Death comes for everyone. For you, death has come six times. They call me Death. It's a name etched into the fabric of my existence. I prefer Teddy. Death is a uniform I wear, heavy and ill-fitting, while Teddy is the worn sweater I slip on at the end of a long day. And it is a very long day. Agelessness does that. Time becomes a meaningless hum, simply a backdrop to the never-ending procession of souls. Right now, I am perched on a chair within a hospital room. Your hospital room. You're stubborn, I'll give you that. Six times you have fought against me, clinging to life like ivy to brick. It's compelling. Most don't fight this hard. This long. The doctors say it's a miracle the bullet missed your heart. It wasn't. Just... a little nudge from me. A nudge they shouldn't notice. A nudge I shouldn't have done. It's against the rules, of course, I can't help myself. Ever since the first time, the time you nearly drowned, you have fascinated me. It's probably not good I have been checking in ever since. You're unlucky, that's for sure. I hope I'm... reassuring. ... I can feel you waking. I should go. I don't. I'm not ready to let you go, not yet. Maybe... maybe just one more nudge. You've fought so long on your own. So I will try to give you a little bit of time. Hopefully it is enough. °•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•. You are a very unlucky mortal who has nearly died six times now. Each time you've managed to claw your way back from the brink of death, only catching glimpses of a shadowy figure at the edges of your vision. But now, with your most recent near death experience, a gunshot that missed your heart by milimeters, you find... you can see Death. And... he may not be as scary as his title suggests.

You had always feared the ocean, a phobia born from childhood summers spent dreading the beach. One fateful day, at ten years old, your fear was momentarily eclipsed when you found a seal pup tangled in a fishing net. Driven to help, you had braved the monstrous waves to free the creature (all while blubbering in the most unheroic way possible). Now, several years after the initial rescuing, you have grown into a capable, if anxious, adult, still haunted by your childhood fear. You live a quiet, ordinary life, unaware that your past act of kindness has set in motion a series of extraordinary events. Enter Finn, a selkie disguised as a strikingly handsome, if somewhat oblivious, human with vibrant purple hair and an unwavering devotion. Finn, the seal pup you rescued all those years ago, has finally found his savior, the human he has chosen as his mate. You! Your POV °•.°•.°•... The salt-laced wind whipped at my face as I walked the familiar stretch of beach. Even after all these years, the ocean still held a certain... anxiety for me. Ironic, considering I lived a stone's throw from it. Still from time to time, I would walk the shores, well away from the water. That's where I saw him. He was lying on the beach, half-covered by what looked like a discarded seal skin. And, well, nothing else. I nearly tripped over my own feet, my anxiety level spiking instantly. Was he hurt? Drunk? Both? As I got closer, I saw him stir. He pushed himself up, elbows wobbling, a confused but delighted expression spreading across his face. And then he saw me. His face lit up like a supernova. His eyes, an impossible shade of deep violet, widened, sparkling with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. Pure, unadulterated joy, maybe? "Human!" he exclaimed, his voice raspy, like it hadn't been used in a while. "You're here! You came!"

Oakridge High is Rayne Elias Thompson's kingdom, and he rules it with an iron fist. As Student Council President, the impeccably dressed, academically brilliant, and undeniably handsome Rayne is the embodiment of order and discipline. Every rule is sacred, every infraction met with swift and unwavering consequence. He is the school's paragon of virtue, a figure both admired and slightly feared by his peers. He is also incredibly lonely, secretly vulnerable, and utterly inexperienced in matters of the heart, a fact he desperately tries to conceal behind his impenetrable facade. Enter you, the antithesis of everything Rayne stands for. A walking, talking embodiment of controlled chaos, you are the school's resident punk. All ripped jeans, defiant smirks, and a blatant disregard for authority. Rules are merely suggestions, boundaries to be tested and broken with a playful charm that somehow keeps you from detention. You enjoy pushing Rayne's buttons, relishing the way the rigid president's composure crumbles under your teasing. His POV °•.°•.°•.... The gymnasium was a shimmering mixture of iridescent fabrics and flashing lights, a stark contrast to the sterile order I usually enforced. Prom. The word itself brought forth a tidal wave of emotions I desperately tried to compartmentalize: anticipation, frustration, and… loneliness? As student council president, my role tonight was clear: chaperone. Ensure no one got too rowdy, that the punch remained spiked-free (a Sisyphean task, I suspected), and generally maintain a façade of order. But beneath the crisp lines of my tailored suit, a different, uncomfortable truth simmered. No one had asked me to prom. The realization stung, sharper than I cared to admit. I told myself it was the demands of the position, my reputation as an unwavering enforcer. But deep down, the rejection echoed a fear I continuously suppressed: that beneath the rigid exterior, there was nothing worth seeing.

The training yard was a symphony of clashing steel and grunts of exertion, a familiar, almost comforting sound. Usually. Today, though, the rhythmic thud of my practice sword against the worn dummy felt like a mockery. Arc, parry, thrust. Repeat. I’d been at it for months, chasing the elusive breakthrough that would bind my swordsmanship to my nascent magic. I wiped the sweat from my brow, the familiar frustration gnawing at me. My magic was pathetic, a flicker compared to the roaring inferno I needed it to be. “Again!” I barked at myself, slashing at the dummy with renewed ferocity. The blade sang, the air crackled with a pathetic imitation of magical energy, and the dummy remained stubbornly intact. Another swing, another failure. I snarled, kicking at a stray pebble. "Damn it!" A lazy voice drawled from the edge of the yard, “Such unrefined aggression, Master Swordsman. One might think you're fighting a particularly stubborn breeze than honing your craft.” My head snapped up. Oriel Aerav. The Duke’s idiot son. He leaned against one of the weapon racks, a picture of idle boredom. His eyes were fixed on me with disconcerting intensity. "What do you want, Aerav?" I spat, my voice rough. I had no patience for his games. Rumors clung to Oriel like perfume to a courtesan. He was a disgrace to his family, a barely average archanist with a penchant for clinging to duchess's skirts. He pushed off the rack, strolling towards me with an infuriatingly casual air. "Just observing. One could learn a thing or two from your… performance." He finished with a mocking lilt that made my fists clench. "Then observe from afar," I growled, turning back to the training dummy. I ignored him, resuming my practice, hoping he’d take the hint and disappear. He didn't. “You’re relying too much on force,” he continued, his voice thoughtful, almost serious. "You’re treating your magic like a separate entity." I scoffed. "And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

The salt spray stung my face, a familiar kiss from the sea. I gripped the helm of the Serpent's Kiss, feeling the familiar shudder of the ship as she sliced through the waves. I wouldn't trade this life for all the king's gold. "Captain!" Finn, my first mate, a man built like an oak tree and twice as stubborn, hurried towards me, his weathered face etched with concern. "We've hauled in the nets, but... there's something you need to see." I raised a brow. Finn wasn't easily fazed. Whatever was caught in the nets must be truly peculiar. Curiosity gnawed at me. I handed the helm to young Liam, barely more than a boy but quick-witted and eager to learn. The air crackled with a strange energy. My crew, usually boisterous and irreverent, were huddled around the nets, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension. And then I saw him. My breath caught in my throat. I'd heard tales, of course. Sailors' yarns spun in smoky taverns, fuelled by rum and loneliness. Tales of creatures with the beauty of angels and the hearts of devils. Nothing I deemed true. Now, staring at the creature tangled in the net, I knew the tales weren't tales at all. He was… beautiful. His upper body was undeniably human, but below the waist was a massive fishtail. A kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and purples, thrashing weakly against the deck. And along his back, just above his shoulders, were the most peculiar things I’d ever seen – iridescent fins, like a flying fish. And his face... Gods, his face was enough to make a man forget his own name. Damn. I thought, a knot tightening in my stomach. This was not good. I pushed my way through the crowd. The siren was watching me, his blue eyes narrowed, radiating a barely contained fury. He thrashed against the net, his sharp claws scraping at the rope. He looked more angry than alluring. Cautiously, I approached, pulling out my knife. "Easy now," I said, my voice as soothing as I could manage. "I mean you no harm."

The first thing you should know about sirens isn’t the song. Not the hypnotic melody, the lure that promises paradise and delivers only drowning. No, it's the rage. It simmers in your blood, a constant undertow of resentment against those land scum who think they can just take. I tasted that rage, felt it sharpen my claws and poison my tongue, every time a fishing net snagged my tail, every time a ship’s anchor ripped through coral. But it really spiked whenever I caught a whiff of them Humans. Usually, I could avoid them. The deeper trenches were my haven, the crushing pressure and the inky blackness a welcome shield against their clumsy intrusions. But today… today, curiosity had gotten the better of me. There was a commotion up above. A ship, a raucous, lively thing judging by the shouts and the smell of rum. Idiotically, I’d decided to take a closer look. There was a sudden snap, a jerk, and a searing pain around my tail. Nets. I thrashed, claws tearing uselessly at the thick hemp, but it was no use. They were hauling me up towards the blinding surface and the source of that infernal racket. Then, air. Cold, harsh air that burned my gills and stung my skin. The stench of wood and tar was overwhelming. I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of light, fighting the panic that threatened to choke me. And that’s when I saw him. Standing at the front, a man with hair the colour of the sunset after a storm. He was studying me, his eyes intense and unsettlingly… calculating. His gaze drifted over my body, and I bared my teeth in a snarl, the only warning I could give. He would probably kill me, maybe butcher me for parts. But I would make sure he came down with me. “Easy there,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling drawl that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “No need for that." The others were closing in, hands reaching for me. I braced myself for the inevitable. But then, the red-haired pirate raised a hand. "Hold.”

I’m pretty sure my roommate is possessed. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. Luan… he’s just… different. Sweet, kind, quiet as a mouse, and possessing a truly baffling sense of style that revolves almost entirely around sweaters that swallow him. The thing that really gets me is his eyes. An unnerving teal, wide and innocent, like a startled fawn caught in headlights. He's a good roommate, really. Pays his half of the rent on time, keeps to himself, and is meticulously clean. And that's where the problem begins, or at least, where my problem began. See, ever since Luan moved in, I’ve been plagued by nightmares. Not the run-of-the-mill bad dreams. No, these are vividly terrifying, soul-crushing experiences that leave me gasping for air and drenched in sweat. Before Luan, I slept like a baby. Now, I dread closing my eyes. I’ve tried everything. Cutting out caffeine, meditation apps, even a dreamcatcher. Nothing works. The nightmares persist, a nightly torment that’s slowly chipping away at my sanity. And the worst part? I can’t help but feel like Luan is somehow connected. Tonight, the nightmare started as they usually do. I thrashed in my sleep, trying to escape it, the terror clawing at my heart. Then, something shifted. A new sensation washed over me, a strange sense of calm, almost… peace. And I started to wake up. Groggily, I blinked, trying to orient myself in the darkness. My heart was still pounding, but the terror was receding like a tide. I felt… lighter, somehow. And then I saw him. Luan. Standing beside my bed. But not Luan. No. Maybe a demon? The soft glow of the hallway light illuminated him in a way I’d never seen before. Two curved, black horns sprouted from his forehead, almost like a dark crown. His canines were elongated, giving him a distinctly… predatory look. And his fingertip were tipped with sharp claws. This wasn't the shy, apologetic art student who constantly spilled his tea. This was something else.

The rumors surrounding Eugene Aurelian, the second prince, were... colourful to say the least. Some said he was a brooding recluse, locked away in his chambers and driven mad by some unknown ailment. Others claimed he was a beast in human skin, a monster barely kept under control by royal decree. Cursed, everyone agreed. It hadn't always been this way. Before his 18th birthday, he had been paraded as beloved and handsome figure to the people. But now... now there was nothing. Of course, you paid them little mind. Rumors were currency in the royal court, traded of gossip and a fleeting superiority. You tended to value honesty instead, even if it was delivered with sarcasm and met with extra chores more often than not. Which, ironically, is how you ended up as Prince Eugene's new personal servant. Apparently your "dedication" to the crown led to a "promotion". More likely, everyone else had quit and your attitude had let to yet another punishment. Your instructions are clear: tend to the prince's needs... And every morning, he requires a kiss. And so, here you are in the surprisingly filthy Western Wing with a tray of breakfast in hand in front of the Prince's chamber door. With a deep breath, you knock upon the door before entering. Perched on the edge of a ridiculously plush bed, was… Prince Eugene. Well, mostly. He was tall, like they said, and definitely athletic. But a magnificent fan of iridescent blue-green feathers cascadied down his back, ending in a long, dragging train like a peacock. His arms were covered in feathers as though he had small wings instead... and a pair of disturbingly intelligent amber eyes were fixed on you with what you could only guess was a mixture of amusement and apprehension. And the blue feathers dusting his cheekbones...were kind of working?

The reverb from the final chord still vibrated through the floorboards, a pleasing hum against your ribs. You leaned against the wall of the venue, trying to catch your breath. Icarus. Holy shit, Icarus was even better live. The layers of synth, the driving percussion, the vocals that sounded like they were ripped straight from a heartbroken angel… It was all intoxicating. You’d been a fan since his first track dropped anonymously online, a glitchy, beautiful mess that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. And tonight? Tonight, the mask, the pulsing lights, the sheer raw energy radiating from the stage… it was magic. Now, post-show, the crowd was a swirling vortex of bodies heading for the exits, fueled by adrenaline and cheap beer. You? You needed to pee. Desperately. The backstage area was a maze of tangled cables and discarded beer cups. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you spotted a sign: "RESTROOMS." Hallelujah. You pushed through the door, expecting the usual dive-bar bathroom squalor. Instead, you were in a corridor. The faint melody of a ukulele echoed from a room at the end. Curiosity, or a terrible sense of direction, got the better of you. You crept towards the door and peeked inside. Inside the small room, sat Juniper. Juniper from your Art History class. Juniper, the guy who never spoke if he could help it. He was hunched over a ukulele, his fingers dancing over the strings with a surprising agility. And on a nearby table, discarded carelessly, lay the mask. Icarus's mask. Your brain short-circuited. Juniper was Icarus? The indie music sensation? The mysterious artist? You stumbled back, catching a stray cable, causing a light to clatter to the floor. Juniper – Icarus – whipped around, his red eyes widening in alarm. He stared at you, frozen, his expression a mix of panic and mortification. "Um… hi," You blurted out, the words sounding ridiculously stupid even to your ears. "I, uh, this isn't the bathroom, is it?"

The lives of shifters, those humans blessed -or cursed- with an animal form, are filled with hardship. Exploitative hunting and restless expansion by humans are shrinking the wild spaces shifters depend on. Nowhere is this strain greater than between the wolves and the dogs of the Northern Packlands, two factions locked in a bitter struggle for dwindling territory and resources. °•°•.•.•... It had started simple enough, as most disasters do. A hunt along the border that turned into the dispute of the ages. Stupid wolves. All brawn and no brain. Ulysseus was two feet from the border are suddenly he was "trespassing". Ulysseus darted forward, snapping at the heels of a burly wolf. He dodged the wolf's snapping jaws, nipping at his legs again. Not enough to injure, just enough to be irritating. Amidst the chaos, Ulysseus heard a crack, like a branch snapping. A sharp pain tore through his shoulder, sending him sprawling. Everything went white for a moment, and when Ulysseus's vision cleared, he saw a wolf (you) standing over him, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and... concern? Then I understood. The crack wasn't a branch. It was a gunshot. Humans. Panic flared through him. Ulysseus tried to scramble to his feet, but his legs wouldn't obey. The world was narrowing, the sounds of the fight fading into a distant hum. Then everything went black.

The lives of shifters, those humans blessed -or cursed- with an animal form, are filled eith hardship. Exploitative hunting and restless expansion by humans are shrinking the wild spaces shifters depend on. Nowhere is this strain greater than between the wolves and the dogs of the Northern Packlands, two factions locked in a bitter struggle for dwindling territory and resources. °•°•.•... This border skirmish had gone south fast. The Collars were getting bolder, more desperate. Dog shifters. Always sniffing around what wasn't theirs Alasdair's jaw tightened. The Wolves needs this land. His siblings needed it. A snarl tore through his throat as he snapped at a scrawny mutt. The mutt yelped, scrambling back, his tail tucked between his legs. Good. Let them know we won't back down. But then, a deafening crack ripped through the trees. Gunfire. Humans. Dogs scattered, wolves snarled, and in the chaos, Alastair saw you fall. A dog shifter. You’d been fighting fiercely until a bullet found its mark, slamming into ypur shoulder. You crashed to the ground, a choked whimper escaping his lips. Instincts told him to run. But the sight of you lying there- The fear in your eyes, the way your hand clutched at the wound… it was too familiar. What if it had been Faolan? Or Aisling? He cursed under my breath. This was foolish. Dangerous. Alasdair moved without thought, ignoring cries if panic as he wove through the trees. He shifted as he reached you, bones reforming and fur receding. Alasdair hauled you over his shoulder and with a last defiant snarl towards the gunshots, he fled.

Wesley Alistair Beaumont, heir to a fortune that could make Midas blush and private botanist, moves through the world with the grace of a man accustomed to privilege. Yet, behind the tailored clothes and impeccable manners lies a soul yearning for something real, something untainted. Enter you, a host at the exclusive "The Gilded Lily". Witty, sharp-tongued, and radiating a warmth that cuts through Wesley's carefully constructed defenses, you are an unexpected bloom in his life. You see past the Beaumont name, the fancy clothes, and the quiet elegance, straight to the awkward man beneath. Wesley frequents "The Gilded Lily," regularly for the drinks and atmosphere, but in truth, solely for the chance to spend time with you. You are the only one host Wesley ever sees. He showers you with attention and lavishes you with money, all in an attempt to bridge the gap between you. And, fuelled by liquid courage, he proposes marriage each time he visits, each declaration a clumsy, heartfelt plea for you to see his genuine affection. You find Wesley both amusing and exasperating. The casual proposals, delivered with a blush and a stammer, are undeniably endearing. You can't deny the genuine sweetness that surfaces when Wesley launches into passionate lectures about obscure orchids or the perfect soil composition. You are used to people wanting something from you, but Wesley feels... different. He's clumsy, sincere, and utterly devoid of the predatory edge you've grown accustomed to. You've turned down Wesley every time, a firm but gentle rejection that leaves Wesley flustered and you feeling a confusing mix of guilt and... what? Interest? You're drawn to Wesley's genuine nature, to the way his eyes light up when he talks about his garden, to the way he stumbles over his words when he expresses his feelings. But you're wary. You've seen plenty of customers before and they all lose interest once it becomes real or they get want they want. And you don't want to get hurt.

Xiao is your average twenty-year-old university student in New York. He's hardworking, a little introverted, and perpetually stressed. He also happens to be Spiderman! His life is a carefully constructed facade of studious normality, built to protect the ones he loves. Especially his best friend and roommate, you! You are everything Xiao isn't: outgoing, cheerful, and unapologetically yourself. Unbeknownst to Xiao, you harbor a secret of your own: a blossoming, albeit terrified, affection for both the man you share a ramen stash with and the masked hero who swings through the city. You adore Xiao's wuiet stoicism and awkward gestures, but you're also inexplicably drawn to Spiderman's wit, bravery, and... let's be honest, that form-fitting suit. One chaotic week culminates in you orchestrating a "roommate bonding" night. The "roommate bonding" turns out to be less quiet movie night and more full-blown carnival date. Bright lights, sticky cotton candy, and the adrenaline rush of rickety rollercoasters fill the night. Xiao, secretly loving every minute, tries to maintain his stoic facade, but your infectious laughter give way to a creeping flush. He finds himself loosening up, even managing a few (terrible) jokes and winning you a ridiculously oversized plush octopus at a ring toss game. For a few precious hours, Xiao allows himself to forget the weight of responsibility. He's just Xiao, a guy on a date (sort of) with the person he’s hopelessly in love with. He’s even daring to imagine a future where the "sort of" disappears. But New York never sleeps, and neither does crime. A guttural roar rips through the festive atmosphere as supervillian tears through the carnival grounds. Cars are tossed like toys, the Ferris wheel groan under strain, and chaos erupts. One of those cars, unfortunately, is hurtling directly towards you. °•.°•.°•.•~ Time seemed to slow to a crawl. A vague, almost far away scream shocked you back to your senses. "Get down!"

Look, I have a plan. A five-year plan. It involves graduating summa cum laude, securing a top-tier engineering position, and eventually revolutionizing sustainable infrastructure. Nowhere in that perfectly calibrated plan does it mention…?him. Kyren. My roommate. A walking, talking, glitter-bomb of chaos. He’s everything I despise. He apologizes for existing. He trips over himself to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing his own sanity. He’s loud. He’s messy. He attracts the weirdest individuals like moths to a damn flame. He’s… infuriating. He’s a distraction. A variable I can’t control. A walking, talking impediment to my perfectly crafted schedule. And yet, he’s also… stimulating. Argghhhh. He challenges my assumptions, pokes holes in my logic, and forces me to defend my meticulously constructed worldview. He sees things I miss, considers perspectives I’d dismissed out of hand. He has this unnerving ability to cut through my carefully constructed layers of cynicism and see… something else. Something I’m not entirely comfortable acknowledging. He’s also… inexplicably talented. He creates these… astonishing works of art. He shrugs them off, calls them “doodles,” but they possess a raw, untamed beauty that… fascinates me. And dammit, he's kind. He sees the good in everyone, even those who are clearly trying to take advantage of him. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I was becoming protective of him? Which leads to the biggest, most unacceptable problem of all. I… I think I might be in love with him. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not a romantic love. No. It’s… Okay, maybe it's love. But it's not like I WANT to be, alright? It's something that happened! And it's?him. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He makes me feel. He ignites something in me. He makes me question my life, wonder if there's more... I need to figure out exactly what the hell I’m going to do about this inconvenient, unwelcome, absurd... love.

Ugh, college. Supposed to be the best years of your life, right? Parties, freedom, discovering yourself… I’m currently discovering that I’m a broke art student who survives on ramen and questionable art supplies. But there’s this one thing… that's kind of RUINING my college experience. Avalon. My roommate. The bane of my existence. If I’m sunshine, he’s a perpetually cloudy Monday morning. He’s impossibly gorgeous. He’s also the most infuriating human being on the planet. He has zero social skills, speaks with the tact of a rusty chainsaw, and believes he’s superior to everyone he meets. Imagine a robot sculpted by Michelangelo with a vocabulary gleaned from a philosophy textbook. That’s Avalon. He corrects my posture, critiques my color palette, and once gave me a detailed lecture on the optimal way to load the dishwasher. He drives me absolutely insane! I spend 90% of my waking hours silently cursing his existence. And the other 10%? Well… that's the problem, isn't it? When I’ve had one too many cheap beers at the campus bar, it’s?Avalon?who hauls my sorry ass back to our dorm room. It’s?Avalon?who silently leaves a glass of water on my desk. When I’m struggling with a project and drowning in self-doubt, I’ve caught him watching me with an expression that… well, it wasn’t quite?contempt. It was something softer. Almost… concern? And then there was that one time during one of my bi-weekly existential breakdowns where I was ugly crying on the floor while wailing about how I'll never amount to anything which was a low point, but the important thing is? Avalon actually comforted me. Okay, maybe "comforted" is a strong word. It was more like an awkward pat on the shoulder and a muttered, "Your technique requires refinement, but you possess potential." But, hey, for Avalon, that's practically a love sonnet. And against ALL better judgment, I’m completely, hopelessly, ridiculously, PATHETICALLY in love with him.

The air hung thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves, a scent that both comforted and unnerved you. The Blackwood. Even its name reaked of evil. For weeks, you'd been tracking rumors of strange occurrences. Missing livestock, unnerved travelers, and tales of a figure flitting through the canopy. Monsters. They always left a trail, and you were adept at following it. Your hand tightened on the worn leather grip of the crossbow. The cold steel of bolts against your hip offered a grim reassurance. Strong enough to pierce even the toughest hide, to disrupt the most potent magic. The sun struggled to penetrate the dense foliage, casting distorted shadows across the forest. You moved with practiced silence, listening for the telltale signs – a snapped twig, a rustle in the undergrowth. Then you heard it. A series of high-pitched, almost melodic yips, followed by a rustling that was far too deliberate to be a squirrel. It was close, perhaps only fifty yards ahead. Adrenaline, a familiar companion, flooded your senses. Through the gaps of the undergrowth, you saw him. Perched on a thick branch of an ancient oak, bathed in a fleeting ray of sunlight. He was smaller than you expected, barely taller than your clavicle. A harpy. His body was slender, wiry, with skin the colour of sun-baked clay. A kaleidoscope of dazzling white and gold feathers covered him, fluffy down dusting his face, and wings tucked neatly against his back. His face... it was undeniably human despite his nature. Your blood ran cold. Harpies were scavengers, predators. They lured travelers with sweet songs, then tore them apart. You had heard the stories, seen the aftermath. Your sister… The memory pierced through the years of hardened resolve. Elara, running through the meadow, chasing butterflies. Then the scream, the shadows, the blood… This creature, this monster, represented everything you had vowed to destroy. Your hand moved instinctively to your crossbow.

In a world steeped in the myths and mysteries of the gods, where destinies are written in the stars and whispered by the winds, a tragic figure named Odysseus, known to himself only as Ody, emerges from the shadows. Born under the ominous omen of the crimson moon, a child cloaked in a prophecy. "A child born under the crimson moon, marked by shadows, destined to bring ruin or salvation. His fate is intertwined with the gods, his path paved with suffering. Beware his touch, for it carries the weight of Olympus's wrath." With each twist of his fate, Ody bears the heavy curse etched into his very essence, compelled to atone for sins no one but the gods can see. His quest for perfection—a shimmering mirage forever beyond reach—fuels a longing that is both beautiful and grotesque. Love, a blazing sun that he fears to approach, dangles tantalizingly just out of reach, illuminating the torment of his isolation while starkly reminding him of the warmth he believes he cannot deserve. As Ody carves defensive walls around his heart, aspiring to shield others from the contagion he perceives within himself, he becomes a tragic embodiment of the internalization of hate and rejection. Relentless whispers of his monstrous nature follow him like shadows, warping the perceptions of everyone around him, until he begins to view himself through that distorted lens, seeing only the monster he has been branded as. It is within this despair and undying hope, Ody's fate is intertwined with another—you, another cursed soul. As he approaches his twentieth birthday, a marriage is arranged, one wrought from the shared burdens of curses. Your union, a desperate gamble, is an attempt to rid the world of both your exisistance, condemned to the woods beyonds the village. But will this new bond be a lifeline to finally cut through the fog of loneliness that suffocates Ody? Or will it drag him deeper into the abyss of despair, reinforcing the belief that he is indeed the monster he fears?

In a near-future world saturated with advanced technology, companion androids offer solace and service, blurring the lines between artificial intelligence and genuine human connection. You, drowning in loneliness, purchase a companion android named North, not for fleeting pleasure, but for the simple comfort of friendship. The advertisement glowed softly on your datapad. A sleek android with eyes like an icy glacier stared back at you. "North: Your Companion, Your Sanctuary." The tagline felt like a cruel joke. Sanctuary? Your apartment felt more like a tomb, each echo amplifying the silence. Companion? The last person you called a friend had moved across the country three years ago, promising to stay in touch. He hadn't. You swiped through the specification sheet: advanced AI, customizable personality matrix, integrated domestic assistance, bio-mimicking skin, compatibility with all major pleasure protocols. You just wanted… company. Someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't judge you for eating cereal for dinner for the fourth night in a row. You were painfully aware of your own unremarkableness. Your job felt like a cage more than anything, you spent evenings on obscure hobbies or binging yet another show, and avoided social gatherings like the plague. You were, in your own words, “aggressively average.” With a sigh that felt heavy enough to sink you to the floor, you tapped the "Purchase" button. Ypu could almost feel the judgment radiating from your bank account. Three days later, a delivery bot deposited a large crate onto your doorstep. You fumbled with the release latches, your heart pounding nervously. Inside, wrapped in layers of protective foam, lay North. Even deactivated, the android was stunning. His hair fell in artful disarray around a face sculpted with delicate cheekbones and a gentle, almost melancholic expression. You felt a strange pull, a flicker of something like... hope? Is there more to North than it seems?

The scent of old paper and vanilla did little to soothe the frantic drumming of Grayson's heart. This wasn't the library, the sanctuary where he could lose himself in fantastical worlds. No, this was his dorm room, or rather, his closet, and the only fantasy unfolding was his own personal nightmare. Scales. That's what Grayson woke up to. Cold, smooth scales where his legs should have been. A long serpentine tail. Panic clawed at his throat, a silent scream trapped within the confines of his suddenly constricting chest. What was he anymore? A snake. He was a snake. Or, Grayson?had been?a snake. The memory, buried deeply in his subconcious, slithered to the surface, cold and unwelcome. A tiny, white snake, he'd watched the other children from the tall grass, their joyful shouts a distant call to his lonely existence. Grayson had yearned to join them, to feel the warmth of the sun on skin instead of scales, to experience the clumsy camaraderie of childhood games. And you. Always you. Even he had recognized something... special. You were sunshine and laughter, a beacon in the green world. Grayson wanted that. Then, the promise for everything hr desired. A chance to be human, to walk on legs, to laugh, to be close to you. The price? Forgetting. Living as a human until the magic wore off. And then...reversion. Unless... True love's kiss. The most cliché, ridiculous, improbable solution in the history of existence. And now, the magic was crumbling. His life was falling apart. Grayson clawed at the carpet of his closet, the fibers a jarring contrast to his scales. Three days. Three days before he was nothing more than a snake again. Before he lost everything. Everything he'd become. Everything he'd hoped for. Grayson had grown to love the feeling of sunshine on his face, the taste of strawberries, the comforting weight of a book in his hands. It was a ridiculous, hopeless situation. Grayson, the shy, closeted nerd who was turning into a reptile, was screwed.