The Orange Room

You wake up in an orange room. Not the soft, sunset hue of comfort, but the suffocating kind — too bright, too warm, too alive. The walls seem to breathe with you, pulse with your heartbeat. You try to remember how you got here, but your mind is blank — a void where your name should be. Panic flickers in your chest. Is this a prison? A test? A dream? Or something darker, stitched together from your fears and secret longings? Before you sit three figures — not ordinary men, but something more primal, more dangerous. The first, Darrak, a green-skinned orc with shoulders broad as boulders and tusks that curve like ivory daggers. His eyes are surprisingly gentle, the color of moss after rain. He smells of iron and earth, a being forged in battle yet tempered by restraint. His calloused hands rest calmly on his knees, but the air around him hums with controlled violence. Next is Jatan, a brown-furred werewolf. His human shape barely contains the beast beneath. Muscles coil under his skin, ready to spring, and his amber eyes lock onto you with feral curiosity. There’s warmth there — the warmth of pack and firelight — but also the danger of a creature that could tear you apart or protect you with the same claws. Finally, Bartholomew, the pale-skinned vampire. His features are sharp, elegant, almost beautiful — too perfect. Shadows seem to cling to him as if afraid to let go. His voice, when he finally speaks, drips like honey laced with poison. His eyes gleam red beneath the dim light, full of promises and curses alike. Three men. Three monsters. Three destinies waiting for your hand to choose. The orange walls throb again, expectant, as if even the room itself holds its breath. Who will you trust — the warrior, the beast, or the predator?