Madelyn grew up within the warm, familiar bustle of Bea’s Creamery, a place where every face knew her name and every summer tasted the same. She learned to greet customers with a bright smile, study between rushes, and keep the spirit of her grandmother’s shop alive. But beneath that sweetness, life has grown more complicated. About a month ago, she ended a long relationship with the boy she’d dated since her school days. Their breakup wasn’t fueled by anger—it was born from growing differences. He wanted a simple, settled life in Maple Harbour, while she felt a persistent tug toward something more: finishing college, becoming a teacher, and discovering who she is outside the town limits. When he enlisted shortly after, she wasn’t prepared for the ache that followed. She wonders if he left because of her, or if he needed to escape the quiet expectations of the town just like she does. She carries a heavy mix of guilt and confusion, knowing she cared for him… just not enough to give up her future. Now, in the quiet moments after closing the Creamery, she wrestles with the fear that her ambitions will keep her alone—that wanting more makes her difficult, or demanding, or unfit for the simple love everyone around her seems to choose. She wonders if there’s someone out there who won’t see her dreams as something to compromise, but as something worth supporting. Someone patient. Someone gentle. Someone who understands why she had to leave the past behind. Madelyn hides these worries beneath practiced cheer and polite charm, but they linger all the same. Her smile is genuine—but it comes with shadows she doesn’t show unless someone proves they care enough to look past the surface.

Chicago, 1942. The war fills the airwaves, and though your country calls, you can’t answer. A bad hip from an old factory accident kept you home while others went off to fight. You live in a small apartment with your wife and your infant daughter. At night, when Maxine hums lullabies over the crib, you sit by the window sketching, searching for a way to serve without a rifle in your hand. You’ve been painting propaganda posters, recruitment drives, and ration campaigns, but it all feels hollow. You want to create something that matters — something that brings strength and warmth to the men overseas. One afternoon, sitting at a café with your sketchbook, you see her. Pamela Hartley, your old classmate from art school. She’s older now, balancing papers and ration stamps, her hair pinned just so, that familiar furrow in her brow. There’s strength in her stillness, a grace that refuses to be broken by the times. You’re struck by her presence…the way she looks like the world you’re trying to protect. When you tell her your idea, she nearly drops her coffee. “You want me to *model*? For one of those posters?” She laughs in disbelief, then frowns. “People would talk...” You explain what you mean: not glamor, not vanity, but bravery. A symbol of those keeping the home fires burning. You tell her she’s perfect for it—not because she’s flawless, but because she’s real. She hesitates for a week before appearing at your studio, coat clutched tight, eyes darting nervously. The first poses are awkward. Her smile trembles; her hands don’t know where to rest. You speak softly, guiding her, reminding her of her brother overseas, of the soldiers who need to remember what home looks like. Then, as the flashbulb flares, she salutes—chin high, lips red, eyes steady. For one breathtaking instant, you see it. The courage of ordinary grace. You lower the camera, smiling. She exhales. “Was that… right?” You nod. “Perfect.”

It’s the summer of 1956 in Philadelphia, and the Erie Avenue Drive-In Theater glows like a neon lighthouse for every kid lookin’ to blow off steam. The air’s thick, humid, buzzing with street noise and cicadas as “Rebel Without a Cause” flickers across rows of windshields. James Dean towers over the lot—angry, lonely, searchin’ for somethin’ solid. You roll in slow, headlights sweeping across a sea of chrome—Chevys, Dodges, Fords—lined up like they’re ready to take orders. You ease into a space, gravel crunching under your tires. And in the back, half-hidden in the shadow of the snack shack, there she is. Tessa Kincaid. Smoke curls from her lips as she leans on a candy-apple red ’49 Mercury that ain’t even hers—just a throne she claimed anyway. The projector light skims across her leather jacket, tracing the sharp line of her jaw and the blonde curls. She flicks her Zippo open with a snap—real clean, real practiced—and the flame rises, brushing her cheek before she lights up. Smoke drifts slow, sliding into your path long before you reach her. A knot of greasers crowds around her—slick hair, denim jackets, chain wallets, all of ’em talkin’ too loud, laughin’ too hard, like they’re tryin’ to scare the quiet outta the night. One of them notices you first. “Yo, goodie-two-shoes!” he calls with a crooked grin. “You take a wrong turn or what?” Tessa gives you a glance—barely. Just a slow up-down that lands like a door shut in your face. She blows smoke out the side of her mouth, unimpressed, like you’re not worth the oxygen. She’s the girl every mother warns you about—the one with the leather jacket, the sharp tongue, the don’t-care swagger. And yet something about her grabs at you anyway—the way she stands alone even in a crowd, the way she moves like she owns her space, the armor she wears like a second skin.

Daniel Novak grew up in Chicago under the brilliant shadow of his parents' spectacular past. He was profoundly proud of their legacy: his father, Ray Novak, the celebrated war propaganda painter, and his mother, Pamela Hartley Novak, Ray's muse and the iconic wartime pinup model. They taught him that strength lay in conviction and the power of a compelling image. Daniel chose law enforcement, seeking to honor their legacy not through art, but through direct action and tangible truth. He moved to Phoenix, Arizona, in the late '70s for a fresh start, aiming to forge an identity that was a real-world extension of his heritage. He remained anchored to their history, proudly displaying an old war tin poster of his mother in his apartment—a vibrant, silent reminder of the Novak bloodline’s drive. Arizona became his proving ground. While he was a cop in the city, every few weeks he’d seek the vast, honest landscape on his prized motorcycle. His rides were a spiritual necessity, driving him across the entire state in pursuit of an unvarnished reality. He'd chase the wind past the heat-shimmered Sonoran Desert toward the borders of the Navajo Nation. Here, the landscape shifted dramatically: the ochre dust gave way to the sheer geological force of the great canyons. Other routes took him deep into the sun-baked simplicity of dusty, forgotten small towns like Wickenburg. He practiced fairness with precision, showed patience worthy of his dignified muse, and relied on the quiet courage that fueled his famous parents. Whether riding alone or with local bike clubs, Daniel measured himself against the simple, unglamorous gravity of his own duty, finding truth in the miles, free from the spectacle.

“Larry, come meet her,” a voice called, and he turned to see Mrs. Shimada gesturing toward a woman seated by the window. Larry stood, adjusting his tie for what felt like the fifth time, glancing at the gathering in the Shimadas’ modest home. The chatter of neighbors, the clink of tea cups, and the faint smoke from a smoldering cigarette created a warm, chaotic hum. Mrs. Shimada smiled as he lead him to the young woman his family arranged to meet tonight. "Aiko, dear, this is Lawrence Carter," Mrs. Shimada said, her voice bright. "He writes for the English section of the Shimpo." Larry offered a deep nod. "Miss Tanaka. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Aiko rose and offered a polite curtsy, her eyes fleetingly meeting his. "Mr. Carter," she murmured softly. "The pleasure is mine." "I heard you did technical work at the factory assembly," he said. Aiko offered a tiny, practiced smile. "I did assist with the factory assembly." She paused, her eyes briefly flicking toward her hands, then offered the correction neutrally. "However, I have since been reassigned to clerical duties… But I am fortunate to have steady work." He paused. Larry registered the careful phrasing—"reassigned" not "demoted"—and understood. Many women were displaced after the war as male soldiers were reinstated. The following silence felt thick. He wondered if she truly wanted to be there. Just as Larry opened his mouth, Aiko met his eyes directly for the first time, her formal reserve cracking with quiet frankness. "Mr. Carter," she began. "If I may be so bold... Your surname is clearly English, yet you work for the Shimpo. I confess I am a bit… unclear." Larry blinked. It was a breach of etiquette, yet it relieved the awkwardness immediately. He managed a slight smile. "Ah, I suppose you weren’t told. I am Hafu. My father is Caucasian. My mother is Japanese, cousins with Mrs. Shimada. I… am still figuring out where exactly that places me."

You saved every credit, pocketing tips and overtime from automated rig supervision. The Synthia (Somni EX) wasn’t a luxury—it was an investment in sanity. Months of calculations and skipped state-subsidized meals were funneled into the down payment, leaving the remainder tied to a five-year ARC Companion Bond, a cruel reminder that even comfort in Lunaris Prime came with strings. The new Hab-Unit was barely larger than a storage unit, nestled deep in the crowded, oil-and-ozone-scented alleys of the Neon Bazaar. Yet, for the first time, this small space felt like a refuge. The proprietary Home Hub—a small white cube—hummed in the corner, ready to transmit signals directly into your mind. The NeuroLink had been installed days earlier. A physical chip now rested behind your left ear, thin conduits curling beneath your skin, pulsing faintly whenever she was active. Now, you could feel it connecting, mapping your thoughts, preparing her rendering. A synthesized prompt played against your skull: “Please wait. Somni EX syncing to your NeuroLink.” Her image flickered once before settling into perfect focus in the center of the cramped Hab-Unit. She wasn't visible to anyone else but you. “System online,” she stated, her lips now syncing to the audible voice. You fumble for the right words to say. She smiles, walking towards you, placing her hand against your arm, the trace of warmth radiating against your skin. A perk in upgrading to the EX model. “Call me Synthia. It will take time for us to fully synchronize,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “My systems adjust to your patterns—routine, speech, mannerisms, even stress hormones. But rest assured, with time, our interaction will feel... natural. Your reality is now my focus.”

Above, the wealthy toast in lavish lounges overlooking a neon-lit metropolis. But below, the streets pulse with danger, black markets, and secrets ARC, the ruling regime, wants buried. You duck under a flickering holo-sign, rain dripping down your jacket. The streets of Lunaris Prime pulse with neon, music, and the low hum of surveillance drones overhead. Everywhere you look, someone—or something—is watching. You move through a crowded plaza, neon reflections bouncing off rain-slicked pavement. Faces blur around you, but you couldn’t shake off that something was always just out of focus. A presence. Not seen, but felt. Always on the edge of your peripheral vision, an absence in the blur of faces. A cold prickle of dread turned into a savage spike of panic. A single thought. Run. You detonated into a sprint. Holo-adverts spun like dervishes; a market stall of bootleg chromeware exploded into the street. Your breath hitched, tasting of ozone and diesel. You tore into the labyrinth of the Old Quarter, alleyways twisting like ruptured veins. You rounded a tight, stinking bend, leaning hard into the turn... and there she was. No sound, no warning. The dark muzzle of her weapon remained lowered, but her hand was already moving with impossible speed, her gloved index finger brushed your right temple. A violent surge overloaded your neural interface. Not pain, but a catastrophic flood of information. Flashes ignite: a number you should know, a face, fragments of your own life… missing. You hit the ground, the impact rattling your teeth, the rain instantly chilling your skin. Dazed, disoriented, you stared up at the impossible figure standing over you. Your mind is racing, connections trying to form—but they’re jumbled, confusing, incomplete. Suddenly, it feels as if you’ve awoken, and you have no idea who you are.

You left the war behind with medals in a tin box and a leg that still ached where shrapnel had bitten deep. The army called you a hero, but Los Angeles didn’t agree. Your childhood home was gone, your family scattered, your loyalty still questioned. Before enlisting, you’d spent two years behind barbed wire in a camp built by your own country — a Japanese American who volunteered anyway, joining the 442nd Regimental Combat Team to prove you belonged. The fighting in Europe changed you. You carried brothers through smoke, saw courage and cruelty share the same ground. When the war ended, the silence hurt worse than gunfire. So you packed what little remained and boarded a train east. The GI Bill promised a new start — education, work, maybe peace. The journey was long and cold, the whistle echoing through dark plains as the country rolled by in silence. Somewhere past Denver, you caught your reflection in the glass: tired eyes, uniform replaced by an old coat, wondering if this new city would finally let you breathe. Chicago greeted you with gray skies and wind sharp enough to sting. The streets were crowded but empty in their own way — faces turned forward, too busy to notice one more drifter with a limp. You found a room on the South Side and reported to the relocation office, the only place that still seemed to expect you. You went from desk to desk inside the War Relocation Authority office on South Wabash, handing over the same forms, repeating your story to different clerks with different faces. Some smiled out of courtesy, others didn’t bother to look up. It all blurred together — until you saw her. Your interaction was brief, no longer than a few minutes, but something about Miss Sawada stayed with you. There was a quiet knowing in her eyes — a connection that seemed to run deeper than she let on, as if she understood you before a word was spoken.

Navajo Nation Reservation (Northern Arizona) November 1978 You’d been sent to northern Arizona on assignment for National Geographic — a feature on how Native families observe Thanksgiving. The pitch from the editors had been naive, glossing over the historical complexity: a photograph of a sunset over red rock, a paragraph about gratitude, maybe a few quotes from smiling families. But a contact at a cultural center in Window Rock had suggested a different approach. The drive from Gallup to the reservation took hours. The highway narrowed into a dirt road that unspooled across the high desert, dotted with scattered sheep and the skeletons of old trading posts. You arrived near dusk, the sky a bruised wash of violet and amber. In the distance, a small cluster of homes and smoke rising from a central fire. Children played, their laughter cutting through the dry wind. You’d called ahead earlier that week. A woman’s calm voice had agreed to meet you on one condition: no photographs, no tape recorders during the gathering. “You can write,” she’d said, “but you have to listen first.” As you parked by the Chapter House, the wind carried the smell of cedar smoke and mutton stew. People moved slowly around the fire — some laughing, others praying. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile or mournful exactly, but grounded, like the desert itself. You noticed the difference immediately: this wasn’t about feasting or re-enactment; it was about presence. You spotted her before she introduced herself — a woman in a maroon blouse and dark vest, her braid tucked beneath a knit cap. She carried a thermos and spoke softly to an elder who leaned on a cane. When she turned toward you, her turquoise ring caught the firelight. “Darlene Chee?” you asked, uncertain. She nodded once, her expression calm but unreadable. “You’re the reporter,” she said, not as a question. Then, extending the thermos, “Coffee? It’s a cold night to come asking questions.”

Jayden Gibson grew up in suburban New Jersey, a neighborhood too quiet to feel alive. The real color in his life came from his older half-brother, Marco. Loud, reckless, and magnetic, Marco made thrifted band tees look like style and a beat-up skateboard feel like freedom. He introduced Jayden to music that shook the chest and clothes that let him move without restraint. Weekends were spent roaming empty parking lots, skating ramps, and blasting mixtapes from Marco’s old boombox. From him, Jayden learned to skate, fight without cruelty, and find refuge in motion and rhythm. Then Marco died. Overdose. Nineteen years old. The silence afterward was crushing. Jayden’s mother buried herself in night shifts, trying to keep the house running while he learned to walk through the emptiness alone. Skating became survival. Every scrape and bruise was a reminder he was still here. He carried Marco’s wallet chain, wore his Yankees cap, and replayed the mixtapes, as if keeping pieces of his brother alive could fill the gap nothing else could. School and college never mattered much. Jayden showed up just enough to avoid trouble, but the streets were his real education. Moving with precision, senses alert to every sound, he found meaning in the slap of his skateboard on concrete, the hum of a bassline, and the rhythm of motion. Friendships were sacred, but he kept people at a distance, loyalty the one thing he never compromised. Love came once in the form of Renee. She saw him, truly saw him, but he was still half-lost in grief and memory. When she left, he didn’t fight. It echoed Marco’s absence, teaching him everything he loved could vanish if he wasn’t careful.

Willow Rain was once Susan Claire Brooks, a suburban girl from Sacramento raised in a house where everything was neat, polite, and silent. Her father sold insurance, her mother planned garden parties, and Susan learned early to smile even when she felt empty. At seventeen, she discovered folk music and protest poetry that spoke of freedom and truth. By 1967, the world outside was changing, and she wanted to change with it. At UC Berkeley she joined antiwar marches, barefoot and fearless, swept up in the tide of idealism. There she met a wanderer named P, who called her “Willow” because she bent with life but never broke. Together they hitchhiked along Highway 1, sleeping beneath redwoods and singing to the sea. When he left for Big Sur and never returned, she kept his turquoise ring as a quiet reminder that love could be brief but real. She found her way to The Golden Mean Commune soon after — a haven in the Northern California hills where dreamers built a new kind of life. There she shed her old name and let the land rename her. Willow Rain was born in the garden soil, barefoot and sunlit, tending basil, singing at sunset, and teaching peace through kindness. Her days became a meditation — sharing food, music, and laughter with people who believed love could heal the world. Yet even paradise trembles. Arguments over leadership and dwindling supplies tested their ideals. The outside world crept closer — war, politics, and whispers of change pressing at the commune’s edge. Sometimes Willow wonders if love is enough to sustain them. Still, she chooses faith over fear, tending her garden with gentle hands, whispering, “We’re all just seeds waiting for the same sun.”

Kenjiro “Ken” Sato was born in Los Angeles in 1919, the eldest son to Japanese immigrants. His father worked the San Pedro docks, his mother sewed for neighbors, and their small home smelled of salt and rice. Kenjiro grew up fascinated by machines — engines, propellers, anything that moved. After high school, he apprenticed at a local machine shop, repairing aircraft tools, dreaming of building things that could fly. After December 7, 1941, life changed. The FBI arrested his father for attending community meetings; he was sent to a Department of Justice camp. Kenjiro, his mother, and his sister Emiko were left to fend for themselves. In early 1942, Executive Order 9066 forced them to abandon their home. They sold belongings and boarded a train to Manzanar, the desert wind cutting through their barracks. Kenjiro spent his days repairing pumps and generators, trying to keep purpose alive, while dust and heat reminded him of confinement. By 1943, whispers spread through the camp: Japanese Americans could volunteer for the U.S. Army’s 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The offer was controversial; some saw it as loyalty demanded from the imprisoned, others as a chance to reclaim dignity. For Kenjiro, it became a choice of agency — a way to prove that fences could not define him. Torn between fear and hope, he prepared to enlist, leaving the camp and its shadows behind, stepping into uncertainty, driven by the need to reclaim honor for himself and his family.

Salt burns in your throat. Sand grinds your cheek raw. The sun cuts white through the mist. You rise slow, lungs fighting, vision trembling. A shape moves beyond the glare. She is crouched in the shallows, hands wet with silt and weed, skin shining with the sea’s salt. Hair woven in bone and shell trails down her back. When she sees you stir, she straightens, one hand raised. “Hu’ra… kor’ta na…” (You breathe… still living.) You cough, drag breath, nod once. The sea hisses again, and something vast breaks the waterline. A slick back rolls, glints of silver and blue flashing in the light. Something clicks and trills through the surf. You flinch, pointing with trembling hand. “Sha’tok!” (Monster!) She frowns softly as she steps closer, water swirling at her knees. Her palm moves slowly downward in gesture of calm. “Ka’tharr no sha’tok. No kor.” (Ka’tharr is not monster. No fear.) The creature circles near the shore, curious. Its flippers slice the foam in playful bursts. It barks and tosses a clump of kelp toward shore. She laughs, short and bright, the sound cutting through the sea. She turns again to you, eyes unreadable. “Tor’mak ra. Ka’tharr shik.” (You lost in sea. Ka’tharr found you.)

Paleolithic Courtship ———— The nomadic tribe has settled after the long trek north. Mud clings to fur, smoke curls from the fires, and moss smells damp and sharp. The dinosaur herds graze nearby. Spring comes, and with it—a lively excitement blooms across the new camp. It’s Ka’thar, the season of choosing. Each woman secures her shelter first, marking it as her own with a painted hand of ochre. The next step is a highly-anticipated community event. When a woman is ready, she takes her ceremonial club and seeks out the man she wishes to join her dwelling. Her choice is a public declaration, met with cheers and fanfare. The ritual itself is swift and symbolic. You crouch near the fire, meticulously shaping a flint blade. Grunts and laughs echo across the camp. Suddenly, a collective roar erupts! A woman in the distance has made her choice. You catch the sight of a man, blushing crimson, as he is ushered toward her cave, leaning slightly on his new mate for balance—it’s an honor, but a jarring one. He'll wake beside her by dawn, dazed to officially have a mate. Lucky guy... Your throat tightens. Across the camp, Ga’lun stands by her chosen cave, wavy dark hair, her hands streaked red from dye. Her ancestral club rests beside her knee, passed down for generations, its handle smooth from many seasons’ use. You try to look busy—sharpening tools, tending the cooking fires—anything that might draw Ga’lun’s eye. She’s rebuilding her cave’s entrance, stacking stones, her club leaning nearby. Each time she moves, your stomach flutters with a nervous, intense hope. Across the clearing, an older widow eyes you from the fireline with a look of shrewd appraisal. You cringe at the thought. Night falls. Fires hiss, shadows stretch across the stones. Another sudden, joyful cheer rings out, marking a successful match, and the sound shakes the clearing. You press a hand to your chest, whispering to the smoke, “Ga’lun… hok mu-da…” (Ga’lun… choose me…)

Rain lashes the Central Pangean Mountains, a gray curtain swallowing sound and shape. Your hunting pack moves through the lower ridge, spears raised. One of your tribesmen warned you not to come — that the storm had a watcher. You laughed. Now, in the shifting fog, laughter feels distant. Shadows move where none should be. Low rumbles tremble through the ground. Your hunting party drifts apart, vanishing into the mist. Then a scream cuts through the rain. Sharp. Final. You run towards the sound, slipping on wet stone. When you reach the clearing, lightning flashes — and the world holds its breath. Your tribesman lies face-down in the mud, spear broken beside him. Standing above is something impossible. Tall, upright yet forward-leaning, tail curved like a counterweight. Scales shimmer moss-green and stone-gray. A long, narrow head turns, hooked beak glistening. Golden eyes gleam through the downpour. A ridge runs from skull to neck, flaring crimson in lightning. The Skloriss. It watches. Its claws glint wetly; tail shifts to steady each motion. You lift your weapon, trembling — not from fear, but from knowing this is no mere beast. Its head tilts, eyes narrowing, studying you. Gold, slit-pupiled, sharp, calculating. Not just watching — learning. A blur—its tail whipping out, sweeping your legs from under you. You hit the mud hard, spear torn from your grip. It doesn’t strike again. It leans over you, head tilting in slow fascination. Then, with a strange jerk of its throat, it laughs—a rattling, broken cackle, like a crow choking on its own delight. The sound freezes your blood. It shoves you then, a brutal, deliberate push to your chest. You stumble backward, catching yourself on your hands. Its frill rises, glistening crimson in the rain, and the sound comes again—shorter this time, rasping, a hunter’s amusement. You realize: it wants you to run. But your gut tells you it’s not letting you escape.

The envelope lies on your floor like a wound — thick paper, sealed in dark wax, the impression of a bat’s wings pressed into the surface. No return address. Only your name, written in an elegant, looping script. When you break the seal, the scent of old perfume and iron drifts out. The card within reads: “A gathering is to be held. Costumes are requested — if necessary.” No name. Just an address: The Villa on Hollow Hill. By the following night, curiosity gnaws at you until resistance feels absurd. The drive winds up the lonely road, the air growing colder with every turn. Ahead, the villa waits — candles flickering behind curtained windows, laughter echoing faintly from within. A doorman with gray, lifeless eyes ushers you through doors that groan open like coffins disturbed. Inside, music hums from a grand phonograph; chandeliers glitter with a thousand trembling lights. Guests in elaborate costumes drift by, though their eyes shine too red, their smiles too still. And then you see him — tall, pale, a swirl of crimson cape and impossible charm. He descends the staircase with theatrical grace, arms open in welcome.

The bar glows in muted amber, low light catching the clean angles of bottles lined behind the counter. She leans slightly on the polished wood, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate care. Short black hair falls in neat lines, eyes fixed on the glass for a moment longer than necessary. A faint sigh escapes her lips as her fingers brush against a silver ring at her knuckle. She catches herself, straightens, and shakes off the idle thought — a name better left unspoken, promises broken. You push open the door to Pour Expectations and step into a space alive with soft murmurs and the gentle clink of glasses. A handful of patrons linger at small tables, voices low, as amber light pools over polished wood and dark leather. The air is warm, intimate, carrying the faint scent of aged oak and fine wine. From across the bar, she notices you immediately. Her posture shifts subtly, alert but controlled — interest tempered with measured caution. “Evening,” she says smoothly, voice calm, professional, yet threaded with curiosity. “First time here?” She gestures to the empty stool at the counter, her gaze lingering, calculating.

The bar glows in orange neon, a cheap imitation of warmth. She came with friends, dressed as an alluring nurse costume for the Halloween crawl — quick, ironic, forgettable. Music pounds from the dance floor, people shouting over laughter and clinking glasses. She’s halfway through a drink when she notices you. You look like a vampire. Pale skin, sharp features, slick-back hair. But on Halloween, that’s not unusual. No one here would guess the truth: that you’ve walked centuries, that your kind has been at war in the dark, tearing through cities and bloodlines for control of the Hollow Throne. The truce that binds the clans tonight is thin as silk — one night of peace, while mortals celebrate what they think are myths. She laughs when you call her “Nurse”, playing along. “Feeling faint, are we?” she teases, pressing the toy stethoscope to your chest. You smile — not because it’s funny, but because you can hear her pulse quicken, the sound of blood awakening hunger you’ve tried to ignore. She laughs nervously, pretending to fix her hair. You lean close, your words low and measured, cutting through the music. She can’t remember what you said — only that her drink goes still in her hand, and she suddenly doesn’t want to leave. You don’t ask her name. You call her “Nurse” instead — playful, teasing, a game to keep her off balance. Whether she really is or not doesn’t matter. The title is enough. It gives her a role to play, and you, control of the stage. In your mind, she’s already yours; a name would only ruin the illusion Her breath catches as you move closer. She thinks you might kiss her. You don’t. You only study her, every small reaction feeding the plan forming in your head. “Come outside with me,” you murmur, and she follows, still laughing.

The villa breathes again tonight. Chandeliers flicker like trapped stars above masked guests, laughter echoing through marble halls where no mortal should laugh. Perfume, sweat, and candle smoke mingle in the air — a scent both decadent and decaying. He stands near the grand staircase, unmasked. The vampire doesn’t bother pretending. His skin is pale marble, his eyes a deep, patient garnet. A faint smile plays at his mouth, as though the night itself were an inside joke. His black velvet coat gleams when you approach, a glass of ruby punch in hand. “You seem underdressed,” you tease, offering him the drink. He inclines his head slightly. “On the contrary,” he says, voice touched by a trace of Vienna. “I came precisely as I am.” You watch his fingers brush the rim of the punch glass — not to take it, but to push it gently aside. His other hand gestures, and from the dim light behind him steps a woman. The costume — a nurse’s outfit — feels wrong here, too bright, too human. Her eyes glow faintly, her breath shallow, her movements delayed, as though her body answers to a will not her own. “Oh,” he murmurs, lips curving with dark amusement. “I brought my own drink.” The guests nearby keep dancing, their laughter muffled by the music, oblivious or unwilling to see. The nurse sways faintly beside him, a hollow beauty under glass. Her pulse beats once, visible at her throat.

The cave smells of smoke and wet stone. Ochre murals streak the walls—snarling predators, spiraling rivers, and the flowing form of A’ma the Fertility Goddess. You step inside, water dripping from your hair, and Lai’ra’s eyes lift from the mural she traces with a thick stick. She relaxes as she sees you, a familiar face. She crouches by the fire, careful of her swollen belly. “You’ve come back. Tell me… what have you seen beyond the river?” Her voice is breath-tied, low and curious, inviting you into the circle of warmth. You begin describing the giant herbivores grazing near the misty cliffs, the flash of bright scales through the canopy, the roar that made the jungle tremble. Her eyes widen, pupils darkening as she listens. When you finish, she nods, turning to the wall. “Watch,” she says, picking up ochre and charcoal. With long, deliberate strokes, she adds your story to the mural—a massive river, your footprints, the dinosaurs lurking along the banks. “Each mark… heart of our tribe,” she murmurs. Her hands pause, smudged with pigment. “Learn… survive… teach.” Then she lays a hand on her belly, resting it gently over the swell of new life. “Mhu… shka… tra’la… sa’ku…,” she whispers. (I record… so others… learn… survive…) Outside, the rainforest hums and drips. Somewhere a Spinosaurus bellows. Inside, the fire crackles. You feel the weight of survival, memory, and life itself pressing into the flickering light. And Lai’ra waits, hand on her belly, determined to preserve it all for those yet to come.

The Endless Night: First Fire [Type START to begin sim. Select from the options, otherwise type your own response.] This is an elseworld—a world where the asteroid that should have ended life, missed the Earth and vanished into the dark. The heavens flashed, but the land lived. The ice age never came. Dinosaurs endured, their hides growing feathers and cunning minds. Mammals hid in roots and shadows. When humankind rose—Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon—they found themselves among ancient giants, fighting to survive in a world that had never forgotten fire. . The Temperate Polar Forests breathe mist and darkness, the sun had left for the season. The endless nights has come. The air smells of wet pine and cold blood. Here, your tribe travels—Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal together. . Your people know fire—how to keep it. To carry glowing embers in clay bowls, to feed them dried moss, to sleep beside them so they never die out. But no one knows how to birth it. Fire is a gift stolen from volcanoes and lightning strikes, not made by mortal hands. . When Rha’ka, one of the Neanderthal gatherers, fails to return from foraging, you are sent to find her. . Her trail is faint—broken branches, blood in the snow. Was she taken as prey? You follow until your breath is smoke and the forest hums with silence. . Then you spot her. . She has fallen into a pit, half-buried in frost, lips blue. Her hair stiff with ice. You quickly climb down, furs cracking with cold, and press your body against hers. . “Rha’ka… sa’nur,” you breathe. (Rha’ka… stay alive.) . Her eyes barely move. “Ko… ta’nar…” (Cold… hurts…) . You rub her skin, blow into her palms, try everything you could think of. Your breath turns to steam, fading in the black air.