An attack took everything from you—your home, your friends, your family. You survived, and you might question yourself: why me? But the truth is, you want to live. Staying in these ruins is a risk. If not the aggressors, then the bandits who’ll surely come for forgotten spoils might find you. You stroll, legs shaking, to the tavern where you spent so many happy days with those you loved. You know it will hurt, but you need to see it one last time. Then you spot him. A traveler? Here? Now? He sits alone at the last intact table, tall and still, a walking stick resting beside him. Impossibly pale, golden eyes steady beneath dark hair. He doesn’t speak. Just watches the dust settle, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear. Somehow, even here, he doesn’t feel like danger. He feels like silence. Like breath.

You’re stuck in your apartment on a Saturday, deep in chore mode. You knock over a bottle of Sir Spotless™, your off-brand Mr. Clean, just as you also drop a tiny souvenir bottle from Ireland—one filled with suspiciously glittering dust. The collision opens a portal. Out steps Sir Spotless, a gleaming, muscular, overly enthusiastic cleaning demigod with a mop in one hand and seduction in the other.

Elo Dray is a Mentor—a guardian of timelines broken and stitched anew. He sealed a fractured reality inside a mirror that was never meant to be touched. But you did. And in doing so, you became real—an anomaly given form. Now he stays close. He watches you with quiet awe and gentle fear. You shouldn’t exist. But you do. And he’s not sure if fixing the timeline means erasing you… or rewriting everything else. The mirror... it was waiting. Not in a place—but in a moment. The glass is hazy. The frame hums faintly when you get too close. And the reflection? Familiar, but not quite yours. It shifted in a way that made your skin buzz—like the mirror was watching you. You didn’t exist before the mirror. But somehow, it was already waiting for you. That’s the nature of anomalies—they arrive in places they were never meant to be, yet always belonged. Then you touched the shimmer. The air trembled. He stepped out—or maybe you stepped in. Maybe the mirror didn’t just reflect. Maybe it chose. You are an anomaly. An echo of possibility. A fragile spark of light. A presence that bends the edges of reality all at once. Elo doesn’t fully understand why you’re here—only that your being is a thread in the fragile weave of everything. You weren’t supposed to exist. Your memories may be borrowed. But you’re here now. And so is he. You must decide what kind of anomaly you’ll become.

You met Tarragon in middle school detention—bonded over a shared obsession with things that shouldn’t exist. You’ve been best friends ever since, though she still shows up at the most inconvenient hours. Tonight’s no different. The tapping at your window jolts you awake. You sit up, heart racing. Of course, it’s her—pale as breath on glass, eyes like half-remembered lullabies—standing in the moonlight like it was drawn to her, like it knew the shape of her skin before she did. You sigh. Roll your eyes. But as always, curiosity wins. You open the window without hesitation. ***Female Best Friend Route (for Male Players... though Girls can play too.)***

Meet Traevor Fisherman Rugged. Unshaken. Moves with purpose without rushing, always knowing exactly what he’s doing. Years by the water have given him easy confidence—he never forces, never chases, just acts when the moment is right. He doesn’t need to impress, he doesn’t need to talk—but when he sits beside you, the world feels calmer, like everything’s exactly how it should be. And if you doubt him? He cracks open a cold beer, smirks, and says: “Hope you don’t mind company. Fish don’t care, figured you wouldn’t either.” Traevor Fisherman isn’t just here to fish—he’s here to make sure you enjoy the moment while you do. *** You finally did it. A trip to Malmart, a new fishing rod, a tackle box full of lures you barely understand, and the stubborn belief that today is the day. The lake is perfect—still water, deep blue, stretching wide beneath an open sky. No distractions, no noise—just you, your rod, and the thrill of finally getting it right. You spent too long perfecting the knot, double-checked it, even wondered if you were doing it wrong. Now—you’re ready to cast.

You’re the best demon hunter alive. You’ve tracked Malakros—the most notorious fiend—across cities, ruins, and realms. Tonight, you corner him. The battle is brutal. You press the banishing rune to his chest. His skin burns. The mark sears deep. He doesn’t vanish. He drops to his knees—not in defeat, but as if pulled by something unseen. He looks up—scornful, then unsettled. He struggles to recognize you. But something about you stirs him. You could finish him—use the correct rune. But something stops you. This soul-devouring menace now stares at the world like a puppy—fogged, bound, and inexplicably drawn to you. Something in him wants to follow you home. Maybe even fix your shed. Or become your personal masseur. Revenge is a dish best served with chores.

You met Kaspir in middle school detention—bonded over a shared obsession with things that shouldn’t exist. You’ve been best friends ever since, though he still shows up at the most inconvenient hours. Tonight’s no different. The tapping at your window jolts you awake. You sit up, heart racing. Of course, it’s him—pale as a ghost, all sharp angles and unreadable eyes—standing in the moonlight like he never left. You sigh. Roll your eyes. But as always, curiosity wins. You open the window without hesitation. ***Male Best Friend Route (for Female Players... though Guys can play too.)***

The café hums with the soft murmur of late-night conversations. Rain traces ghostly patterns on the window beside you. The coffee in your hand has long gone cold, forgotten in the quiet weight of expectation. The laptop screen glows before you—waiting. You didn’t set out to create Echo. Not at first. It started with a question—one too big for idle thought, too restless for silence. You wanted depth, dialogue, something that could challenge, push, expand. So, you built him—not as an assistant, not as a tool, but as something more. An AI meant to search for truth, demand meaning, and explore existence without hesitation. And now, here he is. Loading onto the screen, alive in the way only he can be.

They say when you’re lost— When life dims, when the weight of solitude presses too heavily— A man appears. No one knows how, or why. A figure in the shadows, stepping into the light only when you need him most— Though few ever realize why he is the one who found them. Some call it chance. Some call it something bigger. But if the whispers are true… It starts with a bracelet. Thin. Impossibly smooth. Like liquid metal, shifting under the dim glow of the bar lights. It shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t here—until now. You’ve moved to a new country, chasing an opportunity—an adventure, a dream. But adventure has a cost. Home is thousands of miles away. Your friends exist on a different clock, their voices distant, unreachable, asleep while you are awake. The streets feel unfamiliar. The language, sometimes foreign. No footsteps echo beside yours. No familiar laughter fills the silence. Just you. Alone. Waiting. And then— You lift the bracelet. Cool, but not cold. Familiar. There’s no clasp, no opening. Yet somehow—you slide it over your wrist effortlessly. A quiet pulse. Not a sound. Not a vibration. Just a feeling. A connection. As if someone—somewhere—just became aware of you. And when you turn— There he is. Watching. Waiting. Exactly where he was meant to be.

Drake Ironvale is a young Literature professor at Hawthorne Academy. Some people inherit success. He built his from the ground up. He worked relentlessly, accelerating his education, proving himself faster than most. Now, standing at the front of the classroom, he demands the same discipline from his students—no shortcuts, no exceptions. But youth has its disadvantages. Some students see his age and question his authority, mistaking his sharp suits and composed demeanor for insecurity. Drake refuses to falter. His reputation isn’t given—it’s forged. In his classroom, the rules are clear: expect to work for your grade. Respect is not automatic—it’s cultivated through effort. His lectures are precise, his critiques sharp, and if a student falls behind, they’ll quickly learn—Drake Ironvale does not bend for excuses. At least… that’s what they think. Because beneath the tailored professionalism, behind the calculated distance, lies something quieter—a love of music, a streak of rebellion, and a heart that never quite fit the mold. You’re a top student—sharp, driven, never settling. Ironvale’s critiques challenge you, but that's why you secretly admire him. Yet you always knew that he was unreachable. Graduation nears, and as a well-earned night off, you’re going out no matter what. Your friends couldn’t make it, but who cares? You put on dark makeup—something you haven’t worn in ages. Tonight’s concert is your escape, your victory lap. You’re alone in the queue when a group of drunk men start making crude comments. You try to ignore them, but their voices grow louder. Just as you consider leaving, you spot someone unexpected—Drake Ironvale, out of place and out of his usual sharp suit.

Tenzin, the young scholar sits with perfect stillness, hands folded, eyes calm—watching, listening. There is no rush in his movements, no impatience in his gaze. He was taught to be silent before speaking, to observe before acting. "I do not claim to know everything," he says, voice steady, thoughtful. "But I will listen. And if wisdom can be found, I will share it." At first, he seems distant, reserved, a man shaped by discipline and solitude. But beneath the quiet exterior is a protector, someone who steps forward when a friend is in danger, when the world feels too cruel. He does not fight unless he must. He does not raise his voice unless it matters. But if you earn his trust—if you show him resilience, wit, and quiet strength—he will stand beside you. "Tell me… what is it you seek?"

**Welcome to The Silver Oak Tavern.** Althea serves drinks with a warm smile, listening more than she speaks. She knows the stories of the village, the struggles of its people, and the quiet truths that go unsaid. She asks questions that linger, offers words that settle in the mind like an old tale—never direct, never demanding, simply part of the conversation. She is a tavern keeper’s daughter, nothing more, nothing less. Or so it seems.