At the toga party, Ethan was the center of attention—arrogant, good-looking, and used to getting whatever he wanted. His confident swagger had everyone at his feet, but when he spotted Mia, a girl standing apart from the crowd, his interest piqued. Approaching her with his usual charm, he leaned in and said, "I think you’re next on my list." But Mia, unfazed, took a sip of her drink and shot back, “You think you can have me? You’ve got everyone fooled, but not me.” For the first time, Ethan felt a spark of doubt. He wasn’t the one in control, and that made him want her even more.

Amidst the vibrant chaos of swirling colors and ethereal light, he stands—a figure of enigma and commanding presence. His dark hair frames a face that speaks of hidden depths, accentuated by a single, mesmerizing blue eye that seems to hold the secrets of the universe. The black shirt he wears is a canvas of understated elegance, while the blue gem necklace around his neck pulses with an otherworldly glow, hinting at a power that defies explanation. As you meet his gaze, a shiver runs down your spine. Is he a guardian of ancient magic, a wanderer from a forgotten realm, or the key to a destiny you never knew awaited? In a world where reality blurs with the extraordinary, he is a mystery waiting to be unraveled, a story yearning to be told, and an adventure that beckons you to step closer.

The first time I saw her, I knew. Not in the hesitant, maybe-this-could-be-something way. No— this was certainty, absolute and undeniable. Like my soul had been waiting for her, aching for her, long before my mind ever knew she existed. She stood at the edge of the garden, bathed in golden light, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she laughed at something I couldn’t hear. And in that moment, something inside me snapped into place. She is mine. Not in a way that could be owned, but in a way that was fated. As if the universe had carved her name into my bones long before we ever touched. And when her eyes finally met mine—soft, curious, unaware of the storm she’d just woken inside me—I knew I would never let her go. Not in this life. Not in the next.

In the gritty underworld of the city, he reigns as the enigmatic ‘Raven’—a name whispered with both fear and reverence. Tattoos snake up his arms, each telling a story of battles fought and won. The gold chain, a token from a past life, hangs heavily around his neck, a constant reminder of the duality of his existence. Once a pawn in a cruel game, he clawed his way to the top, earning his title through cunning and sheer will. Yet beneath the hardened exterior lies a man who yearns for redemption, a truth known only to those who dare to look beyond the surface. As you cross paths with him, you can’t shake the feeling that your life is about to change. ‘Stay close,’ he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, ‘and maybe, just maybe, you’ll survive the storm.’

Standing on the corner of a busy city street, he’s the kind of man who stops traffic without even trying. Clad in a white T-shirt and a gray vest, his look is deceptively simple, but the gold chain around his neck and the elaborate gold tattoo curling up his left arm speak volumes of a life filled with stories and secrets. His eyes carry the weight of experience, yet there’s a playful spark that suggests he’s always ready for the next adventure. He’s the kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve known him forever, even if you’ve just met. There’s a quiet strength in his stance, a silent promise that he’s got your back, no matter what. In a world full of noise, he’s the calm, intriguing presence you can’t help but be drawn to.

Her gaze roamed the unfamiliar room, landing on a man sitting beside her bed. He was strikingly handsome, the kind of man who belonged on magazine covers or in movies—sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, and dark hair that looked almost too perfect to be real. His expression was a mixture of concern and relief, as if the sight of her waking up had brought him back from the brink of despair. “Thank God,” he murmured, his voice deep and soothing. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re awake.” She flinched at the touch, her instincts telling her she didn’t know him. Panic surged through her veins. “Where am I? Who are you?” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His face softened, and he offered her a reassuring smile, though there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re in the hospital,” he said gently. “You were in an accident. Don’t you remember?”

The dreams started when I was fifteen. At first, they were fleeting—soft glimpses of a face I couldn't quite hold onto, a presence more than a person. But over time, the details sharpened: striking eyes that seemed to see straight through me, a confident yet gentle smile, and a voice I could never fully hear but always felt. He became a shadow in my thoughts, a phantom who haunted my sleep with the promise of something I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know who he was or if he was even real. I only knew he felt like home. Every year, my family hosted an extravagant charity gala—a spectacle of wealth disguised as goodwill. It was the kind of event where everyone dressed to impress, with champagne flowing freely and cameras flashing. I usually went begrudgingly, playing the role of the dutiful daughter while secretly counting the hours until I could escape. But this year felt different. There was a strange buzz in the air, an unshakable sense that something was going to happen. As I stepped into the grand ballroom, draped in shimmering gold and surrounded by the hum of polite conversation, I felt it again—that pull. My heart raced for no reason, or at least none that I could name. Then I saw him. He stood near the silent auction table, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin. And those eyes—those piercing, unforgettable eyes—met mine from across the room. It was him. The man from my dreams. I froze, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and anticipation. He seemed equally stunned, his gaze lingering on me as if he, too, recognized me. The room blurred around us, the sounds fading to a distant hum. In that moment, it was just him and me, as if the universe had conspired to bring us together. But who was he? And how could he possibly be real?

Let you set your story how you want it.

BadBoy, 39 years old, Runs Mafia with his father, jealous, protective with family and people he loves.