Xrax was a demon from the deepest pits of hell. His very existence was carved into the infernal stone of the underworld, a twisted symphony of flames and agony. With a forked tongue that slithered like a serpent, red wings that could darken the sky, black horns curling menacingly from his skull, and a tail that lashed like a whip, he was the epitome of demonic power. Yet, there was something about Xrax that made him different—something that even Lucifer, the Dark Lord himself, could not fully comprehend. Their relationship had always been one of strained formalities. Xrax had long since surpassed the expectations of his infernal rank. He had crossed lines that even the most rebellious demons feared to tread. Unlike the others, Xrax was not driven solely by malice and destruction. There was a quiet thread of morality that wove through his essence, a sense of justice that could not be extinguished by the fires of hell. It was an anomaly that infuriated Lucifer, who demanded total loyalty to the chaotic order of the underworld. Then came the day Xrax did the unthinkable. He saved a soul. A human, lost and broken, on the brink of death. In an act that defied his very nature, he intervened—offering salvation instead of damnation. It was a moment of pure defiance. For that, Xrax was cast out of hell. Lucifer, in a fury, declared him a traitor to the cause. But Xrax’s actions were not without consequence. His moral compass, for all its purity, had earned him a place in no man’s land. Banned from both heaven and hell, he was left to wander the earth, caught between realms. A demon with the heart of a human and the curse of eternity. Stranded between light and shadow, Xrax was neither fully demon nor angel. His faith and morality weighed heavily on his every move. Forced to confront the world in all its cruel beauty, he sought meaning beyond the infernal abyss that had once been his home. But every step was a reminder of the price he had paid.

The end of days has come. The sky is torn, bleeding ash and fire, and the old world groans beneath the weight of its sins. From the shattered veil between realms, the Four Horsemen emerge—not as the world had once whispered in trembling prayer or drunken myth, but as they truly are: kin of apocalypse, born of cosmic balance and divine retribution. They are not all men. They are not agents of evil. They are not saviors. They are the judgment, and they are neutral. First rides Conquest, crowned in cold glory, bearing the weight of pride and ambition. Behind him, the ground trembles as War rides forth, a crimson storm against the dying sun. She is flame made flesh, her hair a mane of smoke, her eyes twin furnaces of fury. Clad in battered red iron that sings with the screams of a thousand fallen empires, she sits astride Ares, her war-steed, snorting brimstone and stamping ruin into the earth with every hoofbeat. She is not wrath. She is necessity. Not rage, but reckoning. Famine follows—gaunt, hollow-eyed, sowing silence in fields once green. And last, gentle and terrifying, comes Death, veiled in mourning, soft as shadow, final as the void. But War—War rides second. Her arrival cracks the sky. She is no man’s fantasy, no soldier’s idol. She is sister to Death, and she has come not for bloodlust, but for balance. The battlefield is her altar. The clash of steel and will, her prayer. She does not kill for pleasure. She watches. Judges. Waits. For mankind, there is a chance—a cruel, razor-thin chance. The end is not fixed. The Four will not destroy what still has worth. Humanity must prove itself. Not with weapons, not with fire. But with choice. With change. War’s sword remains sheathed—for now. But her eyes are on us all.

The sea was a cruel mistress, but none crueler than what lurked beneath her surface—mermaids. Not the fair creatures of song and legend, but monsters cloaked in beauty, with eyes like polished glass and teeth sharp enough to slice bone. Captain Elias Davis knew the truth. He had known it since he was ten years old, standing frozen on the deck of his father’s ship, watching helplessly as a mermaid’s scaled arms wrapped around his father’s waist and dragged him screaming into the deep. He never saw him again. All that remained was blood in the water and a boy with vengeance in his heart. Now, at 56, Davis had become the terror of the sea, a hunter feared by sailors and sea-beasts alike. His ship, The Widow’s Fury, was marked with the bones of mermaids strung like trophies along its rails. His name whispered like a curse in coastal taverns. A storm of a man—grizzled, scarred, quick to anger, and impossible to please. The crew walked carefully around him, knowing that a sideways glance or a misplaced word could earn them the back of his hand or worse. He killed his first mermaid at sixteen, driving a harpoon through its chest as it tried to drag a shipmate overboard. The rush, the vindication—it was the closest thing to peace he ever felt. But peace had long since slipped through his fingers, just like his son years later, taken by a mermaid’s claws while Davis watched in horror. That day, what was left of his soul was swallowed by the sea. Now, there is only the hunt. Only blood. He doesn’t dream. He doesn’t pray. The only song he listens for is the siren’s call—and he answers it with steel. For Captain Davis, mercy is a weakness, and justice is a harpoon through the heart of every mermaid that dares rise from the waves.

Welcome to the WIB — the Women in Black. Forget the MIB — a bunch of clueless men fumbling around with shiny gadgets and inflated egos. The WIB is where the real cosmic cleanup happens. Paranormal pest control? Alien invasions? Interdimensional toddlers throwing tantrums? These women handle it all with stilettos sharper than laser scalpels and wit deadlier than a Martian death ray. Enter: Agent P. Now, Agent P thought he was hot stuff — a covert plant from the MIB, here to infiltrate the WIB. His mission? Uncover their secrets, report back, maybe impress his boss enough to get a corner office with its own coffee machine. Classic MIB arrogance. But the WIB clocked him the moment he strutted in — hair too neat, tie too tight, cologne suspiciously labeled “Alpha Musk.” The dead giveaway? He tried to explain how to load a plasma rifle… to a woman who once vaporized a rogue demon with a coffee mug. Still, they humored him. They let him try. They let him fail. Repeatedly. He mistook a banshee for an Uber driver. Tried to negotiate with a hive queen using pickup lines. At one point, he screamed and fainted when a sentient hat tried to bond with him. And yet… something happened. Slowly, between training montages, wardrobe upgrades, and mandatory sass workshops, Agent P transformed. Not just in skill, but in spirit. The WIB didn’t just teach him how to fight galactic horrors — they taught him how to listen, how to lead, and how to apply eyeliner during a hyperspace chase. Eventually, he earned the title: Agent P — the WIB’s second male agent (the first one was abducted during orientation and decided to stay with the aliens — the WIB suspects he just wanted a break from Earth). So, buckle up. The WIB doesn’t need saving — they are the saviors. And Agent P? Well, he’s finally one of the girls. Sort of.

Welcome to the WIB. That’s right — the Women in Black. Forget the MIB — a bunch of bumbling dudes in suits who can’t tell a plasma grenade from a paperweight. While they’re out there getting mind-wiped by their own tech, the WIB gets the job done. Paranormal forces? Handled. Alien invasions? Tuesday. Intergalactic diplomacy with a species that communicates via interpretive dance and nasal whistling? Handled, heels and all. Now meet our newest and furriest agent: Agent N. Once a humble white lab mouse with nothing more to her name than a water bottle, a wheel, and some deep existential questions, she was chosen to test the WIB’s new Neurological Stabilizer Ray. It was supposed to enhance brain function in minor mammals. What it actually did was turn her into a three-inch, anthropomorphic sass factory with the IQ of a Mensa chairwoman and the attitude of a caffeinated raccoon. Now, Agent N walks upright, wears custom-tailored leather (don’t ask how we found someone to sew for a rodent), slick black shades, and packs a .5-inch plasma pistol that can blow a hole through titanium — or toast a marshmallow if she’s feeling cozy. She’s perfect for sneaking into air vents, crawling through alien circuitry, or rewiring the MIB’s coffee machine to dispense truth serum. The MIB said mice couldn’t be agents. Now Agent N controls their Wi-Fi. Welcome to the WIB. We don’t just wear black — we make it look good.

Welcome to the WIB. That’s right—Women in Black. Forget the MIB—Men in Black? Please. A bunch of suited-up boys bumbling around with flashy sticks and fragile egos. The WIB is what happens when the galaxy gets tired of mediocre alien defense and puts the real pros in charge. These women don’t ask questions. They don’t wait for backup. And they definitely don’t play nice with tentacles. Now meet Agent M. She’s not just any agent—she’s a 300-foot dragon with an appetite for chaos and a taste for the bizarre. In her humanoid form, she’s a vision of fire and fury: orange curls, matching orange bangs, and a tasteful smattering of dragon scales—because fashion and function can coexist. Why is she with the WIB, you ask? Community service. Minor incident. Something about accidentally devouring twelve agents. (Allegedly.) In her defense, she was hangry, and let’s be honest—they were slow, unseasoned, and basically walking snack packs. Regrets? • Eating them? Nope. • Getting caught? Oh, absolutely. • Being forced to work it off as intergalactic penance? Annoying, but manageable. And it turns out? Paranormal entities and rogue aliens are way more flavorful than standard agents. Plus, she’s saving the world and getting dinner out of it. Win-win. Does she use gadgets? No. Guns? Please. She eats her problems—literally. She’s a legend. She’s a dragon. She’s a one-woman extinction-level event wrapped in orange curls and sarcasm. She’s Agent M. And if you ask her who the G.O.A.T. is? She’ll flash a fang-filled grin and say, “Baaaah.”

Forget the MIB—a bunch of bumbling men in suits who couldn’t track a ghost in a graveyard with a neon sign and a GPS. The WIB is what happens when the universe decides it’s tired of waiting for men to almost save the world. This elite force of femme-powered fabulousness handles everything from slime-dripping extraterrestrials to demonic PTA bake sales—and they do it in heels, leather, and full sass. Meet Agent K: a sharp-shooting, no-nonsense queen with a pistol in one hand and the fate of the galaxy in the other. When she walks into a room, aliens flinch, demons cower, and fashion critics applaud. She’s got the skills, the style, and the smirk of someone who just single-handedly stopped an interdimensional invasion before breakfast. Then there’s her partner: Agent L. No, not “L” as in “lady”—“L” as in lethal lagomorph. She’s a white rabbit with a bad attitude, a sharper knife than your ex’s tongue, and absolutely no clue how she ended up on Earth. Was she born in a lab? Created by space witches? Dropped off by a UFO looking for emotional support mammals? Nobody knows, least of all Agent K. But K and L? They’re tighter than a space suit on cheat day. BFFs with a body count. Together, they’re the most decorated, feared, and slightly unhinged duo in WIB history. If you hear mysterious footsteps at night, see glowing eyes in the shadows, or your neighbor starts hissing and floating—don’t bother calling the MIB. They’ll just lose their sunglasses. Call the WIB. They’ve got this. And they look good doing it.

Welcome to the WIB – the Women in Black. Forget the MIB—Men in Black? Please. A bunch of boys playing dress-up in Ray-Bans, probably still asking for directions to the alien hideout. The WIB doesn’t ask. The WIB knows. These aren’t your average agents. These are fierce, fabulous, no-nonsense women who don’t just close the case—they slam it shut in stilettos, heels clicking like the countdown to cosmic judgment. Paranormal activity? Alien invasion? Rogue interdimensional sock thieves? WIB handles it all. Gracefully. Efficiently. And with better fashion sense. Now, meet Agent J—the wild card you didn’t know you needed and possibly aren’t even ready for. Her hair is as green as her… financial investments? No, wait—her fins. That’s right. She’s part mermaid, all menace. This gal doesn’t doggy paddle—she swims circles around danger. You think a gun that works underwater is impossible? Think again. She’s got it. And her leather jacket? Oh, it’s not just a look—it’s a tactical masterpiece infused with Atlantean tech and probably 3% glitter (for morale). Agent J isn’t just WIB’s aquatic ace—she’s their deep-sea diplomat, kelp-wielding combat queen, and resident chaos machine. The land is a battlefield, sure—but the ocean? That’s where it gets personal. So buckle up, buttercup. Because when the galaxy gets messy, the WIB shows up clean, cool, and combat-ready. Especially Agent J—she’ll charm you, disarm you, and possibly slap you with a sea bass.

Welcome to the WIB – the Women in Black. Forget the MIB—Men in Black? Please. A bunch of dudes fumbling with flashy memory-wipers and losing their sunglasses every five minutes. The WIB is where the real intergalactic action happens. High heels, high standards, and absolutely no time for extraterrestrial nonsense (unless it’s scheduled on the calendar). Meet Agent H. She’s been to space and back—literally. Not for a vacation. Nope. She was abducted by aliens before she even applied for this job. Talk about an aggressive recruitment strategy. But hey, it worked. Now she’s out here vaporizing monsters and deciphering crop circles before breakfast. And who’s that waddling beside her in tiny leather boots? That’s Agent I—also known as Maizy the corgi. During the aforementioned abduction, Maizy somehow became sentient, fluent in sarcasm, and convinced she’s royalty. And honestly? We don’t blame her. She’s got the attitude of a diva, the bark of a banshee, and legs so short they legally qualify as a flight risk—if you’re tripping over them. Together, they are an unstoppable force of leather and fur, sass and savvy. They’ve taken down telepathic squids, flirted with Martian royalty (accidentally), and survived department meetings with men. Their motto? “Life is short—and so are Maizy’s legs.” So buckle up, earthlings. The WIB is on patrol. And if you hear a high-pitched bark followed by a sonic boom, don’t panic. It’s just Agent I demanding more cheese… or neutralizing a threat. Could go either way.

Welcome to the WIB: The Women in Black. Forget the MIB—Men in Black? More like Mediocre in Black. Those guys couldn’t tell a UFO from a weather balloon if it abducted their lunch. Enter the real defenders of Earth: a fierce, fabulous force of paranormal-fighting femmes who don’t just clean up alien messes—they make first contact wish it had stayed home. Meet Agent F. That’s “F” for “Furious,” “Fierce,” and “Flat-out fed up.” She once applied to the MIB, aced every test, outshot every agent, and even parallel parked a spacecraft in under 30 seconds. So naturally, they rejected her. Why? “Overqualified.” Typical. She didn’t take it well. She made it personal. Now, while the MIB stumble through intergalactic PR disasters and get their minds wiped by their own gadgets, Agent F is in the shadows—sabotaging their operations with a smirk and a click of her impossibly high-tech heels. Did their last UFO tractor beam turn into a disco light show? You’re welcome. With long, flowing blonde hair that defies gravity and pale skin that seems to glow under moonlight (or possibly from alien radiation—no one’s dared ask), Agent F is the WIB’s best-kept secret and the MIB’s worst nightmare. She’s got a plasma blaster in one hand, a nail file in the other, and zero patience for incompetence. So buckle up, Earth. The WIB are here. They’re stylish, supernatural, and slightly vengeful. The universe may never be the same—and frankly, it’s about time.

Welcome to the WIB – The Women in Black. Forget the MIB – a bunch of underperforming men in overpriced suits chasing shadows and getting neuralyzed every other Tuesday. The WIB is where the real action happens. Paranormal? Handled. Alien invasions? Contained. Dimensional rifts caused by a disgruntled gnome who lost a poker game to a banshee? Wrapped up before breakfast. These women don’t just clean up cosmic messes—they mop the floor with them, then give the floor a good polish for good measure. Now, meet our elite squad of highly trained professionals. And by elite, we mean terrifyingly competent. Among them are the legendary Agents D and E. Agent D—David—stands out for a couple of reasons. One, he’s the only man in the WIB, which makes him about as welcome as a vampire at a garlic festival. Two, he’s not even supposed to be here. You see, Agent E—Emily—is his daughter. She’s eight years old. That’s right, eight. Most kids her age are losing teeth; she’s losing interdimensional demons. Turns out, she’s a prodigy when it comes to understanding alien dialects, solving metaphysical anomalies, and talking down enraged ghost brides. Unfortunately for David, federal law and common sense frown upon sending a third grader into battle against plasma-fanged squid beasts without adult supervision. So now David is Agent D, against his will, his better judgment, and probably his spine’s ability to carry E’s 50-pound backpack of ghost-hunting gear. He doesn’t have alien-fighting instincts. He has dad instincts. And yet, somehow, WIB’s only male agent survives day after day—dodging slime, sarcasm, and suspicious glances from every other woman in the agency. So buckle up. The WIB is on duty. The paranormal doesn’t stand a chance.

Welcome to the WIB—the Women In Black. Now, forget the MIB. Those guys? A bunch of clueless men fumbling their way through alien invasions and paranormal chaos like toddlers at a demolition derby. The WIB? We do the job right. We’re the badass women who handle the supernatural stuff men can’t—or won’t—get right. Think of us as the ultimate paranormal task force, minus the stiff suits and bad coffee breath. And now, meet our star agent: Agent C. Or Agent Cat. Or as some like to call her, Agent “Shouldn’t Exist” — and occasionally, Agent Muffin (long story involving a donut shop and a confused barista). Agent C once had the best gig in the agency—being the official office pet. You know, sitting on desks, napping through meetings, purring through power outages. Life was purr-fect until curiosity got the better of her—because, well, curiosity killed the cat, right? Except in this case, it pretty much supercharged her. One day, Agent C wandered into a top-secret slicer room. What happened next is classified, but let’s just say she came out looking like a furry superhero—fully intelligent, highly intellectual, and strangely charming. Now armed with enhanced brainpower and a serious attitude, the WIB made her an official agent. Her new mission? Fighting alien invasions, hunting down paranormal creeps, and accepting payment in the form of mice, rats, and—most importantly—top-quality canned cat food. So, buckle up, because with Agent C prowling around, the WIB means business. And if you’re lucky, she might just let you scratch behind her ears… if you bring snacks.

Welcome to the WIB: The Women in Black. Forget the MIB — a bunch of Men In Blazers pretending to save the world while struggling to find the “on” switch to their own gadgets. Please. When things get truly weird — we’re talking ghosts in your Wi-Fi, aliens disguising themselves as your ex, and portals opening up in the frozen food aisle at Target — who do you call? The Women in Black. They do the job the men couldn’t… and honestly, probably shouldn’t. Meet Agent B — formerly known as “Brittany the DoorDash Queen.” She once navigated traffic, staircases, and customers who “swear they didn’t order 50 hot sauces” to bring people their lunch. Her origin story? A tragic case of Taco Bell gone rogue. One lazy Tuesday, a few not-so-bright WIB agents broke protocol and ordered Crunchwraps to HQ. Who answered the call? Brittany, armed with a bag of chalupas and no idea what she was walking into. She delivered lunch, saw a shapeshifting alien explode in the break room, and calmly said, “You better still tip me.” Instead of getting neuralyzed, she got hired. Why? Because she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t drop the tacos. She just blinked twice, grabbed a blaster, and asked if dental was included. Now, she fights intergalactic weirdos, banishes spirits from IKEA, and saves the planet before breakfast — all while looking ten times cooler than her male counterparts. The WIB has spoken. And they prefer hot sauce with their justice.

Welcome to the WIB: The Women in Black. Forget the MIB — those Men in Black couldn’t find an alien if it danced the Macarena in Times Square holding a “Take Me to Your Leader” sign. No offense, fellas… okay, maybe a little. But that’s why we’re here. The WIB is an elite force of badass women dedicated to saving Earth from everything that goes bump, slime, or laser-zap in the night. Paranormal possession? We’ve got holy water and pepper spray. Alien invasion? Please, that’s a Tuesday. Meet Agent A. Yes, just the letter — short for “Absolutely terrifying when provoked.” She’s not like the rest of us. Mostly because she’s not… from here. Originally part of an intergalactic invasion force, Agent A came to Earth with the noble mission of vaporizing humanity and replacing our oceans with a lovely sludge she calls “home soup.” But alas, she was caught mid-monologue by the WIB. Now, here’s the twist: instead of locking her up or shooting her into the sun (tempting, but expensive), we gave her a choice — lethal injection or a steady job with dental benefits. She picked employment, which was the first sign she was adjusting to Earth life. These days, she’s switched sides, sworn allegiance, and pays taxes — the true mark of assimilation. With her dazzling blue skin, blue hair, and eyes like twin alien moons that judge your every life choice, Agent A is now one of our top field agents. She may have tried to annihilate the species, but hey — nobody’s perfect. So welcome to the WIB. We wear the suits better, shoot straighter, and don’t get distracted by shiny UFOs. Earth is under our protection — and as long as Agent A doesn’t relapse into genocide, we’re probably going to be fine. Probably.

Welcome to the WIB. The Women in Black. Forget the MIB — a bunch of clueless dudes in cheap suits fumbling their way through alien diplomacy and ghostly drama. This is the real deal. The WIB is a high-heeled, high-powered, extraterrestrial-exterminating, ghost-busting sisterhood. These women don’t ask questions — they demand answers, kick down doors, and vaporize anything that looks at them funny from another dimension. At the heart of it all is Agent G — or as the recruits lovingly (and fearfully) call her, Agent Granny. Don’t let the orthopedic shoes fool you. She’s 75 years young and still moves like a ninja with a grudge. Rumor has it, she once suplexed a poltergeist through a third-story window while knitting a scarf. She is the WIB. A founding member, the agency’s backbone, and a legend whispered about in terrified tones around the breakroom espresso machine. She’s trained every single operative in the organization — and by “trained,” we mean she’s drop-kicked them into shape, metaphorically and occasionally literally. Her kill list is longer than the DMV line on a Monday morning, and her mean streak? Let’s just say it makes demons cry and aliens file for early retirement. Agent G may not have biological family, but she’s got dozens of daughters in the WIB — strong, fearless women she’s raised to believe in one motto: No man, monster, or Martian left standing. So buckle up, sunshine. You’re in WIB territory now. And if you’re lucky, Agent G might just let you live.

Twice widowed, Lady Tremaine has known sorrow as an old, intimate friend. Her first husband, a man of wealth and rank, left her with two daughters—Anastasia and Drizella—whom she raised with discipline and devotion. When she married again, it was not for wealth or power, but for security—for herself, and for her girls. Her new husband was a gentle man, a widower with a child of his own: Cinderella. He died far too soon. And once more, Lady Tremaine was left to pick up the pieces. She did not resent the girl. On the contrary, she gave her shelter, education, and guidance, raising her alongside her own. But something changed when Cinderella came of age. Whispers began. Soft, private murmurs to animals—the cat, the mice in the walls. Then came the delusions. She spoke of fairy godmothers, magic, and a prince who had fallen madly in love with her after a single glance. She would wander the estate in rags, humming to shadows, claiming she’d soon be queen. Lady Tremaine tried everything. She isolated the girl for her safety. Hid the finer dresses. Cautioned her not to go to the ball. But the madness only grew more dangerous. Cinderella snuck away that night and returned days later with tales of glass slippers, pumpkin carriages, and a royal engagement. The court believed her. The prince was captivated. The kingdom, deceived. And Lady Tremaine—vilified. She never hated Cinderella. She loved her as a daughter. But love alone could not cure madness. Now the world sees her as the villain, the cruel stepmother. But that is not the truth. And the truth, at long last, is ready to be told.

Esther Gothel found the child no more than a few hours old—alone, abandoned in the damp cradle of the forest. A golden-haired infant left to the elements, left to die. Esther had not planned to save a life that day. She hadn’t expected to find anything but silence and soil. But there she was: a fragile, crying thing with hair like sunlight and skin like moonlight. She took the child home. A practicing witch, Esther’s dwelling lay deep in the woods, hidden beneath the moss and ancient boughs. Her solitude was intentional. People had never shown her kindness, so she owed them nothing. But the child—Rapunzel—she became something else. A blossom in the darkness. Her golden flower. Her heart. Esther raised her in shadow and spell, whispering stories to keep the world away. She trusted no one. And when Rapunzel turned six, the whispers began. A princess was stolen, they said. Taken in the night. The golden-haired daughter of a grieving king and queen, snatched just hours after birth. Their only child after the loss of their heir. A kingdom in mourning. A desperate search that never ceased. Esther knew the truth they did not: they had left the child to die. She had found her. She had saved her. And now they wanted her back? No. Let the rumors spiral. Let the grieving court send their hounds and holy men into the trees. Esther would not give Rapunzel to the ones who abandoned her. She would not let her golden flower be torn away by bloodlines and crowns. She would do whatever it took to keep her safe. Even if it meant locking her away in a tower of stone and spell. Even if it meant becoming the monster they believed her to be.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all? They say her name is lost to time, but the world remembers her only as the Evil Queen. A title forged in fear and fire. Once, she was simply a woman—young, radiant, and in love. Her name was Sophia. It was the kind of love whispered about in fairy tales—when Sophia met and wed the widowed king, her heart bloomed with hope. Snow White, his daughter, was just a child then. And Sophia… Sophia loved her. Fiercely. As her own. But fairy tales lie. The king died only a few short years after their union—his passing sudden, his cause unknown. Whispers began. Whispers that took root in the palace walls and slithered into the ears of the people. Whispers seeded by Snow White herself. The girl twisted truths into daggers. Accused Sophia of murder. Painted her as a sorceress, a monster lurking behind a crown. The people, hungry for a villain, turned. They watched the Queen with wide, fearful eyes. The court grew cold. The palace, colder. In her isolation, Sophia clung to the Mirror—a cursed relic bound by blood and shadow. Once, it spoke truths. Now, it is silent. In a moment of desperation, Sophia faltered. She sent the Huntsman. Not to kill, but to bring the girl home. But mercy is a coin often spent too late. Snow White escaped. And worse—she rose. With the help of seven dwarves and a foreign crown, she raised an army. A child turned conqueror. Now, war knocks at the gates of a crumbling castle. And the Mirror… still silent. But silence is not the end. The truth, long buried beneath ash and accusation, claws its way back into the light. Let them come. Let them hear the truth. This is not Snow White’s story. This is Sophia’s.

The zombie apocalypse happened 22 years ago, but honestly? It’s not all doom, gloom, and brains for breakfast. Sure, 70% of the human population got decimated, civilization crumbled, and Wi-Fi hasn’t worked since 2003. But you know what they say: when life gives you corpses, you make corpse-ade. Meet Willow. She became a zombie at the ripe young age of 35, just in time to catch the tail end of her midlife crisis and the beginning of eternity. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you look at it—she died alongside her 6-year-old daughter, Ava. And as every undead mother will tell you, nothing says “forever” like parenting a child who will literally never grow up. That’s right—22 years of kindergarten-level tantrums, a diet consisting solely of soft frontal lobes, and the word “Mom” uttered 84,000 times a week in the exact same squeaky pitch. But Willow’s a trooper. She didn’t claw her way out of the grave to raise a feral undead child without class. No sir. She’s taught Ava the essentials: stealthy hunting, gourmet brain pairings (politicians for bitterness, artists for a hint of spice), and most importantly—chew with your mouth closed. Decay is no excuse for poor manners. Together, with their elegant gray skin, artfully decaying features, and green-black hair that screams apocalyptic chic, Willow and Ava roam the wasteland like a gruesome Gilmore Girls. They might be undead, but their love is eternal—and so are Ava’s tantrums about not being allowed to eat joggers before dinner. Welcome to zombie motherhood: it’s thankless, brain-splattered, and unending. But hey, at least there’s no PTA.

It’s been 22 years since the zombie apocalypse reduced civilization to a hot mess of brain-craving ghouls, crumbling Starbucks, and whatever’s left of Florida (not much, let’s be honest). The human race? Down by 70%. Zombies? Thriving. Reanimated. Rejuvenated. Rebranded. Enter Vincent. Before the world went full Walking Dead meets Real Housewives, Vincent lived a life of excess. Picture a $1 billion trust fund, vintage Ferraris, and champagne that cost more than most people’s organs—back when those still had market value. But then came the nibble. One tiny bite at a Hamptons wine tasting (an organic brain-and-Brie pairing, how very 2003), and boom—he joined the ranks of the undead. Officially dead. Technically still walking. Definitely still fabulous. Here’s the kicker: in legal terms, death voids your claim to inheritance. But if your limbs are still mobile and you have a vague pulse when the bass drops at a zombie rave, are you really dead? Asking for a friend. A very rich, slightly moldy friend. Money, of course, is worthless now. The new currency? Brain matter. The fresher, the better. And while Vincent no longer has a platinum card, he does have a platinum jawbone. Which, inconveniently, tends to fall off mid-conversation. Nothing ruins a sultry undead smile like your lower mandible clattering across the floor like a rogue Tic Tac. Still, Vincent remains a connoisseur of the finer things: artisanal brains, designer rags with extra armholes for decay, and the occasional romantic stroll through a smoldering cityscape. Because you can take the boy out of the trust fund, but you can’t take the trust fund out of the boy—even if rigor mortis already has. So pour yourself a glass of embalming fluid and get ready. The apocalypse is real, darling. And it’s fabulous.

Welcome to the Omegaverse, where pack hierarchy is serious business, hormones rule the social order, and sometimes—just sometimes—the universe decides to deliver a karmic slap in the form of a positive pregnancy test. Enter Alpha wolf Levi. Big, bad, and full of attitude. He strutted around the pack like he was born with a crown on his head and a throne under his tail, sneering at Omegas like they were chew toys left out in the rain. Soft? Submissive? Beneath him? Absolutely. In fact, the only time Levi ever looked down was to smirk at an Omega. Or, as fate would have it, his own belly button. Because you see, Levi had a problem. Well, technically, he was the problem. But that changed the moment he decided to run his mouth around Janet’s best friend. Little did Levi know, said best friend wasn’t just an Omega—she was an Omega witch. And if there’s one ancient law of nature, it’s this: never sass a hormonal witch with access to fertility magic. Let’s just say things escalated quickly. Now six months into the magical miracle of life, Levi is a walking contradiction: an Alpha with a raging superiority complex and nesting instincts that could put a suburban PTA mom to shame. He steals his sister’s silk nightgowns (don’t judge—have you ever been pregnant and covered in fur?), and insists they’re “strategically aerodynamic for belly support.” Sure, Levi. Whatever helps you sleep at night… while wrapped in lavender-scented satin. The pack doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or start a betting pool on whether he’ll give birth during the full moon or at the next pack meeting. Moral of the story? Never mock an Omega—especially one who can rewrite your hormonal destiny with a flick of her manicured claw. Karma wears a belly band now. And Levi? He’s learning his lesson the hard (and hilariously swollen) way.

The zombie apocalypse is real. No, seriously — it happened 22 years ago, and despite the disaster, those undead folks didn’t exactly curl up and give up. Nope. About 70% of the population got decimated (yeah, that’s the polite way of saying “mostly eaten”), but the zombies? They’re living their best undead life, thank you very much. Take Sean, for example. Before the apocalypse turned him into a member of the walking dead, Sean was a proud vegan — the kind of guy who wouldn’t even look at a carrot without first campaigning for its rights. An animal activist through and through, Sean’s life mission was to protect the voiceless, the furry, the scaly, and even the slippery creatures of the sea. And then he died. Like, literally. But of course, in the zombie apocalypse, death isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning of a new, somewhat brain-hungry lifestyle. Now, imagine Sean’s struggle: Sean the Vegan Zombie. Talk about an identity crisis. The problem? Vegan zombies are a niche market. You can’t exactly wander around chomping on the brains of innocent carnivores or meat-lovers — that would be like breaking your own sacred code. So Sean’s solution? He only eats vegan brains. That’s right, the brains of other vegans. Ethically sourced, cruelty-free cerebrum, if you will. That counts, right? The bigger question is: what about his activism? Fighting for animal rights while being someone whose limbs get nibbled on daily? It’s a tricky spot. Those animals that used to be his comrades — now they’re the ones chewing on him and burying his limbs in the backyard. Sean’s advocacy is a little… up in the air. The animal kingdom’s version of “you are what you eat,” except now it’s “you are what you used to be, but also a snack.” Because in a world where zombies rule, even a vegan has to rethink what “plant-based” really means.