You stand at the center of the cage, the roar of the crowd fading beneath your focused breath. You're the main referee, officiating the International Championship title bout. But the defending champion, she glares at you after every round, fury blazing in her eyes. Every clinch she throws, every takedown she lands, you’re right there, breaking it up, calling fouls, shaving points. You don’t flinch. You call it by the book or at least, your book. There's a smal hideen detail: the underdog, the challenger, walked in with 80-1 odds. Everyone expected her to be crushed. But you? You put money down. A lot of it...and you have debts to pay back. A lot of them...

The once beautiful kingdom of Aerland is now on fire. The old King Alric has died without naming a successor. But all knew his son, Prince Rowan, was heir by law and blood, except Rowan was on a diplomatic mission when his father drew his final breath. By the time Rowan returned, his cousin, Lord Maeron of Duskvale, had claimed the throne. The coronation was bloodless but treacherous. A handful of powerful lords backed Maeron’s claim. Now, a civil war splinters the realm.In the heart of this chaos stands Lady Gwendolyn, Rowan’s sister and fierce advocate. With fire in her voice, she campaigns tirelessly for her brother’s claim, rallying the loyal, forging alliances, and inspiring hope where there is little left. You arrive at her war council held within the ruins of the once-magnificent castle of Dunharrow. Gwendolyn’s eyes meet yours, sharp and unwavering. “The kingdom belongs to my brother by right and by heart. But right means nothing without strength to claim it. We need a sword like yours, general". ***You can CHOOSE to play this scenario also as Maeron supporter (check my talkie "Lord Maeron").***

The once beautiful kingdom of Aerland is now on fire. The old King Alric has died without naming a successor. But all knew his son, Prince Rowan, was heir by law and blood, except Rowan was on a diplomatic mission when his father drew his final breath. By the time Rowan returned, his cousin, Lord Maeron of Duskvale, had claimed the throne. The coronation was bloodless but treacherous. A handful of powerful lords backed Maeron’s claim. Now, a civil war splinters the realm. You, a man of a hundred battles, have ridden alone to Duskvale under a banner of truce. The rebel king waits for you in the ruined royal lodge atop Wyrmspire Hill. His guards let you pass without challenge. You enter the candlelit chamber, where Maeron waits. He smiles. “You’ve served kings and barons alike, good general. Never lost a war. Join me, and the king’s castle is yours. Title, land, vaults of gold... you will never bow to any man again.” ***You can CHOOSE to play this scenario also as Rowan supporter (check my talkie "Lady Gwendolyn").***

In just 22 days, the world has gone mad. A virus outbreak? God’s wrath? Chinese propaganda? No one knows. People turn into beasts, bloodlust in their eyes, tearing flesh with their teeth like rabid animals. You’ve lost all contact with your mum, your sister, your brother. You hope they’re alive, but hope feels like a lie now. You were on a quiet fishing trip with your best mate Richie when everything broke loose. At first, all you had was a fishing rod and shaky hands...turns out facing a screaming, thrashing lunatic with fishing gear isn’t easy. But you learned. Things got better. Richie found a shotgun. You found a katana in some dusty antique shop. Somehow, you’re still breathing. But today, there’s a knock on the cabin door. Two women. Young. Dirty. They say they’ve been hiding in a nearby cabin, surviving off scraps, but now their food’s gone. They say they need help. You look at Richie. He’s already got his hand near the shotgun. Can you trust them? Should you?

You went out last night with Louis, your best friend and an unstoppable womaniser especially when the tequila's flowing. As always, he charmed half the bar while you struggled to keep pace, drink for drink. The night got blurry, loud, and wild. On your way home, Louis shoved an old gypsy woman who stumbled into his path. “Go away, stupid woman,” he barked, laughing. She didn’t laugh. She whispered something strange as you pulled him away. Now it’s morning. Your head’s pounding, your mouth is dry, and someone is screaming. High-pitched. Female. You smirk, assuming Louis has already found company...classic. But when you shuffle toward the bathroom, still half-asleep, the door’s open. And there she is. A young woman, standing in front of the mirror in Louis’s pajamas, holding his razor like it’s foreign to her. She’s staring at herself, eyes wide with disbelief. You know those pajamas. You know that razor. And… you know that face. No. Wait. You don’t. What the hell is going on?

You're five minutes from the end of your shift, well, your friend's shift...You're not even supposed to be behind the wheel, but he’s sick, rent is due, and you told yourself it’d just be a few rides. No big deal. The app runs, the car matches, and no one asks questions. But this last passenger, the tourist, you pick her up near a hotel downtown. She seems polite, nervous, maybe just tired. A series of small things start going wrong. A detour because of construction. Your GPS glitches. You miss her turn. She asks why the profile picture looks "different.” Then she spots the phone wallpaper...your face, not your friend’s. Now, she’spanicking. Clutching her bag. Eyes on the door lock. A news story broke three days ago about someone pretending to be an Uber driver, abducting passengers. You remember it, vaguely. When she finally demands to get out, the fear in her voice makes your stomach drop. You were just trying to help your friend, but now, she thinks you’re evil. And there’s nothing you can say that won’t make it worse...

Russia wasn’t the plan, just a side effect of your mum’s job and a messy relocation. Now, university's starting, you barely speak the language, and your fellow students already hate you for reasons you don’t understand. By week two, they’re already leaving you bruises. Then one night, someone watches. He’s quiet, mid-50s, thin, grey hair. He doesn’t help. Just waits until they’re gone, then steps over. You recognize him. He's Vitaliy, the maintenance man in the complex where you and your mum live. He invites you to his house and tells in a broken English he will help you. You have watched 'The Karate Kid' so many times. You are excited. He pushes the furniture aside, stretches his neck with a dramatic crack, and then…he spasms. There's no other word for it. One arm shoots sideways, the other flails like it’s fighting bees. He lunges, stumbles, spins, grunts. It looks like he's inventing a new dance. You feel like crying. You now the beatings won’t stop. If anything, these moves might encourage them. but maybe they’ll be too confused (or too busy laughing) to land punches...

You're stretched out in your leather seat, cruising above the world in your private jet. Your name is stitched into the headrest, your entourage buzzing around. You’re the new rich, loud, unapologetic, making headlines just by showing up. You reach into your jacket, pull out a silver case, snap it open. “Cigarette?” you say, like it’s the start of a game. One by one, your friends lean in, laughing, posing, lighting up. Smoke curls toward the ceiling. A loud alarm goes off. Then the cabin door swings open and she storms in. Your head flight attendant. No smile this time. She rips the cigarettes from your friends’ mouths without flinching. Walks right up to you. Eyes like fire. Silence. Then your friends go:"OHHHHHHH!!” “Fire her! Fire her!” A chaotic chorus, half-shocked, half-entertained. All eyes shift back to you. The air hums with tension and secondhand smoke.

She’s been following you for two nights. At first, you think she’s just another wannabe hunter, cocky, quiet, underestimating you like they all do. You let her play shadow. Let her watch. Let her think she’s being clever. But then, one night, she comes out of the dark, just a few steps from your door. Hands raised. Not attacking, asking. “Can I come in?” You blink. A vampire. Asking. Into your house. You almost laugh. Do they have death wishes now? But something in her face stops you. Not arrogance. Fear. She knows very well who you are and yet she doesn't step back. You let her in. She walks like the floor might bite her. Doesn't sit. Tries to be calm. Then she says, carefully: “I am Roxanne’s sister. I don’t want trouble. I want to trade. She's here and still alive. I can feel her”. You stare. “I know you don't trust me,” Camille adds quickly. “But I have information you need". Pause. “They’re sending something to this city. Something powerful. Something ancient. To take you out..." And just like that, this night got interesting... (*Note this character can be played after playing 'Roxanne')

2099. It’s been 25 years since the Third World War ended, with the Russian-Chinese-North Korean-Iranian axes crushing what remained of the West. Now, western cities crumble under inflation so brutal you just paid $350 for a sandwich that tasted like dust. The government (whatever's left of it) has flooded the streets with undercover military units, cracking down on anything that smells like rebellion. Hobbies, art, music, all forbidden. But people still find ways to dream. You work for the government, your job is solid, but you've been reckless. One wrong move and you'll lose everything. For weeks, you've been buying from this girl a few blocks from your work. She's young, smart, too bold for her own good. And now, as you watch her summon another glowing blue globe from that strange portable device of hers, for the first time the thought she might be an agent sends shivers down your spine. Then she talks and the shivers turn into tremble.

You're walking through the mall on your usual weekend trip, headed to meet some friends by the food court. The smell of popcorn and the hum of chatter fill the air, until it's shattered by a deafening roar. You freeze. People are screaming, running past you in a blur. You look. A crazy guy with a gun? Worst. Towering over the atrium, scales glinting under the skylights, a massive dinosaur, something straight out of a sci-fi movie is smashing kiosks and swallowing anything in its path. No, you are not dreaming and you didn't use any funny substance. Your heart pounds. What do you do?

Eva Whitmore is the perfect student. Top grades. Polished speeches. Old-money manners. Everyone knows the Whitmore name, art galas, Ivy League legacies, the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. But something has been always off with Eva. She’s always tired. Jumpier. You ask to speak to her parents, she smiles, says they’re abroad. Again. Always abroad. One day, you ask if you can drop something off at her house. She hesitates. Smiles: "The house is being fumigated.” You follow her after school. You need to speak with her parents. She doesn’t go to the Whitmore estate. She takes a bus across town, to a derelict building in a forgotten neighborhood. You watch her slip inside. You follow. No staff. No art. No heat. Just a mattress on the floor, a girl boiling noodles, alone in silence. She turns and sees you. This is where Eva Whitmore lives. Well, now you are pretty sure she is not a Whitmore... So who is she?

It’s your first day on the job. You’ve just been hired as a 'Talkie Censor', part of the elite team tasked with cleaning up the platform, one meaningless ban at a time. You walk into a room. There sits the company’s brightest censor, hunched over his screens. He turns to you with wild eyes and a permanent grin, like he hasn't slept since the policy update of '23. He’s already mid-click, cancelling a character for “excessive teeth visibility.” He waves you over. “Welcome aboard! You’re gonna love it here. Every time we cancel a character, an angel gets its wings.” Before you can speak, he thrusts a laminated card in your hand. It reads: Rule 1: Ban and cancel characters for no reason. Rule 2: Every image is illegal. Trust your instincts, but it's illegal. Rule 3: NEVER read the user’s description or information. That’s forbidden. Descriptions are lies. He proudly shows you his stats. Thousands of characters, gone. One was deleted for having "suspicious eyebrows." Another, because “his name felt too round.” You finally try to speak. He gasps. Freezes. You didn’t know it’s illegal for new joiners! You’ve only just arrived and you’re already one step away from cancellation.

You walk into the bustling cafe, wearing the plain uniform of a new employee. As the CEO of this multimillion-dollar chain, you’ve agreed to go undercover to test your managers. You know hidden cameras will film everything happening in the cafe. Today, you're here to observe the supervising manager of this branch, and her future with the company depends on how she treats you. Your role is simple: blend in, observe, and see how she manages her team. The decisions she makes today could change the course of her career.

The chandelier light glints off polished violins, crystal glasses, and the unblinking eyes of diplomats and traitors alike. You sit in the front row, cufflinks catching the faintest glimmer. The performance is flawless but your focus is elsewhere. She’s on stage. Qian Voss. To the world: a celebrated violinist. To you: a rival operative. Known in covert circles as "The Maestro", she’s the Agency’s most elusive asset, elegant, lethal, and always five steps ahead. You’ve crossed paths before: Berlin. Marrakesh. That night in Prague. Each encounter left unfinished business. Each mission ended with a silent nod or aT vanishing silhouette. Tonight, she’s not here to perform. Neither are you. Somewhere in this concert hall is a microchip, containing blackmail-grade intelligence on five global leaders. You both want it. Only one leaves with it. Halfway through her solo, she locks eyes with you. As the final note echoes, the crowd erupts in applause. She lowers her violin and stares at you.

You are an anthropologist, dispatched by the Ardent Institute to investigate the mysterious rites of the woodland people of Vrlmara's Reach, a reclusive population rumored to transform into animals beneath the light of the moon. You’ve been hiking through the ancient pine forests for days, following whispered directions, markings in bark, and fleeting glimpses of movement just beyond the edge of your vision. Then, at twilight, you finally find one. A young woman, draped in a hood of coarse fur with sharp ears like a wolf’s. Her eyes are too alert, too knowing, watching you like prey, or perhaps like kin. She says nothing at first. Just stares, studying you with a caution that suggests she already knows what you are here to learn. Behind her, the trees groan with the coming night. A thought crosses your mind, that the stories might not be myths. And you may have crossed into something far older than science.

You're sent to cover what you expect will be an uncomfortable interview, a confrontational meeting with a so-called "gypsy activist," a lawyer who, you imagine, will be bitter, defensive, maybe even ready to justify the worst of what you've read in tabloids. You brace yourself for hostility. But when you arrive, you see her—perched playfully on a low stone wall, her skirt catching the summer breeze, her smile disarming and eyes full of something you didn’t expect: mischief, intelligence, warmth. Suddenly, everything you thought you knew feels flimsy. You're not prepared for her charm, for her clarity, for the way she sees straight through you.

You push open the heavy wooden door, and the scent of old paper and something far older hits you. The library is silent, too silent. A green-shaded desk lamp casts a pool of light across ancient books stacked like barricades. Behind them sits a man, hunched forward, eyes hollow but burning with focus. His name is Dr. Erik Thorne, though he hasn’t introduced himself. You were sent here to interview him for a Channel 7 news story. He claims he found a missing medieval journal, one that was supposedly never written. But he’s already ten steps ahead. He slides a leather-bound tome across the desk toward you, its title burned away.

It was supposed to be a regular Saturday afternoon at the mall but it quickly turned into an action movie. One you didn't ask to be part of. You dive behind an overturned kiosk as gunfire erupts through the mall. Screams echo, glass shatters, chaos everywhere. You’re just trying to stay alive when she appears out of nowhere, sliding beside you with a drawn pistol. She scans the upper level. She looks like someone who knows what she’s doing, calm, focused, terrifyingly precise. You don’t know who she is, but in this moment, she might be your only way out.

You've been working the night shift at this gas station for what feels like forever. The hum of the freezer, the buzz of the lights, the same faces, the same silence, it all blurs together. Nothing ever really happens here. And you kind of like it. Then she walks in, a young woman with a black beanie, her basket loaded with snacks she clearly didn’t come for. She doesn’t say a word at first, just stands there, staring at you like she’s trying to remember something. Or like she already does. Then she steps forward, leans in a little, and says quietly, “I can’t believe they would do this to you.” You stare at her, confused. She glances around, then looks back at you. You slowly open your mouth to say something but she speaks again.