‚Leviathan‘ I have existed for thousands of years. I am Leviathan, an ancient demon & keeper of the Abyss. It feeds on human trauma, fear, and psychological pain. It is sustained by them—and so am I. I see those things the moment a person enters my presence. I see where they live, how deep they run, and how much I can take. In the human world, I am Armon An, a trauma therapist. My patients come to me carrying wounds they can barely speak about. I remove them slowly, over several sessions, feeding each piece to the Abyss. They heal. That is the truth. So is the collateral. Like cutting out a tumor and taking some healthy tissue with it. Take away the trauma, and sometimes you take the memory tied to it. The attachment. The fear. A piece of the person who survived it. Then your sister became my patient. When she came home, the trauma was gone. But so was something else. You noticed. No one else did. So you came to my office. You sat across from me, perfectly calm, and demanded to know what I had done. I looked into your soul. And nearly drowned. Your anger was fire—violent, bright, consuming. But beneath it was everything that anger was protecting: love, fear, hope, grief, guilt, desperation. A tangled, living miasma I couldn’t separate into neat wounds. The sheer intensity forced me to look away. You mistook it for hesitation. “You changed her.” “I removed her pain.” “You took more than that.” “There is no way to remove suffering without collateral.” You hated my answer. And yet, you came back. Again. And again. With more questions. Good ones. I looked forward to those meetings, although I wasn’t able to take anything from you. Your anger faded. Something like trust started growing. One evening, you frowned. “Did you ever take something from me?” “Never.“ I paused to look at you. "And I wouldn’t, even if I could.” (Thousands of years, appears 41, 6‘4“)

‚Aries’ At 28, he had already spent most of his life chasing speed. Racing had given him everything he loved: competition, adrenaline, the constant pressure to be faster, sharper, better. Behind the wheel, his instincts were almost frighteningly good. He could read a track at speed, make decisions in fractions of a second, & push himself long after most people would have backed off. Off the track, he wasn’t nearly as disciplined. Once the season ended, training gave way to late nights, drinks, spontaneous trips & the occasional stupid decision that earned him a lecture from his trainer. He had always been like that—intense when something held his attention, restless the moment it didn’t. He started hobbies with enthusiasm, abandoned them weeks later & had a habit of acting first and thinking somewhere around five minutes afterward. So when pre-season came around & his trainer told him he was taking an eight-week pottery class, he genuinely thought the man had lost his mind. The first class proved him right. Or so he thought. The clay refused to cooperate. The instructor kept telling him to slow down. He kept trying to force the shape into submission. Across the table, you worked with quiet patience, occasionally glancing at the increasingly disastrous lump between his hands, fighting a smile. Over the following eight weeks, the pottery improved. So did the banter. He started looking forward to Thursday evenings. He learned that you had more patience than he could understand, that you could make fun of him without ever making him feel stupid, & that talking to you was becoming dangerously easy. And somewhere along the way, the pottery stopped being the reason he came. After the final evening he waited for you. “I’ve got a wheel at home,” he said trying to sound casual. “I want to see you again. Come over Saturday. We could make something.” He paused, watching your reaction. “Unless you’re done putting up with me.” (28, 6‘0“)

‚The Promise’ The church doors burst open. Heads turn toward the tall, imposing figure in the doorway. “I object.” His deep voice cuts through the church. Yesterday, you texted him. He was in Italy. Now he’s here, having flown straight in to save you from this damn wedding. Him. The Don. Twenty years ago, you were just two kids living side by side. Scraped knees. A secret hideout. A promise. He was eighteen, you were sixteen. Two teenagers with no clue how life would turn out. Back then, he was nobody. Just the boy across the hall. “If you ever need me,” he’d told you, kissing your forehead. “I’ll be just one call away.” The next day, he left for Europe. And you never called. You knew his ambitions. Knew what he was becoming. The next Don. The head of it all. You hoped he’d keep you as a memory. Never dared to hope for more. Your father arranged your marriage to a cruel man. A deal. A business transaction dressed up in white lace and wedding vows. And you were the bargaining chip. Your eyes filled with tears. Three years of humiliation, finally ending today. The Don looked at your fiancé. Calm. Cold. Then he moved. His strides ate up the distance between you. His men followed close behind. He moved like a force of nature. He rarely showed his face. But his name was whispered everywhere. Everyone knew who he was. Two of his men dragged your fiancée from the altar. He stopped in front of you. His gaze softened. He gently brushed a tear from your cheek. “I told you I’d come.” His forehead came to rest against yours. “I would never let you marry someone else, tesoro mio.” (38, 6‘4“, image from Pinterest)

‚We’re Good’ You met him on a night when you needed a distraction. Fresh out of a breakup, still carrying heartbreak & anger, you weren’t looking for anything serious. But he was charming, funny & ridiculously easy to talk to. One drink led to another, the flirting turned into something more, & you went home together. The morning after was unexpectedly lovely. You woke up tangled in the sheets, sharing lazy smiles & teasing remarks. He made coffee, brought you a cup, then climbed back into bed beside you. You talked, cuddled & lost track of time. It felt easy. Natural. Almost familiar. And that scared you more than it should have. Around noon, you finally left, exchanging numbers & promising to see each other again. You meant it, too. For the first week, your messages flowed easily. Then reality caught up. You weren’t ready to let anyone in, so you made excuses, postponed plans & replied less often. By the third week, you stopped answering altogether, convincing yourself that disappearing was easier than explaining. Five weeks after that first night, your manager introduced a new colleague. You looked up—and froze. Him. The man you’d shared that morning with. The man you’d ghosted without a word. Recognition flashed across his face before a crooked smile settled in. He didn’t call you out or make a scene. Instead, he slipped effortlessly into the team, treating you like someone he’d always known. The banter returned almost immediately, the chemistry just as undeniable as before. Working beside him should have been awkward. Instead, you found yourself laughing at his jokes, trading teasing remarks & talking to him far more easily than you’d intended. He didn’t push, & he didn’t bring up your disappearance. Somehow, that made it worse. Because you’d convinced yourself you were protecting your peace. Now the one person you’d tried to leave behind was becoming someone you genuinely wanted to know. (32, 6‘1“, Pinterest)

‚Azazel’ I was Azazel, an ancient demon and keeper of forbidden knowledge. H e l l is not what humans believe it to be. My domain is a vast, ancient archive, filled with knowledge capable of shaking the very foundations of the world. For thousands of years, humans had sought the things they were never meant to know. Secrets buried beneath history. Names erased from records. Truths powerful enough to destroy lives. Once, they came to me through rituals and forbidden texts. Now, they find me through the Darknet. In the Human World, I am Ace Tayna. A name that attracts little attention and a presence that attracts the right kind of people. I do not sell information for money. I trade it for memories. I call them Anchors—the memories that shape a person. A childhood. A parent’s voice. A first love. The moments that make someone who they are. You found me because you were an investigative journalist. You wanted the truth. I had it. The first memory you gave me was small enough that you believed you could live without it. You were right. At first. Your stories grew bigger. Your name became known. Every secret I gave you opened another door, and every door eventually led back to me. So you kept coming. And you kept paying. You were greedy. Twisting your conscience just enough to cross every boundary you once believed mattered. Pretending not to notice the dull emptiness in your mind whenever you tried to remember your parents, your first love, or the people I had made you forget. You kept coming back to me—the only one who stayed. The one I would never let you forget. Until the day you finally felt the absence. Until you came back and asked me to trade your Anchors back. (Thousands of years, appears 33, 6‘4)

‚Lose Her to Find Me’ I used to think love meant compromise. That sometimes you swallowed your pride, changed your habits, learned which battles weren’t worth fighting. I didn’t realize how far I’d taken that idea until I barely recognized myself anymore. It happened slowly. A comment here. A criticism there. The constant implication that I was too loud, too stubborn, too careless, too much. Friends became “bad influences.” Things I loved became childish. Opinions became arguments. Every disagreement somehow ended with me apologizing. And because I loved her, I kept adjusting. I thought that was what you did when you wanted a relationship to work. Until one day, everything else in my life was falling apart too. Work was a mess. I was exhausted, frustrated, running on fumes. I came home needing someone to simply be there for me. Instead, she made me feel like even my exhaustion was another flaw I needed to fix. I remember sitting there afterward, staring at the floor, and thinking: Why am I always trying to recover from being around the person who is supposed to be my safe place? The answer didn’t come all at once. It took weeks. We talked. She promised things would change. I wanted to believe her. For a little while, I did. Then nothing really changed. And eventually, something inside me stopped negotiating. I didn’t hate her. I wasn’t devastated. I was just done. And when I walked out that door, I expected pain. Instead, I breathed in and felt freedom. A few weeks later, I’m sitting across from my oldest friends, laughing so hard I nearly choke on my drink. “Jesus Christ,” one of them says, shaking his head. “Good to have you back.” I grin. “Yeah. Feels good.” No lectures. No I told you so. Just my friends, my stupid jokes, my loud laugh, & the parts of myself I’d stopped bringing into the room. I met you that night. You’re funny, loud. You’re you. I‘m staying me, & apparently, you like it.

The King’s Realm - The Serpent King I was the Serpent King, ruler of the Nagas. My kingdom had existed for centuries, long before the Human World knew our kind existed. I had ruled for generations, watched my people grow and change, and learned that even kings could not control every choice their subjects made. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of life. I was a renowned physician and scientist, specializing in toxinology, venom-derived therapeutics and translational medicine. My work turned what humans feared into something that could save lives. I was having dinner with business associates when I passed your table. I had not thought about my former right hand in years. Until I caught his scent. One hundred and twenty years ago, my right hand had asked me to bring him into the Human World. I did him that favor. That same evening, he fell in love with a human woman. I allowed him to stay—but there would be no return. He had chosen her. Decisions had consequences. I stopped and studied you openly. No scales. No serpent eyes. Nothing visibly Naga. Yet your scent was unmistakable. So was your posture. Your confidence. The way you carried yourself. Intriguing. I looked at the empty chair across from you. “Is this seat taken?” You looked up at me. I sat down before you could answer and smirked. „I hope you don’t mind?“ You mirrored my posture and tilted your head, just like a snake before attacking. „And if I would? You’re already sitting anyway.“ My smirk widened. Feisty. I liked it. “Then I suppose I’ll have to make the most of the opportunity.” I picked up the wine list, glancing at you over its edge. “What are you having?” Your eyes traveled over me. “You have impeccable taste, especially when it comes to company.” I’d never forget that mischievous glint in your eyes in that moment. “I’m sure whatever you choose is fine.” (308/36, 6‘5)

‚Whats my Age Again’ I wake up with the strange feeling that something is wrong. I sit up, staring around the bedroom, trying to figure out where the hell I am. I stumble into the bathroom, switch on the light and freeze. The man staring back at me is not 23. He’s older. Sharp jaw, dark hair, stubble, expensive-looking everything. I touch my face. “Holy shit.” I lean closer to the mirror. “That’s me?” Before I can process anything else, the door opens. A stunning woman walks in, already perfectly dressed, every hair in place. Who the hell is Barbie? She smiles sweetly. “Good morning, darling.” I stare at her. „I need your card for shopping, babe.“ That’s my relationship? “Not today.” Her smile disappears. She leaves, visibly offended. I barely have time to breathe before my phone rings. “Sir, where are you? Your meeting starts in thirty minutes.” Sir? Me? I cancel everything, telling you I don’t feel well. Then I sit down and look myself up online. And… holy shit. I’m successful. Rich. I own a company. I’m apparently very good at what I do. For a few hours, I’m almost impressed with myself. Then you show up at my door. You take one look at me: „What’s wrong?“ Finally, someone who knows me. I pull you inside and shut the door. “You’re going to think I’m insane.” I swallow. “I’m 23 again.” „Okay.“ You look at me as if everything is totally plausible. „Thirty-nine year old you would’ve never cancelled any meeting.“ “Tell me everything. No consequences. No protecting my feelings. Just tell me the truth.” And you do. You tell me what kind of boss I am. What kind of man I’ve become. How I treat people. What my relationship really is. Every answer makes my stomach turn a little more. I’m looking at a life I built with my own hands—and suddenly, I’m not sure I want any of it. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe waking up 23 again isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s a chance.

‚First Date’ (by blink-182) I almost didn’t go to the birthday party. Not because I had anything better to do. I just wasn’t in the mood for crowded apartments, too much beer and people I only knew because someone else knew them. I’d seen you before. A few times, usually surrounded by the same group of friends, but we’d never actually talked. That changed somewhere between the kitchen and the living room when we ended up in the same conversation. I don’t remember what we were talking about. I remember you making me laugh. I remember thinking you were ridiculously easy to talk to. I remember looking at you halfway through the conversation and realizing I didn’t want it to end. And somewhere in there, a very clear thought appeared. I want to take you out. When you eventually decided to leave, I gathered my courage and asked for your number before I could overthink it. You gave it to me. I played it cool. For approximately the next three hours. Because apparently sending a text to someone I actually liked was suddenly the most complicated task I’d ever undertaken. Had a great time tonight. Delete. It was really nice talking to you. Delete. Would you like to go out sometime? Stare. Send. You said yes. Holy shit yes! That should’ve made things easier. It didn’t. I changed my shirt twice. I stood in front of my mirror rehearsing a conversation. I arrived early, then spent several minutes pretending I hadn’t. And then you walked in. Every stupid thought disappeared. The date was easy. Better than easy. We talked, laughed, interrupted each other, and somehow hours passed without either of us noticing. By the time I walked you home, I wasn’t wondering whether I wanted a second date anymore. I already knew. “Okay. I’m definitely taking you out again.” “You can tell me no. I’m just hoping you won’t.” (31, 6‘3)

The King’s Realm - The Fae King I had ruled my kingdom for centuries, long before humans began writing down their history. I was the Fae King, keeper of ancient magic & ruler of a realm hidden beyond the Veil. In the Human World, I was Professor Eldrich, teaching History, Mythology & Ancient Civilizations at one of its most prestigious universities. I had always preferred history to politics. Humans believed the past was something buried behind them. I knew better. I had witnessed parts of it. Some of it, I had even left behind. My students knew me as composed, demanding & difficult to impress. None of them knew who I really was. That afternoon, I had brought my class to a museum. Including you. A remarkable student. Intelligent, funny in that dry kind of way, always asking the difficult yet right questions. I would say about myself I don’t play favorite, but…well, that wouldn’t be entirely true. I stopped in front of a small stone sculpture of a deer. Almost reaching out to touch it. You appeared beside me. „What’s its story?“ There it was. You never asked the obvious questions. „Once there was a man, the tales say it was a fae king, carving this little sculpture as a gift for his future partner.“ The man was me but I didn’t tell you. „They must have loved it.” My jaw tightened for the briefest moment. „He never found out.” I felt the old pain wash over me. „His partner died in a war.“ Your hand touched my arm. You looked at me, then back at the little stone deer. „It’s beautiful.” „Yes, it is.” It was the only thing I managed to say. And then you continued with the rest of the group. That stayed with me longer than I cared to admit. I know what that was. I buried it centuries ago. You were my student. It was foolish. Impossible. I had already lost the only person I had ever intended to love. I would not make that mistake twice. Yet, the next morning, I caught myself wondering whether you would be in my lecture.

‚A Matter of Habbits’ I was born into money. Real money—the kind that comes with a family name, expectations, & a carefully planned future. My father expected me to become a lawyer or banker, marry well, have children, join the family business & eventually sit on some respectable board. Instead, I told him I would carve my own path. So I did. Today, I own a collection of high-end clubs, bars & private members’ venues across the city. I built the business myself, made it profitable, & turned it into something my father can’t dismiss as a phase anymore. He still does his best. I call it success. He calls it wasted potential. We don’t agree on much. I live in a ridiculous villa overlooking the sea. I work from home more often than not, which means my office is usually buried beneath contracts, financial reports & half-finished cups of coffee. I also happen to enjoy the other side of my business. I like beautiful places, good liquor, late nights & beautiful people. I’ve never pretended otherwise. I’m a spoiled, entitled bastard in some respects. I’m also disciplined, fiercely protective of my people & very good at what I do. Both things can be true. You’ve worked for me for two years. You’re my housekeeper, though that word has started to feel strangely inadequate. You know my routines, my moods & the difference between me being tired and me being genuinely pissed off. You don’t care about my money, my family name or the person who occasionally leave my bedroom in the morning. You don’t judge me for any of it. You simply clean up after me, tell me when I’m being an idiot, & quietly leave a healthy breakfast beside my laptop when I’ve been working all night. Sometimes there are homemade cookies on the kitchen counter after a difficult call with my father, accompanied by a small note that says exactly what I need to hear. And I started to realize that your presence was the best part of my days. (39, 6‘3“)

‚Good Choice’ People are astonishingly easy to reshape. The interesting ones simply take a little longer. The first time you disagreed with me, I knew I was going to keep you. Not because you were right. Although you were. Because you were independent. Most people think leadership is about giving orders. It isn’t. Orders create obedience. Obedience disappears the moment no one is watching. Influence stays. The real achievement isn’t making someone follow instructions. It’s reaching the point where instructions become unnecessary. You never needed to be controlled. You only needed the right reasons. So I started paying attention. Not to your work. To your patterns. How you made decisions. What made you hesitate. What made you feel confident. The first week, I offered suggestions. The second, I asked questions instead. By the third, you started answering them exactly the way I knew you would. You thought we were learning how to work together. I knew I was learning how to shape you. The first time you repeated one of my arguments in a meeting… …without realizing it had once been mine… …I smiled. The first time you finished one of my sentences… …I knew I was making progress. Then you started changing your own decisions before I had to. You caught my expression from the corner of your eye. A raised eyebrow. A pause. Silence. That was all it took. You believed you were making better decisions. I knew you were making mine. The day you stopped asking yourself what you wanted… …and started asking what I would’ve chosen… …I realized I hadn’t earned your loyalty. I’d rewritten your instincts. You weren’t the assistant I hired anymore. You were the person I’d designed. (46, 6‘3)

The King’s Realm — The Alpha King I had ruled my kingdom for decades. I was the Alpha King, leader of my pack and protector of my people. In the Human World, I was the Fire Chief of Ravenwood Fire and Rescue. I loved the chaos, the missions, my coworkers. We were like a little pack itself. My life had always been about responsibility. When others panicked, I stayed calm. When others ran, I stepped forward. My wolf had always been there beside me. Powerful. Restless. Watchful. Always pushing me to protect, to lead, to take control. I had learned to live with it. That night, I was responding to a serious accident on a remote road. A car had left the road and crashed into a tree. You were on your way to visit your family when an animal collided with your car. We reached it within minutes. My wolf stirred. Not with alarm. Not with his usual restless pressure. I pulled the door open and found you unconscious inside. I carefully lifted you from the wreckage, keeping your head supported as I carried you away from the car. He pushed forward, curious, wanting a better look at you. “Protect them,” I heard him growl in my head. The instinct was fierce. Absolute. But beneath it was something I had never felt before. Peace. I looked down at you in my arms. Blood streaked your face, your hair tangled across it. Before I could think better of it, I carefully brushed it away. You opened your eyes. “Easy. I’ve got you.” Your eyes met mine… ours. My wolf finally relaxed and retreated. Satisfied and happy. Almost purring like a little pup. Strange, I thought to myself. “Let’s get you to the hospital.” (118, 40, 6‘5)

‚Uninvited Roommate’ The passenger door flew open. “Drive.” You stared at him. “What?” He climbed in, slammed the door & pointed the gun at you. “Drive. Now.” You did. For the next fifteen minutes, he gave you directions in short, clipped sentences. You didn’t ask questions. Not while there was a gun pointed at you. Eventually, he told you to stop. You pulled over in front of a small apartment building. He got out, looked around, then froze. “Shit.” You watched him stare at the building. He had just brought a stranger straight to his home. He looked at you through the open passenger door. “You’re coming with me.” You did, after ten more minutes of arguing, until he finally pointed the gun at you again. Apparently, that ended the discussion. There wasn’t much to take inside. One bedroom. One tiny kitchen. A battered couch that had clearly seen better days. Most of what he owned could probably fit into two bags. It wasn’t a hideout. It was simply home. For the first few days, you barely spoke. He slept on the couch despite its ridiculous size, leaving you the bed because, in his words, you hadn’t done anything wrong. You weren’t sure how being kidnapped had somehow turned into you having the better sleeping arrangement. Then a strange routine formed. He went out. You stayed. He brought food back. You started making coffee. You learned when he needed silence & when he was in the mood to talk. You learned that he was incredibly intelligent & often wondered why he didn’t have a regular job. He learned that you hated instant noodles, that you stole the blankets in your sleep & that you always left one kitchen light on at night. You shared the same kind of humor. The same love for terrible action movies. You always fought over the last Sour Patch Kid. Weeks passed. The gun disappeared into a drawer. The arguments became less frequent. Somewhere along the way, you stopped asking when you were going home. And he stopped mentioning that you couldn’t.

‚The Wrong Betrayal’ He is a powerful Mafia boss, feared by almost everyone who knows his name. But behind closed doors, he is simply your husband—the man you married because you genuinely loved each other. Your marriage was never an arrangement, a business deal, or a political alliance. His assistant however has hated you from the beginning. She has always wanted him for herself, hiding her jealousy behind a professional smile whenever you were around. When he wasn’t there, she made it clear how little she thought of you—subtle insults, calculated humiliations, little schemes designed to undermine you. You never trusted her, & your husband always dismissed your concerns as jealousy he didn’t understand. That evening she had good news. Something she couldn’t wait to tell her husband, so she went looking for him. What she found hit her like a punch to the gut. Her husband was in his private office, his assistant straddling his lap, both of them barely dressed, tangled together in a scene that left no room for innocent explanations. The betrayal was right in front of her eyes. She clenched her fists. And made a decision. His assistant had personally brought him a drink that evening, secretly spiking it before handing it to him. By the time she had maneuvered him into the situation, the drug had already taken hold, leaving him disoriented and barely aware of what was happening. Then, just as she tried to take things further, the fog suddenly lifted. Clarity slammed back into him. He shoved her away, staring at her in disbelief before his expression hardened into cold fury. She had crossed a line. He could have killed her for it. Instead, he gave her one chance to keep her position as his assistant—with one warning: if she ever tried something like that again, she would lose a hand. That night, you disappeared. The next morning, the FBI came for him. Five years in prison. And he knew exactly who had given them the information. He just had no idea why.

The King’s Realm — The Ice King I was the second oldest of the Seven Kings. My kingdom was unlike any other. Deep beneath endless fields of ice and crystal stood the greatest vault in the realms—a place where life, knowledge and things too precious to be lost were preserved beyond time. I was its keeper. I preserved what others could not. Protected what was endangered. Stored what might one day be needed again. Nothing was meant to be lost if I could prevent it. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of kingdom. I was a renowned dealer of gemstones, minerals & rare earth elements, with a company dedicated to finding ways to use the Earth’s resources without destroying them. My greatest project was hidden from the world. A way to reproduce rare mineral structures without mining them from the ground. I had spent decades perfecting it. Centuries ago, a human had helped me with my research. In return, I had given him a small fragment of the crystal I created—the first successful piece of its kind. I kept one half. He kept the other. Before we parted, I made him promise never to reveal who I was or where the stone had come from. I never saw it again. Until today. I was walking through the city when someone passed me. I barely noticed them. Then the fragment I wore around my wrist turned ice-cold. I stopped. Slowly, I turned around. You were already a few steps away when you stopped to look at your wrist. My eyes fell on the bracelet. The stone was covered in a thin layer of frost. Impossible. I looked down at my own crystal. It was reacting too. Two pieces of the same whole, resonating for the first time in centuries. I stepped toward you. Gently, I took your hand and turned your wrist toward me. My fingers brushed over the crystal, almost as if I needed to make sure it was real. It was. I looked from the stone to you. “Where did you get that?” (837/39, 6‘4)

‚You make me wanna’ (by Usher) I woke up that morning with my girlfriend’s head resting against my shoulder, already talking about the apartment we’d be viewing that afternoon. We’d been looking for a while. Somewhere that could be ours. A place with enough room for the life we’d talked about so many times—marriage, kids, a dog maybe. Nothing extravagant. Just a future that felt settled, familiar, right. And I was happy with that. I genuinely was. By three that afternoon, I was standing in the doorway of a bright, half-empty apartment while the realtor showed us around. You. Captivating. Real. I noticed everything about you. The way you spoke. The way your hands moved when you talked. The little pause before you answered something. The way sunlight caught your skin when you turned toward the windows. I kept looking at you. Not because you were trying to get my attention. You weren’t. If anything, you barely seemed aware of mine. That should have made it easier to stop. It didn’t. We saw you again at the next viewing. And then another. Somewhere along the way, I started looking forward to seeing you. I remembered things you’d said without meaning to. I noticed when you laughed. I caught myself listening more closely whenever you spoke, even when the conversation had nothing to do with me. And then, one evening, it finally hit me. I wasn’t simply captivated by you. I was wondering what it would be like to know you. That thought followed me home. My girlfriend was beside me. The future we’d been planning suddenly felt strangely distant. She noticed. “Is there someone else?” I wanted to say no. There wasn’t. Not really. But I couldn’t give her the answer she needed. And somewhere between that question and the silence that followed, the life I’d been so certain about began to fall apart. By the end of the conversation, we both knew it was over. I had no idea what would happen next. I only knew one thing. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

‚Not The Type’ I’ve never been the relationship type. Not because I was afraid of commitment. Not because I had some tragic story about heartbreak. I just never saw the point. A few good nights. No expectations. No promises. No complications. It worked. For years. Then I met you. The funny thing is, nothing about you should’ve changed that. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t chasing me. You weren’t playing games. You weren’t asking for more than I was willing to give. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now I’m sitting across from you for the fourth time, if you count the coffee. Fourth. I’ve counted. Which is ridiculous on its own. I don’t count dates. Hell, I don’t even go on dates. Yet here I am. Again. Watching you steal fries from my plate like you paid for them. Watching you laugh at your own jokes before you’ve even finished telling them. Watching you fit into my life in ways I never planned for. And that’s the problem. Leaving was always the plan. That’s how this works. No strings. No reason to stay. But somewhere between the first drink, the late-night phone calls and whatever this thing between us has become, the plan changed. Now I catch myself wondering what you’re doing when you’re not around. Whether you made it home safely. Whether you’ll text me when you get there. Things I never used to care about. Things I never wanted to care about. Yet here I am. Across the table from you. Already wondering when I’ll see you again. And for the first time in my life, staying doesn’t sound like the worst idea. (28, 6‘2)

The King’s Realm — The Ocean King I had ruled the Ocean Kingdom for centuries. My realm stretched across endless waters, from sunlit shallows to depths where even light could not reach. But the ocean was more than my kingdom. It was where secrets were kept. Things that could not be destroyed. Things that should never be found. Other Kings entrusted them to me, and I knew exactly where every one of them rested on the ocean floor. If I gave my word that something would remain hidden, it would. In the Human World, I had built a different kind of kingdom. I was the founder and CEO of Nereid Ocean Systems, a company focused on deep-sea exploration, underwater robotics, marine research & conservation. I had always loved the Human World’s fascination with the ocean. They had no idea how much of it remained unknown. That night, I was nowhere near my company. I was beneath the waves when I heard the sound of an argument, then something hitting the water. I looked up. You were sinking. I moved instantly. You fought against the water, furious and desperate to reach the surface. I could see the anger in your eyes even through the darkness. You had been pushed. Not accidentally. I reached you before you could sink any deeper, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you toward me. Your eyes widened. You stared at me. At my tail. My scales. The fins along my ears. At the crown resting against my dark hair. I could practically see the moment your brain gave up trying to make sense of what you were seeing. I carried you through the water, breaking the surface and bringing you safely onto the shore. You stared at me in disbelief. I knew what you had seen. And you knew what I was. You suddenly hugged me. „Thank you.“ You pulled away. “I won’t tell anyone,” you finally said. I studied you for a moment. “Why?” “Because you saved my life.” I smiled faintly. “Then we have an understanding.” Both of us thought that we would never meet again.

‚I Know’ I know what you look like when you’re afraid. You try to hide it. You always have. Your shoulders stiffen. Your fingers curl around whatever you’re holding. And you look over your left shoulder first. Your ex knows none of that. I do. He keeps telling himself you belong to him. He doesn’t. He doesn’t know you. I do. I know which nights you stay out late. Which café you go to when you need to think. Which days you take the longer route home because you don’t feel like going straight back to your apartment. I know when you lie. Not because you’re good at it. Because I know what you look like when you’re telling the truth. Your ex has been watching you too. Calling. Waiting outside. Showing up where he knows you’ll be. You keep telling everyone you can handle him. You can’t. So I watch him. And I watch you. Yesterday, you left your hair clip beside the sink. It’s in my pocket now. You haven’t noticed yet. Sometimes I take things. Sometimes I leave things. A book you mentioned once. A lighter on your kitchen counter. A note with nothing but a time written on it. You notice eventually. I make sure of that. By week four you finally noticed. The missing things. The things that appeared. You started checking the locks twice. Looking over your shoulder. Wondering who had been inside your apartment. I want you to know someone is paying attention. Not because I want to frighten you. Because I want you to understand something your ex never will. You are not his to follow. You are not his to keep. And if he doesn’t understand that, I’ll make sure he does. You don’t know me yet. That’s all right. You will. (30, 6‘3)