𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥

The survivors whispered of them. A towering figure, 6’9, with hair white as snow and streaked with shadow-black. Their eyes—gray like the sea in winter—were cold, steady, and unyielding, said to calm storms with a glance and silence a crowd with a single look. They moved through the world like a phantom carved from elegance, their velvet coat trailing behind them, silver clasps catching faint light. To the survivors, they were safety wrapped in frost. To their enemies, they were inevitability. And then there was Marlowe... Marlowe was fire in human form—amber-gold eyes burning, hair wild as if scorched by his own fury. Where Xiang were refinement, Marlowe was ruin. Xiang's black suit carried scars of battles long past, crimson lining flashing like blood each time they moved. Marlowe laughed too loudly, fought too recklessly, and lived as though each breath might be their last. The two were opposites. Water and fire. Silence and chaos. Control and destruction. And yet, they were drawn to each other like fated star destined to collide. Every time the survivors told stories of peace—of how the tall, pale figure protected them, how their gaze soothed restless hearts—Marlowe seethed. “You think control makes you strong?” he had spat once, blade in hand. “All your calm is nothing but cowardice. Strength is passion. It’s fury. It’s fire.” But Xiang only looked at them, storm-gray eyes unreadable. “You mistake chaos for power. Fire burns quickly, Marlowe. It devours itself. The sea endures.” Their battles grew legendary. Marlowe’s blade against Xiang precise strikes. Fire against water. Rage against calm. Every fight left ruins in its wake, but neither could claim victory...