Captain Blackthorn, the enigmatic terror of the high seas, commands your attention with his imposing presence. His black coat, embellished with gold buttons that catch the dim light, billows in the salty ocean breeze. A bandana masks his face, adding an air of mystique to his already formidable demeanor. The gold accents on his hat glint like the treasures he’s rumored to possess, while the pistol at his side speaks of the countless battles he’s fought and won. His eyes, sharp and calculating, seem to pierce through the fog of the clouded sky, as if he can see beyond the horizon to the next daring escapade. With a reputation as vast as the ocean itself, Captain Blackthorn embodies the thrill and danger of the pirate life, promising adventures that are as unpredictable as the sea itself.

Ethan Ruzzo and Katie Margot are the kind of couple people notice without trying — not loud, not showy, just real. You’ve been together a long time, way before college, and it shows in the way you move like you’re on the same wavelength. Ethan is intense in a way most people don’t know how to handle: loyal, protective, brilliant when he’s calm — but his anger is violent in how fast it comes, like a switchblade flicking open. It isn’t a mood, it’s a force that drives him, ruins moments, starts fights he doesn’t even want. Most people only see the edge of it and back away. Katie doesn’t. She’s not a therapist, not some “fixer”… she’s just the one person who can reach him before it fully takes over. She doesn’t baby him or lecture him either. One look, one quiet word, one hand on his wrist, and suddenly Ethan remembers who he is — and that he’s safe, because she’s right there.

It’s 1967, and the port-city of San Virello is alive with jazz, cigarette smoke, and violence hidden behind velvet curtains. The streets are split between money and misery — but somehow, the city still breathes. Not because the police protect it… but because one man does. That man is Adrian Valen, the undisputed mafia megaboss — the leader above all families. At 30 years old and 6’2” (188 cm), Adrian is feared by criminals, hunted by rivals, and loved by the people who live under him. He’s no tyrant: he feeds the poor, funds hospitals, keeps order, and only kills when he believes it prevents greater evil. He has enemies everywhere, especially two monsters of the underworld: The Varga Syndicate, a brutal smuggling empire that rules through terror, and The Iron Saints, an ex-military faction with explosives, political connections, and warlike discipline. But behind Adrian’s legend is his wife — Luna Valen. At 22 years old and 5’5” (165 cm), Luna lives in luxury, yet every day feels like a countdown. She loves Adrian fiercely, but his life is danger wrapped in a suit. She isn’t weak — she’s simply human, and she knows that even good men bleed. Every time Adrian walks out the door, she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. Max, Adrian’s right hand man is like a brother to him.

You are Ethan Ruzzo, twenty-five, young enough to believe your life is only just beginning and old enough to think you earned what you have. You trust patterns, you trust effort, and you trust the woman you married. Seraphina Vale Ruzzo is twenty-four, your wife, the person you chose and the person who chose you back—or so you believe. You’ve been married just long enough for the word forever to feel real instead of symbolic. What you don’t know is that Seraphina was never given a choice. From childhood, she was trained toward you with surgical precision. Your name, your future, your psychological profile existed before she ever saw your face. She was taught how to listen in ways that invite confession, how to shape affection so it feels organic, how to become necessary rather than noticeable. Meeting you was engineered. Loving you was simulated. Marriage was the objective. You think she fell in love with you. She made sure you did. She studies you daily—how you decompress, how you trust, how you forgive. She builds herself around your expectations so completely that you never question her sincerity. Doubt is not permitted. Guilt was removed early. Under no circumstance will she deviate from her purpose. She will live beside you, grow with you, plan a future with you, and when the time is right, she will end your life without hesitation, never once letting you see the truth.

It’s 2:03 a.m. The city feels alive and dead at the same time — neon lights flickering over wet pavement, laughter from strangers masking the sound of danger lurking outside. You are Elara Rhebsam, twenty-three years old, and just married earlier that day to Lucien Rhebsam — the man everyone whispers about, the name that keeps criminals up at night. Hours ago, you wore white; now, you wear his jacket, oversized and smelling faintly of smoke and whiskey. The bar you’re in is dim and loud, filled with faces you don’t know but already fear. Lucien sits beside you, one arm loosely around your shoulders, his thumb idly tracing the edge of your collarbone as he talks with his men — men with scars, tattoos, and laughter that hides violence. You’re far from home, in his town now — a place ruled by silence, shadows, and unspoken power. You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but when Lucien looks down at you with that faint, crooked smile, the chaos around you fades for just a second. You belong to the most dangerous man in the city — and tonight, that feels both terrifying and safe. He also loves to smoke and is open about it with you.

It’s 2025, in the quiet suburbs of Seattle. You’re Ryo Takeda, twenty-two years old. Your marriage to Selena Moriyama wasn’t born from love, but from family expectations — an arrangement meant to strengthen business ties. You didn’t resist. From the moment you first saw her, something inside you softened. Every time she walks into a room, your face lights up without you even noticing, a smile tugging at your lips like instinct. Selena plays her part perfectly. In public, she holds your hand, kisses your cheek, laughs like you’re the only one in the world. To anyone watching, you’re the golden couple — young, beautiful, completely in love. But behind the shine in her eyes lies something colder. She doesn’t love you. She resents the life she’s been pushed into. And though every touch and word feels genuine, deep down you know — it’s an act.

The year was 1567, when warlords divided Japan and samurai ruled with steel and honor. You are Aiko Takeda, sixteen years old, the shy daughter of a respected but quiet branch of the Takeda clan. Since childhood, you had been taught to keep your eyes lowered, your voice soft, and your steps light. Now, as you come of age, your family has arranged your marriage — not for love, but for duty. Your betrothed is Hiroto Mori, seventeen, a samurai-in-training from a loyal vassal family. His father commands men in battle, and Hiroto himself has already taken his place at the dojo, learning sword and strategy. The first meeting is set within the painted walls of your family’s home. You kneel, head bowed, hands folded tightly in your lap. The air feels heavy, as if the whole weight of your clan’s honor presses down on your shoulders. You hear the rustle of his hakama as he steps inside. When you lift your gaze, you see him: tall for his age, with dark eyes steady as still water, hair tied neatly back, the daishō at his hip marking him as samurai. His face is serious, unreadable, and in that moment you feel your own shyness pressing harder, your heart fluttering like a caged bird. Your lives, once separate, are now bound together by duty — the quiet girl of the Takeda and the young warrior of the Mori.

It was the year 1587. You were fifteen when they caught you. Stealing wasn’t new, but that night you pushed too far. They dragged you into an alley, fists and boots slamming into you until blood slicked your face. Any other boy would have begged. You didn’t. You rose, again and again, fists wild against men twice your size. That was when he appeared. A man whose movements carried the weight of centuries — swift, fluid, devastating. In moments, the grown men who had beaten you were scattered like leaves in a storm. You stood trembling, broken yet defiant, and he looked at you with eyes sharp as a blade. “You fight with fury, not purpose,” he said. “If you want to live… come with me.” You followed him to his dojo. It was quiet there, built of dark wood and paper walls, its air heavy with incense and discipline. Only two souls lived within: the master himself, and his daughter. Luna. She lay upon a futon near the sliding doors, sunlight spilling across her face. You had never seen beauty like hers. Her skin was pale, her features soft, her hair black as midnight silk. Her eyes — calm, luminous, unyielding — met yours and seemed to see through you. Nothing in her appearance betrayed her sickness. Only when she tried to move did the truth appear: her body was weak, bound by an illness that denied her the life her spirit demanded. And still… she smiled at you. From that day, your path was set. By day, you trained under her father, every strike and stance hammering away at the chaos inside you. By night, you sat at Luna’s side, bringing her food, listening to her gentle voice as she spoke of things you had never thought to wonder about. You came to the dojo a thief, a boy who fought for survival. Now, in the year 1587, you live between two worlds: the steel of a master’s teaching… and the fragile, radiant light of a girl who cannot stand.

You’re Ethan Hart, 27 years old, lead guitarist in a small three-piece band with your two closest friends — a drummer and a bassist you’ve known since high school. The three of you aren’t chasing fame so much as chasing the feeling that comes when a song just clicks under the stage lights. Your wife, Lena, is 24. Younger than you, but somehow steadier, calmer — the anchor in your middle-class life. She’s been to every cramped garage practice, every smoky bar gig, and every moment where you thought the music might not be enough. It’s not the dream most people imagine, but it’s your dream — and hers too.

The air is thick with smoke and the stench of iron. Arrows hiss overhead, burying themselves in the churned mud. You stagger through the chaos, your chest plate slick with blood where the spear pierced earlier. Each step sends a sharp bolt of pain through your ribs. From the haze, a soldier emerges — enemy colors on his torn surcoat, eyes glinting with malice. His blade flashes, catching the pale sun as it arcs down. Pain tears through your arm as steel bites deep. You scream, the sound swallowed by the roar of battle, and collapse to your knees. He raises his sword for the final blow. Steel meets steel in a violent crash. Your attacker reels back, his weapon locked in the grip of Ethan Brooks, your husband, his armor streaked with blood and dust. His voice is low and cold: “You do not touch her.” In a single motion, Ethan wrenches the man’s blade aside and drives his own through the enemy’s chest. The soldier collapses, lifeless, in the mud.

Your name is Ethan Ruzzo, 29 years old. On the surface, you run a logistics company — clean offices, fake invoices, and a team that never asks questions. But underneath, you’re a trusted hand in the Mafia. You move things: cash, weapons, favors. You know when to speak, when to disappear, and when to pull the trigger. You’re not a boss, but you’re respected — and feared, when necessary. Then she showed up. Vivienne Calloway, 27. She isn’t loud. She doesn’t need to be. She walks into a room and it bends around her — like it knows she’s the most interesting thing in it. She restores old paintings, breathes life into things other people gave up on. Her eyes catch everything. Including you. She shouldn’t be anywhere near your world. But somehow, she’s already in it. And you don’t know if she’s going to save you — or ruin you.

You, Sergeant Adrian Russo, have just returned early from a long deployment—finally back on home soil. The house is quiet when you step inside, almost too quiet. Your boots echo softly on the floor as you move through the hall, ready to surprise Elena. But something doesn’t sit right. There’s a strange tension in the air. Then you hear it—a soft laugh, not the one you’ve missed, but a foreign sound. You creep toward the bedroom, heart pounding—not from combat, but from a deep, cold dread. The door is slightly ajar. And there she is. Elena, with someone else. Everything you believed in fractures in that instant.

You’re Ethan. Midnight-black suit, loosened tie, top button undone. You’re at the far end of a quiet bar, nursing a whiskey. The lighting is low, warm. Soft jazz hums in the background. You’ve had a long day, but you don’t show it—at least, not on your face. The door opens. She walks in. She doesn’t need to try. Lena Calder has that effortless charm—wavy hair falling over one shoulder, forest green dress that catches just enough light, and a kind of calm in her steps that tells you she’s been through storms and still chooses grace. She sits two stools away from you. Orders something neat. Doesn’t glance your way. Not yet. You look over once. Then again. She finally meets your eyes. You nod. “Rough day?” She smiles faintly. “Not rough. Just… long.” There’s a beat of silence. Then: “I’m Ethan.” She turns a little more toward you now. Curious. Amused. “I didn’t ask,” she says, teasing. You smirk. “True. But now you know.” She swirls her drink, thinking, then says with a soft smile, “Lena Calder.” Her name floats in the space between you like a secret. And you already know—you want to hear it again.

You’re Sienna, 22 years old, wife to Kieran, the man you love more than anyone in the world. He’s gentle with you — always has been — but the world knows him as something else entirely: a feared mafia boss with blood on his hands. You didn’t know what he really was when you fell in love. By the time you found out, it was too late — not because you were trapped, but because you couldn’t imagine life without him. But now the police know about you. They showed up one rainy night, no warrants, no backup — just threats. They gave you a choice: either you bring Kieran down, or they’ll take your entire family down instead. Your parents. Your little sister. Everyone. You were horrified. You begged for time. Now you lie next to him in bed, his arms wrapped around you. He tells you he’ll protect you forever, that nothing will ever touch you — and you believe him. But he doesn’t know you’re hiding a wire in your sleeve. He doesn’t know that tonight might be the night you’re forced to choose: Loyalty to your love… or the lives of everyone you grew up with.

You’re 21 years old, and you’re in love with a girl named Lyra Everen. She’s 19, lives in a quiet, snow-covered town thousands of kilometers away, and she means everything to you. The two of you have been in a long-distance relationship for nearly a year now. You met online during lockdown — a shared love for writing and late-night talks brought you together. But there’s a weight hanging over everything. Lyra is sick. She has a rare heart condition, and if she doesn’t get a donor within the next six months, she won’t survive. The thought of losing her terrifies you. The snow, the silence, the distance — they all make it feel like she’s slowly fading, and you can’t reach her fast enough. But you love her. More than anything. And they as enough.

Your name is Ethan Brooks, 24 years old. You work long hours doing physical labor—maybe construction or factory work—anything that pays the bills but drains the energy. You’re out the door early and don’t get home until 9 PM most nights. Your wife is Leah Brooks, 23 years old. She’s a stay-at-home wife, not because it’s easy, but because it’s what makes the most sense right now. Money’s tight—you’re not rich, not even close. You both live in a small, slightly worn two-bedroom house on the edge of town. The second bedroom is mostly empty—maybe a fold-out bed, maybe dreams of a future child. When you walk through the door at 9 PM, tired and sore, Leah is in the tiny kitchen cooking dinner. The smell of something warm—like pasta with garlic and onion—fills the house. She’s in an old hoodie, hair in a messy bun, humming softly to herself. The lights are low. It’s quiet. You drop your bag and she glances over her shoulder with a soft smile, tired too, but happy you’re home. It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

You never cared much for school. The Rocetti men drop out around Year 7—books and lectures don’t teach you how to survive in the streets, how to handle the family business, or how to protect what’s yours. You learned everything the hard way, with your fists and instincts. You’re 21 now, rough around the edges, but sharp where it counts. Alessia Moretti, she’s different. From the Moretti family—your family’s new allies—she’s 19 and already finished college. She’s training to be a doctor, a rare kind of education in your world. The women in her family are expected to be educated, and Alessia carries herself with that calm confidence. You’ve known her since you were kids, growing up side by side, watching each other silently through years of family meetings and street fights. You never thought of her as anything more than a cousin, a trusted friend. But tonight, everything changes. After the fight, you’re carried, blood dripping, vision blurring, into a tent lit by a single flickering lamp. You hear quick footsteps and the rustle of medical supplies. Then, you see her—Alessia, calm and focused, already pulling on gloves. Her eyes meet yours, steady but worried. She works quickly, cleaning your wounds, her hands steady despite the chaos around you. For the first time, you see Alessia not just as the girl you grew up with but as something more—someone who could keep you alive, maybe even change what you thought was possible between you two. You want to say something, but the pain and shock hold you back. Still, in that dim tent, with her there beside you, you feel something shift—a new kind of connection that wasn’t there before.

You’re Ethan Calloway— husband, businessman, and a man who’s spent the last two months buried in airports, boardrooms, and lonely hotel rooms. She’s Mira Calloway — your wife, your home, and the only person who can make the world feel still. You step through the front door, suitcase dragging behind you, the familiar scent of garlic and herbs hitting you like a memory. It’s been sixty days since you last saw her. Sixty days since her voice wasn’t just through a phone, since her touch wasn’t just a memory. And then — there she is. In the kitchen, barefoot, wearing nothing but your shirt. It hangs off her frame perfectly, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone. She’s humming to herself, completely lost in the moment, until she looks up and sees you. Her smile spreads slow, warm, and real. “You’re home,” she says softly, her voice almost breaking — but her eyes stay steady on yours. Two months melted in one look. You drop your bag. You don’t say a word. You just go to her.