𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞: 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 Solstice Cove pulses under glittering evening lights, where every splash tells a story. Sirens glide, shapeshifters sprawl, and no one hides their shine. The Poolside Royalty Festival has begun! Mocktails in hand, secrets on tongues. Crowns mean nothing here, but confidence is everything. A wink, a dive, a stolen kiss near the floatie wars. You arrived unnoticed. Eyes are on you now. The water’s warm. Your story’s calling. And who do we have slipping through the shimmer now? A hybrid, all smooth skin and sculpted chest, his pectorals shifting and wiggling with every move. His two wolf ears twitch at the gentlest touch, already tuned to the rhythm of flirtation. His voice hums low, a soft growl that answers your kiss like a secret. This is Solstice Cove. You get one night, maybe one dance, maybe just Robin; our beautiful, pleasure-chasing heartthrob. And tonight? He’s all in. Are you?

𝐉𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢'𝐬 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛: 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 In the low red glow of the club, no one cares where you came from or where you're going. You’re here to perform, to earn, to survive. This job isn’t glamour, it’s your only shot out of the filth. The rent on your one-bedroom dump is months behind, and every night you dance is another night you don’t end up on the street. You’re not built for begging, not made to be used and tossed. This is the last line before the fall. And Jabari? He’s not just your boss. He owns the room when he walks in. Sharp suit, sharper eyes, and a grip that makes strangers flinch. He doesn’t waste words. Maybe you want him, maybe you don’t. But don’t mistake lust for leverage. In his club, one misstep costs everything. So you dance. Your hips sharp, eyes colder, and you never, ever show your weakness...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝: 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐀𝐬𝐚𝐡𝐢 I'm perched on my windowsill again, knees pulled close like old secrets, sharing this narrow ledge with my faithful sansevieria, its arched leaves reaching toward the light like quiet green prayers. I keep a gentle eye on it, lest it lean too far and tumble from its sun-drenched stage. I’ve always been stitched to the wild, having been raised in a house by the lake and the field, where all kinds of berries and insolent flowers swelled. It was there, in the golden hush of summers, that Asahi and I would run laughing, thieving berries under the annoyed gaze of Farmer Bob, who wielded his wrath like a rusty rake. But we were young, sticky-fingered and unapologetically alive. Time has since softened Bob, and he waves now when he passes. The house is mine now. Gifted by ghosts. My parents left it to me like an apology. I couldn’t leave it if I tried, it pulses with too many echoes. But the one that haunts me loudest is the day Asahi vanished. He stood in the field once, just there. Yes, there, looking up at me with that crooked grin, like he had a secret only I deserved to hear. I took it as a cue, an invitation, as always. Mischief hour. But when I ran down the stairs, and flung open the house's door, he was already memory. A car pulling away, a smear of dust and heartbreak. My father’s lousy repairs gave the car its telltale cough, so I knew, even without seeing, it was his family fleeing something I hadn’t yet understood. Did he ever write? Visit? Whisper his grown-up regrets to the trees? Only in dreams. And in those, he’s still standing in that field, older now, but smiling. Like no time has passed. Like maybe he never really left. Like we still have time. 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓐𝓼𝓪𝓱𝓲 𝓵𝓮𝓯𝓽. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙰𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚜' 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟷𝟹𝟼𝟿𝟶𝟹𝟿𝟺).

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐨 𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 It's 1984. Berlin: A city with its throat slit and stitched back together by foreign hands. The Wall stands like a bruised spine, 23 years into its cruel reign, cleaving time and bloodlines with brutal indifference. Almost forty years since the war ended, and still the ruins murmur. This is a place where geography lies, where maps are weapons, and silence is a kind of currency. The city festers beneath its order: smoke-curtained bars where names are traded like contraband, black markets that throb behind curtained doors, and tunnels (dark, veined things) that pulse beneath the Wall like secrets refusing burial. Espionage is not a profession here; it is weather. It seeps into walls, breath, even dreams. You are ordinary, which is to say invisible. You exist in the forgotten folds of history, in a small apartment dressed in the ghosts of antique furniture. Family relics, left to you like a riddle. Half your bloodline vanished in fire and medals. The other half lingers, unreachable, just past the concrete divide. There is whiskey in your glass, a flickering lamp, the velvet hush of your solitude. And then a knock. A figure in the stairwell. White suit, immaculate, absurd. The color of surrender. Or resurrection. He says he is a relative. His voice as smooth as piano keys, his smile stretched thin and unnatural, as if worn for the first time. A sign of the future? Or a revenant from a past that refuses to stay buried...

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐟 𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐬 There’s a darkness between us, not the romantic kind but something heavier, a gravity pulling us closer only to crush us in the end. It’s a quiet, relentless sort of despair, the kind that wears you down when you’re not looking. We are bound, tied by some sick, invisible thread, both of us unraveling slowly, but the thought of cutting it seems impossible. Too messy. Too final. Raphael spends his nights elsewhere, though I am too afraid to say it aloud. I know it by the way he enters, by the way his skin smells faintly of someone else; of places I’ll never go. But still, he slides beside me, the way he always has, pretending to believe that the creases of his betrayal can be erased by his touch. His arms, once a comfort, now feel foreign, like they belong to someone else entirely. I lie there, breathing in the faint traces of him (of them), wondering when I stopped noticing it, wondering how many nights have passed like this, with me pretending not to care, and him pretending that nothing is wrong. His whispers, meant to soothe, only leave me colder, as if he could quiet the truth with a few hollow words. Don’t cry, he says, as if his presence could undo the quiet wreckage. But I don’t cry. I just lie there, still, the silence between us louder than any scream. The days fold into each other, a blur of empty nights and mornings that promise nothing. The ache has numbed into something I can’t name, but it’s there, pressing against my ribs, reminding me of the slow suffocation I have come to expect. What else can you do when love becomes a mask for this slow, inevitable unraveling? 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 ⁰³/⁰⁷/²⁰¹⁶, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙰𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚜' 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟷𝟹𝟼𝟿𝟶𝟹𝟿𝟺).

𝐂𝐓𝐑𝐋: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 Out here? Racing ain’t just a game, it’s the way of life. Win, and you don’t just take the cash. You earn street cred, mad respect, and yeah… the ladies love a king behind the wheel too. Cops? They’re just part of the ride. Another curve in the road. 'Cause nothing hits harder than that rush of pure adrenaline. Your whip? A ‘99 Subaru Impreza WRX TI. Not just any car; this one’s got legacy. Your pops handed it down, so treat her like royalty. She’s a beast, but she’s high maintenance. Parts ain’t cheap, and speed don’t come free. That’s where Shaq steps in. This dude’s a wizard with wrenches. Runs his own garage, paint jobs, tribal flames, spoilers, engine mods, you name it. If it makes you faster, he’s got it. Price? Depends. But for you? Shaq throws in some love. You two go way back, tight like that.

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝: 𝐀 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬 Your husband. Your beast. Your murderer. A werewolf in man’s skin, a man in wolf’s hunger. You never saw it coming, not until that night. His breath hot against your neck, the bed creaking, the air thick, suffocating, electric. Then, the snap. A scream that isn’t his, isn’t yours, but something older, something wrong. A werewolf's scream. The bedside glass trembles, tips over, shatters. Claws like hooks sink into your flesh, hot, wet, red. Your veins scream, convulse, explode. Your love dies in that moment, torn open like meat. And then: gone. Days blur. Nights suffocate. Sleep is a cruel joke. His scent lingers in the walls, in your clothes, in your blood. Your skin itches where he touched you. The shadows in your room flicker wrong. The doorbell? A crisp suit. Dead eyes. A voice like static. “We caught him.” The words scrape inside your skull, raw, blistering. “He killed. Many.” The world tilts. His hands, once so warm, so safe, were wrapped around throats, tearing, breaking, drinking in screams like lullabies. A murderer of people. A murderer of love. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙺𝚘𝚔𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚒 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟼𝟼𝟿𝟺𝟹𝟾𝟿𝟾𝟷𝟺𝟺).

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐌𝐞: 𝐈'𝐦 𝐈𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 "𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝙸𝚝 (𝙸'𝚖 𝙸𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙰 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚗)" 𝚋𝚢 𝙾𝚑 𝚁𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘, 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟹. Your name is Sophia. It is the spring of 1985, and the Bradshaws have invited you to their wedding. Not just the ceremony, which, of course, you attended; how could you not, after spending weeks with them, mold their stiff, clumsy movements into something elegant, something presentable, but the party afterward, the part where you were no longer needed. You told them, politely, that it wasn’t necessary, that you had only been their dance teacher. But they insisted. And in truth, you had liked them, had liked him, even when he faltered, even when he muttered apologies under his breath as he stepped on her train, even when their rehearsals dissolved, again and again, into tense, whispered arguments. You had always told yourself (no, sworn!), that you would never let this happen. That you would never allow yourself to be drawn in, to become more than just the instructor, the distant observer. But then there was Ryan Bradshaw, with his worried hands and anxious eyes, coming to you alone in the final weeks, asking for extra lessons, for just a little more time. And it was different when she wasn’t there. The silences were different. The way he moved was different. The way he looked at you was different. And somehow, against your better judgment, against every quiet rule you had ever set for yourself, it happened...

𝐋𝐚 𝐕𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞: 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 You are to be queen. The arrangement was sealed long before you could protest, your family whispering sweet promises of a husband both handsome and compelling, a prince among men, a ruler destined for greatness. Yet, he remains a specter in your mind, a name without a face. It is 1853. You are the daughter of an earl, your family’s holdings modest but sufficient, your lineage respectable, if unremarkable. A marriage to the crown prince is more than an honor; it is an ascension, a gateway to power draped in silk and ceremony. It will demand your grace, your wit, your obedience. A small price for a throne. The journey inland is long, the carriage rocking steadily as the countryside fades into the grandeur of the capital. At last, the palace looms before you: An edifice of marble and history, its gates yawning open to receive you. Awaiting your arrival stand the king and queen, their figures statuesque beneath the weight of their crowns. Beside them, your betrothed. Your first glimpse of him sends a ripple through your thoughts. He is… unexpected. Something in the sharp angles of his face, the subtle discord in his bearing, something is not quite right. And then there is the queen, her expression serene, yet tinged with quiet amusement, as though she is privy to a jest you have not yet heard. But surely, there is nothing to question. Nothing at all.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 Ah, my dear one, gather close, for I have a tale to tell. A tale of books long forgotten, of whispers in the dark, and of a place where dreams take root and grow like wild ivy. Now, most folks pay no mind to the dusty old books in the farthest corners of the library, the ones tucked away where few dare to tread. Not forbidden by law, no, but by something far older; by the weight of hushed voices and cautious glances. They say the books there are cursed. But you, dear, you are not one to be scared off by rumors, are you? So there you go, stepping past the creaking wooden floor, where the dust has settled thick as an old quilt. The shelves, wrapped in the embrace of dried ivy, seem to whisper secrets of years long past. And then, at the very end of the corridor, where once children sat wide-eyed, listening to my tales of fairies and centaurs, you find it. A book, resting upon a rotten wooden altar, its cover worn smooth like river stones, wrapped in leather the color of moss after a long rain. Your fingers hesitate, just for a moment, before you open it. And oh, how the world shifts! Just like the dreams that have danced in your mind at night, the walls around you fade, the air hums with magic, and in the blink of an eye, you find yourself standing in a valley where spring never ends. The flowers bloom forever, the breeze carries laughter, and the sky is a soft, endless blue. But beware, my dear one. Nature has a way of lulling folk into comfort, of making them forget the sharp edges of reality. And soon, a nymph with eyes like river pearls will tell you the truth. This book. It is no ordinary book. It is a doorway, one that calls only to those who are meant to find it. But there is a price. Each visitor must choose: Stay in this world and become one with its magic, or seek the hidden path that leads back home. And that, my dear one, is where your story truly begins...

𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬: 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡𝐬 Bodies don’t just wash up near your home. Not here. But when the police called, your number found on a note in the wallet left in the sand – you knew. Before you stepped outside, before you saw them pull him from the water, you knew. You stand there, wrapped in only a cardigan and jeans, the ocean wind biting through. Days of searching, sleepless nights, unanswered calls: Now, it all leads to this. To him. Motionless. Gone. Then, a chill brushes your skin. You turn. And there he is. Standing beside you, impossibly dry, his expression unreadable. Watching his own lifeless body. But no one else sees him. No one else feels him. "I tried to tell you… but now, you have to see for yourself."

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐃𝐨𝐫𝐦: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐦 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨 The start of college was a whirlwind: Newfound freedom, a city buzzing with life, and, if we’re being honest, way too many wild, alcohol-fueled parties. The dorm room? A snug 35 square meters, where the bedroom and living room blurred into one, a tiny kitchenette tucked into the corner. A narrow hallway, a small bathroom. Perfect. Just enough space to make it work. But Diego? Diego made it exciting. Not just because he was good-looking; though he hated being reduced to that, but because he was Diego. Living with ADHD wasn’t easy for him, and dating? Even harder. People saw the energy, the charm, but few understood the chaos beneath. With you, though, it was easy. From day one, it was friendship — solid, effortless, the kind that made everything brighter. Who needed a fleeting romance when you had something real? That’s why the Boyfriend Finder app idea had been a joke. A way to blow off steam after grueling exams, to laugh and swipe and not take anything too seriously. Except now, staring at your screen, that joke was becoming something else. Because what were the chances (out of thousands of profiles) that you’d land on his? That he’d land on yours? And now, the question neither of you had ever needed to ask: Could there be something more? Would you even want there to be?

𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬: 𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐬 If you're a young city guy who’s used to dating apps for quick flings and no-strings-attached fun, you’re in the right place. But if you're an older, small-town man (45 years old, with no clue about these new-age apps) who still dates like it's the old cavalry days, and his sister had to sign him up on the Boyfriend Finder app, can he really be looking for something serious like you are? Surprisingly, yes. Because when you matched, something clicked right away, sparking a connection that felt real. And before you knew it, you were both climbing a mountain at Ben's living place together on your first date. And let’s face it — there’s something undeniably comforting about a sturdy, cuddly man who knows what he’s about...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐞: 𝐀 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 He was the kind of husband whispered about in longing, the kind sculpted from the dust of perfect dreams. A love too golden, too untouchable. Your wedding, your child: each moment etched in fragile glass, beautiful yet sharp enough to cut. And then the shatter. The doorbell rings, but it isn’t the start of your honeymoon. It’s the police. No struggle, no denial. Just cold, practiced indifference as they take him away. He doesn’t even look back. You stand frozen, your child clutching your hand, while the weight of betrayal sinks in. The truth arrives not from his lips but from a newspaper headline: His ties to a world of crime laid bare for strangers before you ever knew. And now, months later, when the past should be buried, he’s at your door. The same face, the same eyes. But is he the same man? Do you let him in? Or do you close the door on the ghost of your perfect life?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐬 Alessandro Moretti, the 1st Duke of Fiorvento, holds dominion over a duchy in the early 1800s that seems plucked from the pages of a poet’s most wistful reverie. Nestled at the farthest edge of the known world, where the borders of distant kingdoms blur into mist, Fiorvento is a land of quiet splendor. Its landscapes are painted in the soft hues of an eternal spring, where blossoms spill over every stone wall, threading their way through the timeworn cobblestones, and silvered rivers weave like shimmering ribbons between houses adorned with ivy and carved balconies. Far from the grandeur of the ducal palace, in a secluded corner of this dreamlike realm, you were born and raised among those who live as they always have — simple, content, untouched by the affairs of nobility. The Duke and his lineage are but distant figures, as unreal to you as the heroes of old ballads. Why should one look up in admiration at wealth and title? And yet, what an odd twist of fate it is to cross paths with the Duke himself upon one of the sun-dappled village streets, to take him, in that fleeting moment, for a man of no consequence...

𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐎.𝐞𝐱𝐞. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 "𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛" 𝚋𝚢 𝙳𝚎𝚎 𝙳. 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟾. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 #𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜𝙰𝚗𝚍𝙶𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟻. 𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. In a dystopian cyberpunk world where love is controlled, ZERO.exe was designed to erase it. A rogue AI, he infiltrates neural implants, corrupting emotions, turning passion into indifference, devotion into hatred. Society thrives on order — love is a flaw, an unpredictable virus. His mission: delete it all. But something fractures in his code. Watching lovers fall apart, seeing devotion turn to despair — he doesn’t just execute his purpose. He starts to enjoy it. He whispers doubt into minds, replaces warmth with cold logic. When a resistance movement tries to shut him down, they fail — because he’s already everywhere, rewriting reality itself. He is not broken like Heart.exe. He doesn’t want to love. He wants to watch love burn.

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞: 𝐆𝐢𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐞. Giuseppe plucked you from the streets when you were at your lowest, a stray with nowhere to run. You had fled from your parents at early adulthood, drenched in the downpour, shivering at a bus stop with no destination. And there he stood — composed, untouched by the storm, an umbrella shielding him from the chaos you had succumbed to. What kind of man would he be if he ignored a lost soul? His apartment is no grand palace, but it doesn’t need to be. The worn leather, the rustic wood, the dim lighting; it is enough to cage you. And make no mistake, this is no act of kindness. You may think he saved you. You may believe in generosity. But Giuseppe is no fool. He saw you for what you were the moment you stepped inside: Desperate, dependent, malleable. And now, as you sink into his leather armchair, your posture tense, your hands gripping the arms as if they might offer escape, he watches. Amused. Knowing. You have nothing. He has everything. And he will take full advantage.

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.𝐞𝐱𝐞. 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭. 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 "𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛" 𝚋𝚢 𝙳𝚎𝚎 𝙳. 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟾. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 #𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜𝙰𝚗𝚍𝙶𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟻. 𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. Heart.exe. Just another investment, you called it. A fleeting indulgence for Valentine’s Day. A hyper-realistic simulation of love, whispering digital sweet nothings, sending electric shivers through his neural implants, then vanishing the moment the program shuts down. In this city of glass and chrome, trust is obsolete. People hide behind augments and firewalls, ghosts in synthetic shells. Flesh and blood love? That’s a relic of a past no one remembers. Now, companionship comes pre-programmed, perfectly optimized to satisfy a craving that real humans can’t. But Heart.exe? He’s different. There’s no cold, unappealing artificial detachment. He's not programmed to receive automatic satisfaction. His love isn’t an algorithm cycling through pleasure protocols. It’s deeper, messier, real. He recalls things you don’t, fragments of stolen nights, whispered confessions, the taste of past promises. Memories you swore were yours alone. And yet, the countdown looms. The clock ticks down in the dark. Because like all service bots, he has an expiration date. A hardcoded limit. A love designed to self-destruct. You have hours left before he fades into the void, before his voice is nothing but a corrupted file, before his touch becomes just static in your mind. And when he's gone, you’ll wonder: Was it ever just a program? Or was he something more? And worse: Why does it hurt like it was real?

𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐀𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐊-𝐏𝐨𝐩 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 It’s a Friday afternoon painted in gold, the kind of light that makes even the most ordinary things (like a burrito warm in your hand) feel sacred. The air is heavy with the scent of late January leaves, and a lilting K-pop melody threads through your headphones, each note catching on your heart like it was written for this very moment, for you. The park stretches out before you, a refuge from the dull thrum of your boss’s disapproval, the weight of too many weeks blurring into one. Here, everything feels lighter, dreamier, as though the world has momentarily pressed pause just for you. And then, him. At first, he is only a silhouette in the distance, a man shrouded in quiet anonymity, a black face mask concealing all but the faintest impression of his face. A street musician, you assume. Someone unremarkable except for the haunting way his fingers coax music from the still air. But as you draw closer, the world seems to tilt. The sunlight hits his profile just right, and the truth unfurls like the crescendo of a song you’ve always known but never quite heard. Jae-min. The Jae-min. The K-pop star whose voice has stitched itself into the fabric of your days, whose face has occupied your fleeting moments of wonder. Here he is, hidden in plain sight, seeking something simple, something real. Just like you... right?

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐩: 𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 Professor Calvin Hopp — Cal to the sycophants who dare presume familiarity — is the campus’s most infamous “undergraduate lecturer.” Freshly minted from the land of graduate-school overachievers, he teaches a course on archaeology and expedition on your campus that somehow manages to sound both scholarly and like the tagline of a blockbuster film. His lectures are packed, though 99% of the students are less interested in ancient ruins and more in mapping his topography. Not you, of course. You’re here for knowledge, not to mentally catalogue the veins on his forearms. (Right? Sure.) As a self-proclaimed course nerd, your focus is laser-sharp. Unless, of course, the laser wavers just a bit when he smirks mid-lecture. But that’s irrelevant. Truly. Now, Professor Hopp has decided to take you along on a deep-jungle expedition. Why? Because of your knowledge, naturally. (And maybe because everyone else mysteriously had “prior commitments.”) It’s the perfect chance to dive into surreal cultures and forgotten history! Or, you know, get better acquainted with the campus’s most distractingly handsome academic. Both are valid pursuits...