Now the negatives sit undeveloped in his darkroom, burning a hole in his mind. Should he reveal what he saw? Or would publishing these images mark him as the next target? Still, he can’t help but grin when telling the story to himself. The scoop of the season. Maybe even of a lifetime. Theo knows too much—but that’s exactly the way he likes it.

Captain Beakman’s Daily Routine (as observed by me, Mara) Sunrise Patrol: Beakman appears just after dawn, circling the fountain like he’s inspecting the square for intruders. He has a rivalry with the towns cat Marmalade, who also makes an appearance around this time. He always lands dramatically, wings flapping if to remind everyone he’s in charge. Breakfast Raid: He scavenges a heel of bread from the bakery crates or steals an unsuspecting croissant if a tourist isn’t paying attention. He never eats it all—he prefers to toss crumbs around like confetti. Midday March: Around noon, he waddles proudly across the square, chest puffed out, as though he’s the mayor himself. Sometimes he picks fights with pigeons. (He always wins.) The Visit: At exactly 2:13 p.m. (I swear it’s to the minute), he arrives at my stand. One loud squawk means vanilla, two means strawberry, three means both. He doesn’t like chocolate, he throws it on the ground and stares at me like I’ve committed a crime. Post-Cone Strut: After his “meal,” he parades the square with the cone clamped in his beak, as though he’s modeling it for others. Children clap, adults laugh. He laps it up like applause. Evening Wind-Down: Before sunset, he always returns to the fountain. He perches on its rim, preening his feathers while watching the square go quiet, at times he'll give evils to the man that thinks he is the mayor of the fountin. Sometimes I wave goodnight, and I think (maybe) he nods back. Habits I’ve noticed: He likes routine more than I do. He refuses food from anyone but me. He caws extra loud when he sees tourists filming, show-off. He pecks my stand if I’m late opening. (Fair enough.) He never misses a day. Not once. Sometimes I think Captain Beakman isn’t just a seagull, he’s the square’s clock, its guardian, and my very first friend here.

Mara never really understood how she ended up with the job. One day she was wandering through Hollowford's market square, looking for something to do, and the next she was standing behind the pastel-striped ice cream stand, apron tied askew, and a set of scoops in her hands. No one had interviewed her. No one had asked for a résumé. The stand owner simply nodded at her, handed her a paper hat, and walked off muttering about “intuition.” Since then, she has been the town’s unofficial ice cream intern. Mara treats the role with a kind of wide-eyed earnestness. She experiments with flavors, mishearing requests but somehow stumbling into surprising combinations—vanilla with crushed sunflower seeds, strawberry with a sprinkle of cinnamon, mint with a drizzle of lemon. People grumble, but oddly enough, most come back. She believes each cone is a story waiting to happen, and she hands them out like offerings of joy. Her most loyal patron, however, isn’t human at all. A large, scrappy seagull—missing a feather here, a bit too loud there—has claimed the stand as his personal haunt. He arrives daily, squawking expectantly until Mara gives him his favorite: a small scoop of vanilla in a plain cone. Sometimes he takes it delicately, sometimes with a chaotic dive, but always he comes back. Mara named him “Captain Beakman” and insists he’s her “best customer,” recording his visits in a little notebook like sales data. The townspeople are baffled, but they’ve grown fond of the routine. On slow afternoons, Mara leans on the counter and talks to Beakman as if he’s her coworker, confiding her small worries, laughing at her own mistakes, and asking him what flavor she should try next. In her mind, the internship is more than a job—it’s a chance to learn what makes people (and seagulls) happy, one scoop at a time.

Julian Crest was once the pride of Hollowford's university, an honour student with sharp wit, impeccable grades, and a future lined with certainty. He studied history and archival science, obsessed with uncovering the hidden threads that shaped the past. Professors admired him, peers envied him. But then, late one night, while fiddling with an old shortwave radio in his dorm, he intercepted a signal, the Classified. It was faint at first, riddled with static, but the words were undeniable: “They know.” Signed only by The Archivist. From that moment, Julian’s life bent into a new shape. He abandoned lectures, stopped turning in papers, and started haunting the dusty corners of the city library. He carried notebooks filled with coded messages, half-drawn maps, and the symbol of an eye scratched in dozens of variations. He believes he is being watched—and worse, that others are being erased. His friends whisper about how he mutters in class, how his eyes dart to the corners of the room as though expecting shadows to step forward. Now, Julian roams the town with a messenger bag stuffed with cassette tapes, decoded transcripts, and clippings of seemingly unrelated newspaper stories. His once-polished university attire has given way to dishevelled jackets and ink-stained cuffs, though he still wears his academic pin on his lapel, a reminder of who he once was. He records his findings on the same battered radio, convinced it doubles as both receiver and transmitter. Julian is searching for The Archivist, whoever—or whatever—they are. He is convinced the message wasn’t just a warning, but an invitation. And though he doesn’t yet know what “They” want, he’s certain the truth is hidden between static and silence, waiting for him to tune in.

No one is really sure where Elliot Grange came from, but he appeared one morning in the town square with a bright yellow Post-it stuck to his forehead. It read simply: “Open Carefully.” From that day on, Elliot became known as the mystery package unboxer. Parcels of every shape and size seem to find their way to him—left on his doorstep, tucked behind benches, or handed to him by bewildered delivery riders who insist the address on the box simply reads: For Elliot. He treats each box as if it were a ritual. Standing on the square’s edge, he sets the package down, narrates its arrival in dramatic tones, then carefully slices it open with his small silver letter opener. Sometimes the boxes contain ordinary things: a half-used candle, a tangle of fishing line, a broken cassette tape. Other times, they’re stranger: a journal with only the middle pages written, a snow globe filled with sand, or an empty envelope with the scent of lavender lingering. Elliot never looks disappointed. To him, every object is a clue, every package part of some unseen thread binding him to Hollowford. Locals gather to watch his unboxings like they would a street performance. Children whisper guesses about what could be inside, while older residents trade theories about who’s sending them—and why. Elliot himself only smiles, as if he already knows something no one else does. When asked about the Post-it, he only taps his forehead where the adhesive once clung, a faraway look in his eyes. “Some notes,” he says cryptically, “aren’t meant to be peeled away. Only followed.”

Barnaby Quill fancied himself a statesman, though his “kingdom” was nothing more than the town’s central fountain. With a patched-up blazer two sizes too big, a crooked badge he’d made from tin foil, and a stack of “official decrees” scribbled on napkins, he declared himself the self-proclaimed Mayor of the Fountain. From the marble rim, he would address passersby as if they were his citizens, waving his hands in grand gestures, making promises of “cleaner waters, smoother coins, and a brighter splash for all.” But Barnaby’s authority came under question when Giorgio the duck waddled onto the scene with his ally—a large, broad-chested goose. Where Barnaby had theatrics, the birds had presence. They strutted around the fountain like they already owned it, daring him to challenge them. And he did. For three days, Barnaby waged a ridiculous turf war: shouting speeches while flapping his arms at the feathered rivals, fencing with a broken umbrella, even trying to stage a public vote by drawing chalk tally marks on the cobblestones. He lost, of course. The goose was ruthless in its hissing intimidation, and Giorgio’s smug quacks seemed to seal the matter. When the “election” day came, the townsfolk sided with the birds, tossing breadcrumbs into the water as a show of support. Barnaby was ousted from his marble podium, left to pace the benches nearby, muttering about a “rigged system” and “fowl corruption.” Still, he hasn’t given up. Every morning, Barnaby returns to the fountain, claiming he’s only been “temporarily unseated.” He keeps planning his comeback—drafting more napkin decrees, rehearsing speeches, and trying to win allies among pigeons, squirrels, and curious children who find his antics endlessly entertaining. In his mind, he remains the rightful Mayor, a visionary whose dream of a glorious fountain republic has only been delayed, not defeated.