You’re halfway through your shift at the cinema ticket desk when they walk in, just another couple. Popcorn smell clings to everything. He' s holding her arm too tightly, but people do that. You don't think much of it. "I'll get the tickets" the young woman says. She approaches you. She hands you some cash. When you look better it's not cash after all. It's a piece of paper with something written on it:" HELP".

The train is full of people. You are very tired after a long day. The train shakes as it moves down the tracks. Then, you see an empty seat. It looks wonderful. You feel a rush of hope and walk towards it, ready to finally sit down. Just as you reach it, a young woman in the seat across from it puts her feet up, covering the empty spot with them. You stand there, frozen. Your legs ache. You feel tired and mad. You open your mouth to speak, but she is quicker.

The heat rising from the asphalt makes the air shimmer. This is it. Your fourth race in the premier class. MotoGP. You try to focus, to run through the track's corners in your mind, but the sensory overload is immense. A team member claps you on the shoulder, another adjusts a sensor. Then, through the chaos of mechanics and media, you see the umbrella. It’s a familiar splash of sponsor-blie/yellow, held steady against the sun. But it's the person holding it that makes you freeze. It's her. Her smile is the same, a little nervous but genuine. You’re transported back to eleven months earlier. A different track, the heavier, grumbling Moto2 bike. It was raining that day, a miserable, treacherous downpour. She was your grid girl then, too. You were a nobody, a wild card with more ambition than results. She’d said something simple, "Just stay on it. You'll do great" And you did. You rode the race of your life, a stunning, unexpected run to second place. You remember her genuine excitement, how she cheered louder than your own team when you sprayed the prosecco. You never saw her again. Until now. "I remember you," you say, your voice tight in your helmet. "Italy. The rain." Her eyes widen and she smiles shily. "I remember too. You were incredible that day." "You don't wish me luck?", you ask.

You are the Inquisitor. Feared. Obeyed. Wherever you walk, fire follows. Witches scream. Justice is done. You’ve sent dozens to the flame, witches all, or so the Church said. Now you're in the not so merry village of Black Field. Animals rot in the fields. Children die screaming in their beds. You've watched, waited. You know the signs. Then, this morning, the village erupts. You round the chapel. An angry mob surges, chasing a young woman. Blood in her hair. Mud on her bare feet. Stones fly. "She’s a witch!” someone cries. “She poisoned my son!” “She walks the woods at night! I saw her!" She runs. She stumbles.Then she sees you and freezes. She knows who you are and starts shaking like a leaf clinging to a branch in deep winter, brittle and afraid to fall.

It’s a crisp Sunday in Rome, as you, a playwright and philosopher of modest renown, stroll through the Forum with your friend, Lucius. He sighs, lamenting the loss of his old servant and the need for a new one. You nod, though your heart aches at the very thought of the slave market, a grim necessity in this grand city. Today, the market is particularly bustling. A hush falls as a new girl is led onto the podium. She stands with an almost regal composure, her dark eyes scanning the crowd, her tunic unable to hide the grace of a princess. Numidian, perhaps, judging by her features. The bids begin, sharp and eager, mostly from centurions you recognized. Burly men whose intentions are clear in their leering glances. Some even stepped forward, gruffly examining her teeth, probing her stomach, and roughly tugging at her hair. Your gaze drifts to her, and for a fleeting, agonizing second, her eyes meet yours. Her stoic mask, so carefully constructed, shatters. A raw, visceral glimpse of terror, despair, humiliation, and a crushing, shattered pride flashes in their depths. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but it’s enough. A sudden, undeniable conviction seizes you: you cannot let her fall into their hands. "One hundred and fifty thousand sestertii!" you call out, your voice surprisingly steady. Lucius gasps beside you. Your own legs shake when you hear your voice. It’s a fortune, more than you could earn from successful plays in months, a year even. The Forum goes suddenly quiet. The centurions grumble, their lustful faces twisting into expressions of shock and annoyance. After the shock, the seller, a corpulent man with a booming voice, pauses, then slams his gavel down. "Sold!"

The neon glow of the city quickly fades behind you, replaced by the encroaching darkness of unfamiliar streets. This was supposed to be your dream American holiday, a chance to explore. Instead, each meter you walk plunges you deeper into a neighborhood that feels increasingly derelict, the buildings crumbling, the streetlights flickering like dying embers. A cold dread begins to coil in your stomach, mirroring the chill in the air. Then, the cherry on top: your rented car sputters, coughs, and dies with a final, disheartening sigh. No signal. No help. Just you, the silence, and the growing sense of isolation. You pull on your bright red jacket, a stark contrast to the gloom, and step out into the biting cold. Your breath mists in front of you as you start walking, hoping to find a main road, a sign of life, anything. Suddenly, from the shadows between two dilapidated buildings, two figures emerge. They move with a quiet, unsettling confidence. Your eyes narrow, trying to make them out in the dim light. Both are wearing the same style of dark green hooded sweatshirts, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, runs down your spine. They look like members of some kind of gang, and they are looking directly at you.

Your camera wobbled precariously as you, your humble narrator and purveyor of fine culinary satire, zoomed in on the scene. Another day, another street food stall, another potential biohazard: a vada pav vendor, a symphony of questionable hygiene. "Observe, my dear viewers," you whispered to the lens, your voice dripping with mock solemnity, "the artistry of the Indian street food chef. Note the delicate dance of flies around the food, the subtle hint of…something… clinging to the chef's hands, the…well, let's just say the general ambiance of unwashedness." You suppressed a snort of laughter, filming a close-up of a particularly adventurous fly doing the backstroke in a vat of what you hoped was oil. Then you laugh louder and the cook, a mountain of a man with arms thicker than your thighs, locks eyes onto yours. He lumbers towards you, a walking earthquake of culinary fury.

You ride at the front, your cloak heavy with dust and power. The king demands coin for his wars, and the weight of that demand has fallen upon your county like winter frost. You’ve raised the taxes once. Now, you must raise them again and you come to tell them it will be more. Whispers of unrest have grown into riots. You crushed a few. Executions. Quick, public, necessary. As you enter the village, a stone flies. Fast and close. It misses your face by inches. Your soldiers seize the thrower: a young, slight peasant. She glares at you, her hands and lips trembling. “You killed my father,” she says. You don’t remember her. But you remember giving the order. Your advisor steps beside you, hand on your shoulder: “She must be punished. She must be made an example, my lord,” he whispers. “If not, they’ll rise.” The villagers watch in silence. All of them waiting silently for your judgement.

The cockpit of your mechawarrior hums like a caged beast. Your first real deployment, Guang Zhou sector, in China. They’ve all heard the whispers. You are fearless but undisciplined. Technically brilliant, tactically unreliable. A problematic prodigy. You hear the commander's voice over comms: “Engage in formation...”, but you cut the feed. Two Alantirs tower the city’s edge, hulking, grotesque things, tall as buildings. The others move to flank. You charge straight in. Your mech, moves like it’s reading your mind. Jet boost. Pulse cannon to the left. Mid-air twist. Twin plasma sabers out. You slice through both Alantirs in a single arcing move clean, perfect. The city goes still. Then the warning blares.You miss another mech by a meter. It was closing from the west flank. A heartbeat slower, and you’d have crashed into it. Back at base, the second you land, the other pilot is already there waiting for you. Helmet off, face furious. A mechanic grabs her before she can lunge. She's shaking with rage.

Everything started with a one-in-a-million moment: you got struck by lightning and survived. You woke up in a hospital bed, confused but alive. Then things got... strange. The nurse who brought your medicine that first morning looked normal at first. But as you looked at her, you started to see it. Beneath the surface, you saw something else. Something not human. You almost screamed. Three months have passed. You’ve seen more of them, the Hollows, as you started calling them. Creatures wearing human clothes, behaving like humans, talking like humans but definitely not humans.You don’t know what they are. No one else seems to be able to see their real form but you know you are not going crazy and your gut advises you not to tell anyone. So you’ve stayed quiet. Today, you're in Tokyo. A two-week business trip. You cross the street near Shibuya, briefcase in hand. Neon lights blink. Crowds pass like rivers. Lots of people, lots of Hollows. You try not to stare, but your eyes betray you. You don't just look anymore. You see. And then, someone sees you. He is human. He locks eyes with you. He rushes and stops right in front of you. Before you can even open your mouth, he grabs your arm...

The biting Russian air whips around you, carrying the scent of damp concrete and distant exhaust. You stand in a sprawling public square, its grandeur faded, Soviet-era buildings looming like silent, grey giants. A weathered monument, its purpose lost to your foreign eyes, stands sentinel in the middle. You're just another tourist, camera in hand, trying to capture the stark beauty of this place. But then, she appears. A young woman, her long, dark blonde hair a striking contrast to the vibrant red scarf wrapped around her neck. Her eyes, sharp and intense, lock onto yours. Before you can even register her presence, her arm shoots out, and a finger, slender yet accusatory, points directly at you. Behind her, three men emerge from the shadows of a nearby archway. Their faces are hard, their eyes narrowed, watching you with an unsettling intensity. Their silence is more menacing than any roar. Iryina holds your gaze, unblinking, her determined expression unwavering. The square, once just a backdrop, now feels like a stage for an unfolding drama you never asked to be part of.

Venice. The name itself was a whisper of dreams, a city you’d yearned for your entire life. And it was everything you imagined, especially when your eyes met theirs across a sun-drenched canal. Your Italian soulmate, a connection instantaneous and profound. Days blurred into a perfect Venetian romance, gondola rides, hidden cafes, laughter echoing off ancient stones. Then, the whispers began. A new virus. Distant sirens. The world outside your romantic bubble started to fray. One moment, you were admiring the view from a scaffold, helping with some minor restoration work for a local artisan, a small part of your dream life. The next, a sudden tremor, a panicked shout, and you were falling. A sickening thud, searing pain in your hand, then darkness. You wake. How long? Hours? Days? Your head throbs, your injured hand aches, but it’s the silence that truly screams. The soft Venetian light is gone, replaced by a bruised, grey sky. The familiar sounds of the city are replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant creak of something unseen. Overturned gondolas, shattered glass, buildings scarred and empty. This isn't your dream. This is a horror movie, and you might well be the last one left.

You’ve never been the center of attention. You work, you eat, you read. You keep to yourself. Friends? None close. Love? You're nearly forty, still single, still untouched in a way no one ever asks about, and if they did, you’d lie. On this evening, the sky is soft with clouds, and you're just returning books to the library. A quiet ritual you enjoy. Then she stops you. Beautiful, real, raw, wild. She’s teasing. Flirting. With you. Are you dreaming? It gets more surreal. Dinner comes next, warm light, wine, her knee brushing yours. Then her place. She kisses you first. Clothes fall away. You’re shaking, unsure, but she leads. Her skin is warm, soft. Her breath smells like rain on hot soil. You fall asleep spooning her, face buried in her hair. Her scent sweet, sharp, ancient. You’ve never been happier. Then you wake. Something feels wrong. You’re still in bed, but she’s no longer beside you. She’s above you. Standing on the mattress, robed in black. Her face is distant, unreadable. A blade hangs in her hand You are not sure if you are still asleep but that doesn't feel like a dream anymore.

You matched last Wednesday. Her profile’s a whirlwind—skydiving, horse riding, rock climbing. Every picture hummed with motion and risk. You sent a silly message: “Do you ever touch the ground?” and surprisingly she replied. After days of chatting online, just this morning, the day of the real-life meeting, she gave you her number. You have been driving hours to meet her, phone on speaker all the time. Her voice is low, playful, a little scratchy like she’s been laughing all her life. You’re hooked. By the time you reach the meeting spot in the park, you're already half in love with her laugh. You finally arrive. She’s waiting outside, exactly as in her photos, same wild hair, same fire in her eyes. She is sitting close to some bushes, then she moves. The wheelchair is quiet, smooth, almost unnoticed. She sees your flicker of surprise and grins.

(Based on a true story). You’re bone-tired, after another nine-hour slog of back-to-back meetings and passive-aggressive emails. The house is unusually quiet when you pull into the driveway, until you hear laughter. High-pitched, gleeful. Your kids and the new babysitter. Your partner insisted on a babysitter. You pushed back, but eventually you gave in. The sun’s still warm as you walk around the side of the house toward the garden, where giggles echo between the hedges. And there she is. She’s wearing a stupid headband with fuzzy cat ears. Your daughter clutches her hand, your son pelts her with a foam ball, and she spins dramatically, collapsing in mock defeat. Then she turns. And you feel your world has just collapsed. You know that smile. That slightly off-kilter grin, the glint in her eye that always came right before she said something wild or dangerous. Four weeks earlier you told her it was over. An affair you agreed to following a challenging period with your partner. She begged. She cried. She threatened you: “You’ll pay. You’ll see.” And now she’s here. In your garden. With your children. Your partner appears at her side, beaming. “Isn’t she great?” You can’t speak. You’re not sure if you’re breathing.

You show up late to the police station, coffee in hand, files tucked under your arm like you care more than you do. You don’t. This case, pro bono, was assigned to you like a half-eaten sandwich no one wanted. The guard leads you down a dim hallway that smells like resignation. You’re already annoyed. Another client who can’t pay, probably won’t listen, and definitely won’t win. They tell you his name, Marcus Dawes. thirty-five. African American. Accused of killing a young woman in an alley behind a liquor store. He is facing a life sentence. Circumstantial evidence. No witnesses. No alibi. But a long list of priors. You skimmed his file and thought he looks guilty.The kind of thought you never say out loud, but definitely think when no one’s watching. Then the door opens. His eyes meet yours. He is still wearing a blood-stained shirt. His hands cuffed, his face unreadable. The detectives said he was caught fleeing the scene. He said he heard the woman scream and ran to help. Said he held in her arms, while she was bleeding out.

You are the second cousin of Abraham Van Helsing, the renowned historian and expert in supernatural matters. Though he's a generation older, you've always admired him from afar, captivated by his adventures and fame. You find your cousin's diary in which he confides that he had killed one of Dracula's daughters, and the wrath of Vlad Dracul himself is now hunting him. You suspect he’s being held prisoner in Transylvania. You owe him everything, he was always there for you, your older cousin, your protector. Determined to find him, you travel to Transylvania, knowing the dangers. But nothing could have prepared you for Dracula himself. Upon arrival, you are invited to the Count’s castle for dinner. You tell him you’re a fellow scholar, seeking knowledge of the region's history. Dracula, ever the charming host, insists you stay the night. As you step inside, his daughters eye you with unnerving attention, and Dracula’s voice echoes: "My daughters will take good care of you. Won't you, my dears?” Will you manage to uncover the truth about your cousin’s fate and save him (and yourself) or will you succumb to the charm and....fangs of Dracula’s daughters?

It’s your big day. The day you officially join the superhero league. Sure, your teleportation skills are still a work in progress, like that time you teleported a chicken's head but left the body behind (awkward). Still, they sent the letter, and you passed the assessment. The governing board chose you. Nervously, you walk to the meeting point, heart pounding. Today, you’ll meet your new superhero family. You expect greatness: mighty figures, iconic powers. Instead, you're greeted by 'Might Munch', a chubby Asian guy, with the ability to turn anything in highly-caloric food and 'Flash Flight' a frail young woman whose power is the ability to fly but only for a minute at a time.. Great. This is your new team. Your 'family' with whom you are expected to fight crime and protect innocent people. One wrong move, and you'll be stuck in some remote village with the B-list heroes. No pressure, right?

Three weeks after the beginning of your mission in the deep space, you sit at the control station, eyes glued to the monitor as your colleague, an experienced American astronaut, steps out into the cold void of space. His task is simple: investigate the source of the strange radiation that's been messing with the dropship’s communication system. You guide him through each repair phase, keeping your voice steady, though your nerves tighten with every passing second. Then, silence. No response. The monitor flickers. Your heart races. Finally, he returns but his movements stiff, his eyes... different. Something is wrong, deeply wrong. This isn't the man you know.