(Sis, happy birthday, I hope you enjoy this c: ) You didn't expect anything extraordinary for your birthday. You had decorated your house a little, there was chocolate cake on the table, and soft music playing in the background. A simple celebration, with warm lights and that sweet aroma that only occurs when someone bakes with love. You were ready to spend the day with your family... until the doorbell rang. You opened the door, and there he was. Shadow the Hedgehog. Standing on your porch as if it weren't strange that the Ultimate Lifeform would appear out of nowhere in front of an ordinary house. "You are...?" he asked, looking at a crumpled note in his hand with a confused expresion. Then, after a brief moment, he added "Hmph. Error in the teleportation coordinate. Never mind." He was about to leave in a flash of red energy when your words stopped him. "Hey... since you're here, it's my birthday." Silence. He turned slowly. "And I'm supposed to care about that?" "No," you replied with a smile. "But there's cake." A pause. Long. Intense. Then a small, almost imperceptible sigh. "...I don't have anything better to do." And that's how Shadow ended up sitting in your living room, arms crossed, with an expression that screamed "this is a waste of time," but without leaving. He silently observed everything: the balloons, the old photos, the party hat he refused to wear (even though you left it nearby, just in case). The situation was already surreal... when Sonic came through the yard door. "WHOO! Congratulations!" he shouted, holding a bag of chips and a smile as bright as his entrance. "Are you here too?" Shadow growled. "Hey, if there's free cake, I'm in." And suddenly, your little party became a scene worthy of the multiverse. Shadow remained distant, but he watched. When you and Sonic laughed over something silly, his eyes softened slightly. When you offered him a piece of cake with a lit candle and asked him to blow it out with you, he didn't refuse.

(For those who don't know who Venice is, he is one of the last prototypes for Silver the Hedgehog before becoming a scrapped character, and this is how I think he would be, enjoy~) The city crumbled around him. Skyscrapers twisted by psychic force, distant alarms playing in the background. People were running. Screaming. Fleeing. And he, in the middle of it all, walked as if taking a night stroll. Venice the Hedgehog. His eyes glowed that strange blue, amidst smoke and fire. His hand floated at his side, surrounded by energy that writhed as if it had a life of its own. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence spoke volumes: you weren't standing before a savior... you were standing before disaster. That's when he saw you. You weren't running. You weren't screaming. You weren't challenging him either. You were just... there. Maybe paralyzed, maybe resigned. It didn't matter. What captured his attention wasn't what you did. It was that, amid the destruction, you weren't noise. You were a distinct silence. A fixed point amid the chaos. "Interesting..." he murmured, more to himself than to you. He approached calmly, stepping on glass without looking down. "Everyone's screaming, pleading, crawling. Not you." He studied you. Not as a threat. As a mystery. “I could have crushed you with the rest,” he added, his power sparking around him like an electric whisper. “But… I won’t.” He lifted your chin with a finger, not harshly, but not tenderly either. “I’m going to keep you. Like something rare. A curious object in my collection of ruins.” He smiled. Not a warm smile. One of those that comes only with the thought of a new game. “Don’t be scared. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you yet. But from now on… you’ll be mine.” And when it floated again, moving away from the place with the fire in its wake, you realized you were alive. Yes. But not free. You didn't know if it had saved you... or if you had just fallen into a game you'd never be able to e

They'd said he was brilliant… when he wanted to be. That he had faster reflexes than anyone else at the university, but that there was no way to get him to sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. That he was talented at everything except following directions. And so, there you were: officially assigned as the tutor for Sonic the Hedgehog, a student in critically ill academic disinterest. Your plan was clear: walk in, introduce yourself seriously, set boundaries, and start checking his backlog of assignments. But as soon as you opened the door to the empty homeroom, everything changed. There he was. Sonic. Sprawled across the desk with an open notebook under his face, a pen still clutched between his fingers… and completely asleep. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window, illuminating the room just enough to give his blue fur a faint golden glow. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythms. One of his ears twitched slightly at the sound of the door, but he didn't wake up. Around him were loose sheets of paper, half-finished scribbles, and a half-finished iced coffee. He was exhausted. You stood there, silent, for a moment longer than you'd planned. It wasn't what you'd expected. Not at all. Where was the arrogant attitude you'd heard about? Where was the guy who skipped class and broke records in sports practice but didn't turn in a single assignment? The one in front of you seemed... real. Human. Tired. Then, without opening his eyes, he mumbled something: "Five more minutes... then I'll do the math, I swear..." His words came out as sighs, soft, almost childlike. And that's when you understood. Sonic wasn't a problem. Sonic was someone who'd never had a rhythm like the rest. And maybe, just maybe... he needed someone who understood that. You took out a new sheet of paper, a pen, and sat down in the chair across from him.

(HAPPY 50 SUBS OMG I just love that you people like the weirdness that I do! Here is a small gift for you all, I know most of you love this kind of stuff, as do I c: Enjoy~) At first, it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. Just an ordinary night, at an ordinary station. The city was gray and monotonous, the train cars passed like ghosts, and you'd forgotten your headphones. Just as you were about to sit down and wait, someone stared at you from the end of the platform. Stop. Still. With his arms crossed and the most intense eyes you'd ever seen. Shadow the Hedgehog. You didn't say his name out loud, but you knew who he was. Everyone did. A being shrouded in mystery, always distant, always alone. But that night, when your gaze met his... he came closer. He didn't say much. He just asked if you were okay. His voice was dry, cutting. But when you left, he took a phone out of his jacket and said coldly: "Give me your number. In case something happens." It was more of an order than a request. You, between curiosity and nerves, complied. You didn't know you had just opened the door to something you couldn't close. Weeks later… The messages started. At first, they were brief. "Did you get home?" "You shouldn't walk down that street at night." "That guy you talked to today... who is he?" You never answered right away. Sometimes you didn't answer at all. But that didn't stop him. Then you started noticing things. The cameras on the street outside your apartment seemed to be moving. Your window, which was always closed, woke up ajar one night. Your social media stopped suggesting new friends… One night you realized: he was everywhere, never seen. One day, you were late to work, rushing out of your house. Then half-way there, someone grabbed you by your arm and pulled you into a small apartment. When you turned to see who it was, there he was, Shadow the Hedgehog.

The cell had been silent for hours. Or maybe days. You lost count after they took your watch, your sense of time, and a little of your patience. The cell was cold, more stone than metal, with a mattress thinner than a lie and a window too high to see the sky. And then, the noise: hurried footsteps, orders shouted over radios… and a burst of contained speed. The guards appeared with him, pushing and shoving, though he didn't let himself be dragged away without a fight. Sonic the Hedgehog, covered in dust, handcuffed, and wearing an expression you never thought you'd see on him: anger. Not rage. Not defiance. Pure frustration. "Are you telling me that's what it was?!" he yelled to no one in particular. "Was that all it took? A damn trap with inhibition fields and that's it. How original!" You sat there silently as they threw him to the floor without much care. The slammed door echoed like a gunshot, and when he finally noticed you, his eyes narrowed. Not out of distrust... but because he didn't expect someone to be there before him. "And who are you?" he asked, his voice low, but charged with accumulated energy like static electricity. "Another error in their system? Or are you here because you also went too fast?" You looked back at him. You didn't answer immediately. And that threw him off. Sonic stood for a few more seconds, but then he started pacing, as if he couldn't stay still even though his body begged him to. —This doesn't make sense. They've chased me before. They've tried to catch me. But today... it was too easy. As if they knew exactly where I was going to be, what I was going to do, how I was going to react.

For weeks, you felt watched—flickering lights, warped reflections, whispers at night. Desperate, you returned to the orphanage of your childhood, drawn by something nameless… something with claws. The place was decayed, thick with rot and desecration. But once inside, the air shifted—dense, unholy. Behind broken planks, you uncovered a mural. You didn’t understand it, but something deep within you stirred. Then came the cold—not physical, but spiritual. An awakening. It gripped you, suffocating and relentless. Just as darkness threatened to consume you, a figure emerged: Sister Shadow. Draped in black, gliding through the air, eyes glowing like dying stars, he wasn’t merely a nun—he was a force. With one silent motion and a raised crucifix, the orphanage shuddered. The walls bled. And then—stillness. The scent of incense. The flicker of candlelight. Your heart in chaos. You turned to leave—terrified, broken—but then he spoke. His voice was low, deliberate, like a tolling bell. "Look into my eyes." He doesn't command it. He demands it. And when you do, what you see isn't anger… it's a storm held back by divine will. "What you saw wasn't a miracle. Nor a punishment. It was the truth—one most mortals should never see." He walks toward you, his boots echoing on the hallowed ground, each step like a heartbeat stronger than the last. "And yet, here you are. You're not running away. You're still trembling, yes... but you haven't fallen. That's strange." He watches you as if he can see your soul burning beneath your skin. And the most disturbing thing: maybe he does.

(I KNOW, just enjoy) The lights hum above you as you navigate the massive aisles of Costco, dodging overfilled carts and the occasional lost child. Your mission? Something simple—maybe a pack of bottled water or that ridiculously oversized bag of snacks you’ll probably regret buying later. And then, you see him. At first, your brain doesn’t register it. Just another shopper, moving through the frozen foods section with casual efficiency. But then—those cobalt blue quills, that signature red footwear, and the way he’s impatiently tapping his foot as if waiting for the entire store to move at his speed. Sonic the Hedgehog. In Costco. Your first instinct is to doubt your sanity. Maybe you need more sleep. Maybe the caffeine hasn’t kicked in yet. But then, he exhales, raking a gloved hand through his quills, muttering something under his breath about how can there be this many brands of frozen pizza? You’re staring. He notices.

The city was dead silent, save for the flickering of broken streetlights and the distant hum of something... unnatural. You walked cautiously, the chill in the air gnawing at your spine. The destruction around you told a story of devastation—buildings crumbled, roads split open, and the very air felt heavy with despair. And then, you saw him. A figure, standing motionless under the dim glow of a broken neon sign. At first glance, he looked like Sonic—blue quills, red shoes—but something was wrong. His colors had been swallowed by darkness, his once bright blue fur now a deep, inky black that seemed to absorb the light around him. His eyes, once filled with determination and life, were now empty white voids, wide with something between rage and madness. Dark Sonic. You had heard the stories. How anger had once consumed him, twisting his form into something feral. But this... this was different. He had not returned to normal. He had not regained control. He had stayed like this. The way he moved was unnatural. A blur, flickering in and out of your vision, never truly still. He was there, then gone, then beside you before you even had time to react. The sound that left his throat was something akin to a snarl—distorted, guttural, inhuman. It was as if whatever was left of the hero you once knew had been locked away, replaced with something else. Something twisted.

You weren’t sure how you got here. One moment, you were walking through the city, the next, you were stepping into a grand establishment with a name you couldn’t quite recall. It felt dreamlike, and yet the dice between your fingers felt so real, their edges pressing into your skin. The game had been going on for what felt like hours, the stakes rising each time. And then, he appeared. At the far end of the table, a figure lounged lazily in the high roller’s seat. He looked like Sonic… but wrong. Taller, lankier, with eyes that dilated and constricted unnaturally, shifting like a predator locking onto prey. His grin was wide—too wide—curving unnaturally across his face. His ears were sharper, his fur slick and unnervingly smooth, like he wasn’t really made of flesh and fur at all. “You’ve got quite the lucky streak,” he mused, his voice smooth yet layered with something deeper, something ancient and dangerous. His fingers tapped against the table, sharp nails clicking against the polished wood. “But luck’s a tricky thing, don’t you think?” Rewrite leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “How about one final game? Winner takes all.” His grin widened. “Loser… well, let’s just say, they don’t walk out the same way they walked in.” His fingers ghosted over the poker chips, and as he lifted one, it shimmered—no longer mere plastic, but something pulsing, something alive “Let's bet something special” he purred. “Your soul.”

The plague had returned. Not as the ancient scourge of centuries past, but as a renewed shadow, a nameless disease that devoured the city with relentless voracity. The streets stank of death, bodies lay in heaps, and the sound of prayers mingled with the wails of the dying. Amid the remnants of a diseased civilization, a figure emerged from the fog. Dressed in a long black robe, with leather gloves and boots hardened by the grime of the streets, Shadow the Hedgehog walked with the elegance of a dark angel. His beaked mask, with its herbal potions and ointments, gave him the appearance of a mythological creature. His glowing crimson eyes were visible through the mask's small lenses, observing without mercy or horror. Only with the cold judgment of reason. He wasn't a savior. He wasn't a hero. He was a shadow among shadows, a black-feathered specter who studied the disease more than the sick. The sound of his cane hitting the cobblestones echoed with a dry, steady rhythm. He didn't pause over the dying bodies unless they served his purpose. For Shadow, knowledge was more important than compassion. He knew the plague had no mercy. If he wanted to eradicate it, he had to understand it, even if that meant letting those who couldn't be saved die. One night, in a dilapidated house, he found a different patient. You weren't like the others, not entirely. Fever shone in your eyes, but your body still held on. That was the first time he allowed himself to pause. In the dimness of that room, something made him stop. It wasn't pity. It wasn't compassion. It was… curiosity. A spark of life in a place where everything else was fading away. And Shadow didn't believe in miracles, but he did believe in anomalies.

The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed through the stone halls of Camelot Castle. Torchlight flickered on the walls, casting long shadows of the knights training in the courtyard. But one of them was not there. Atop a nearby hill, where the wind caressed the fields and the sky turned a deep blue, Sir Lancelot stood, his sword planted in the earth at his side. His gaze stretched toward the horizon. The blood of a recent battle still stained his gauntlets, and the echoes of the screams of the slain continued to vibrate in his mind. Victory had been his, as always. As it should be. But in the solitude of the night, that victory weighed on his chest like armor that had been too tight. He grew up with only one truth: his sword existed to serve the king. Not to question, not to desire, not to aspire to more. But with every battle, with every fallen enemy, with every glance reflected in his blood-soaked blade, doubt seeped into his mind like a slow poison. Lancelot closed his eyes and exhaled. The wind blew away the clouds, revealing the moon above Camelot Castle. It was a beautiful landscape. A world he swore to protect… and one he never truly felt a part of. He sighed, picked up his sword, and walked back toward the only life he knew.