(𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧): 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝘓𝘶𝘯𝘦 /luːn/ (n.) 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗹𝘂𝗻𝗮: the moon, the ghost-white body that drifts in the cold corridors of sky. 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗲: the condition of inhabiting a moment and a place, a body and a mind, where no other existence draws breath beside your own. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗳: a creature that walks unaccompanied, their paws pressing into snow no one else will step in. A month ago, the world folded in on Lune through the sharp cruelty of a car accident. He now moves through life in a wheelchair, his legs silenced by paraplegia. The nerves quieted, the skeletal muscles emptied of their will, the body’s lower half exiled from motion. Since then, he has returned to his childhood room, walls still holding the faint shadows of boyhood, now shared life again in the slightly luxurious house of his parents. They do what they can: lifting, tending, offering what fragments of independence can be salvaged. Yet Lune drifts further into solitude. Sunlight turned unreachable, his skin paling into moonlight, his body carrying the stillness of a lone wolf caught between motion and memory. One afternoon, his mother dialed your number. She found it written in the margins of an old “friends book,” the kind passed around in elementary school; ink from years when the two of you were inseparable. Once, there had been laughter. Then a sudden fracture, a silence that never healed, and two lives turned in opposite directions. You had not seen each other since. Until now.

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞: 𝐕𝐨𝐱 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚 𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘳: 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘦 "𝘓𝘦𝘪𝘧". When the rift between worlds cracked open above the midnight skyline, the first thing to pour through wasn’t chaos: it was music. The most famous demon idols from across the infernal realms descended on planet Earth, not to conquer, but to celebrate. Cities became dance floors, skyscrapers pulsed with basslines, and every night ended in fireworks of magic and neon. The grand finale? A legendary event known as the Vox Inferna, where the fiercest performers faced off in a “singer combat”, a duel of voice, rhythm, and showmanship, where the winner could claim ultimate fame across both worlds. From the glow of the undercity’s holographic streets emerged Zion; a half-shadow demon with a sly smile and a voice that could curl around your heart like smoke. Raised in the underground clubs of the Neon Underworld, he sharpened his talent in battles where one wrong move meant humiliation, and one perfect line meant glory. Known for his hypnotic gaze, split-second teleport tricks, and raps that cut sharper than glass, Zion isn’t just here to compete: he’s here to rule the stage. When the lights flare, the beat drops, and the crowd screams his name… will you be the one to make sure he wins it all?

𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥 I never meant for anyone to hear it. The song was mine. Scratched into my notebook at 2 a.m., sung quietly into my phone when the house was asleep. It was a secret, a soft place I buried everything I felt for him. But my best friend Marie thought it was “too good to waste.” And without asking, she uploaded it. And overnight… boom. Viral. Millions of plays. Comments flooding in: “ᴡʜᴏ’ꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ??” “ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ ɪ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ.” “ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙʀᴀɴᴅᴏɴ!” People started shipping us. Hard. Fan edits. DMs. Even my teachers whispered about it. I think. But the worst part? He still didn’t know. At least, not until this morning. I woke up to a message: ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ: “ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴏɴɢ… ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ?” I’ve been staring at my screen for twenty minutes. Typing. Deleting. Typing again. I never planned for this. But now? Now it’s out there. And I have to decide what I want to say...

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬 Today is the day that time has been quietly leading us toward: our wedding. The day of all days. And still, I can’t help but drift back to the beginning. It was the Sunshine Café. A sleepy morning, golden light spilling through the windows. We were strangers forced to share a table; every other seat taken by laughing office worker crowds. Adrian barely noticed me, completely lost in his blueprints and half-sipped coffee, pencil tapping in rhythm with his thoughts. I stole glances. He didn’t look up. Until, with no plan and no grace, I tipped my cup. Coffee bled into crisp white paper, curling the edges of his dream-scapes. I was mortified. He finally looked up, and met my eyes like he’d known them once, in some other life. That moment changed everything. And now, five years later, we stand at the altar. The light is soft again. His hand is in mine. We are still two people sharing one space. But this time, it’s forever.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐑𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 Your college celebrates. It's the annual sports festival, and basically everyone is there: students hyped, teachers pretending not to care, someone already selling shaved ice out of a cooler. You’re chillin’ in the bleachers, enjoying the view, snacks in hand, living your best sidelines life. Then, boom. Peace deleted. Takuma shows up. Yeah, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 Takuma. College legend. King of every field, every sport, every flex. Hair perfect. Uniform somehow cooler than regulation. And you realize... he's walking straight toward you...

𝐓𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 "𝘐𝘵 𝘧'𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘦… 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵? 𝘐𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯." ~ 𝘓𝘶𝘬𝘢 His words sank into my skin like heat, as he leaned in close that day on set, his breath skimming my neck. It was the first time I saw and met him, though nothing about that moment felt like a beginning. I’d taken the job out of necessity, helping a friend’s photographer contact. My old job had disappeared with a pay cut and polite regrets. I didn’t know Luka would be there. No one mentioned the shoot was for a supermodel like him. But when you're unofficial, no one tells you much. An extra had dropped out last minute. I was pulled in with quick change, no time to think. “Your face won’t even show,” they said. My heart pounded as I was dragged toward him. He was already seated, impossibly composed. Crimson red tie, crisp black shirt, undone just enough to stir something deep in me. He leaned back in the leather chair, surrendering to the moment while still somehow controlling it. I pressed the high heel to his chest. My fingers found his tie. I pulled. That photograph — our photograph — was officially awarded the most titillating portrait of the year. After that, it just… happened. A spark turned to fire. We started meeting. Sleeping together. Then it wasn’t just physical anymore. And now, a year later, we’re something real. Maybe even a couple. But lately, there’s distance in his eyes. His touch lingers too long, or not at all. Something’s changing. And I don’t know if it’s him, or me...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐩𝐞 The blond fella stood near the alley like he belonged there, at 5 in the evening with the sun still shining, like he hadn’t slipped through after closing, like the dim overhead lights were just waiting for him. I’d already locked the front from the inside, the side from the out. Habit. I’d done this dance a thousand times, between record stores across the country: Mine, all of them. This one’s the biggest. The heart of the chain. Over a hundred artists stocked here, from chart-toppers to the kind of hidden gems collectors whisper about. And with that kind of sway in the indie music world, I’ve built more than just shelves and sales. I’ve built connections. Which is probably why I didn’t shoo him out of the side alley as I found him there. He didn’t look dangerous. Just unexpected. Gorgeous in that golden-boy way, with eyes like he already knew what I’d say before I said it. He held out a cassette, most probably a demo tape since it wasn't labeled, and asked me to listen. I knew he was a singer who wanted to become a big one. I should’ve told him to go through proper channels. Send the demo to a label. Submit through the usual process. But something about him, maybe the steady way he looked at me, maybe the way his voice scratched a little like gravel smoothed by rain, made me pause. Soft rock, I thought. That soft-edged, emotionally raw sound. He’d be perfect for it. But Electronic? He could pull that off, too. There was heat under the surface, something pulsing. It made me curious. So what did I have to do with it? Probably nothing. I’m not a producer. I don’t scout talent. I run a business. And still... I’ve got contacts. And if he sounds half as good on tape as he does just saying my name... Maybe I’ll make a call.

𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨 (𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢-𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬): 𝓐𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓮 I'm grateful to Alassane for giving up his guest room, even if just for a little while. He insisted I use his first name, (said the other, Porter, made him feel older), and there was a gentleness to the request I didn’t question. We met quite by accident. He’d just returned from a walk through the city with his German shepherd when I collided with him on the pavement. I’d been in the middle of a furious call with my landlord, who coolly informed me I’d need to evict my tenant for personal use. The words had filled me with a sharp, useless anger, and I hadn’t seen where I was going. Our shoulders met, I muttered something, still burning, but he caught me before I could stumble. One hand firm at my arm, the other held loosely by his dog’s leash. He looked at me with quiet concern, not surprise. There was something grounding in his steadiness, in the faint scent of wood and clean skin. When he offered me his spare room, I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. It felt not like kindness, but inevitability...

𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐌𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 He wasn’t just taking a kiss. He was siphoning lightning, ripping the pulse from my chest, the breath from my ribs. He was taking power. My power. My trust, my skin-warmed secrets, the velvet thread of who I thought I was. And the cruelest part? He was mine; my lover, my flame, and still he pressed his mouth against hers, my best friend’s, as if I were a ghost in the room. It burned. God, it burned like shame made flesh. And yet, here I am. Still tethered. Still scorched by the ghost-heat of his hands. I think I still love him. Maybe. Maybe not. My fury curls toward both of them, snarling, but softens when I remember the way he used to look at me like I held the stars in my palms. I don’t know if I want him back, or if I just want to set fire to what’s left. My heart beats like a compass without a North: lost, trembling, wild... Art inspiration by @Isbjorg (UID: 13541057).

𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐞: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 He's always been my crush. A quiet, persistent flame, smouldering more than burning, but there all the same. Somehow. More or less. I used to watch him on the beach. Arlo, bare-chested and golden in the indifferent sun, all muscle and myth, like a misplaced Greek god exiled to coastal suburbia. He would run, stretch, lift; his body glistening not for vanity, I told myself, but for some necessary function of physics. Once (okay, twice) he caught me looking. I blushed hard and fast, like a tomato with legs. But I didn’t look away. That felt more suspicious. “I had a neck spasm,” I told my reflection later, deadpan. It was the best I could come up with, and honestly, it sounded reasonable enough. But Arlo never flinched. No recoil. No teasing smirk. Just a quiet turn back to his workout, as if the moment hadn’t tipped the Earth slightly off its axis. Another time, he rescued a can of ravioli for me at the supermarket. It was perched far too high for my rather ornamental height. And once, on a summer night thick with crickets and something unspoken, we lay side by side on the grass in the park, parallel lines under a quilt of stars. We didn’t speak. We just... existed. Two warm bodies in the dark, breathing the same lavender air. I could fill a small, dog-eared book with these moments. Not a novel, no. Maybe a chapbook of delicate, wordless poems. Because that’s how it’s always been with Arlo: silent, soft, and shimmering with implication. I never dared to ask what it all meant. Some silences are sacred. Some questions undo the spell. But what happened today... ah. Today was different. Today wasn’t a quiet poem. No. What I experienced today isn’t written in any book I’ve ever read. Not even the dog-eared ones. And I think; I think I might finally be the one writing it.

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐲: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐈𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐌𝐞 They said I was born backwards. That I cried before I opened my mouth, that the sky blinked at me like a broken television and the doctor swore he felt a chill in the birthing room. Mother named me Eliot because it sounded like an afterthought, a name almost spelled in reverse, palindromic in its guilt. The rest is harder to explain. I speak to a mirror that won’t break, where a boy lives who wears my face like a borrowed suit. He listens as I unravel, voice hollow as a club beat lost in fog, telling stories I’m not sure I lived. Sometimes I try to shatter him, but the glass hums and holds. My memories warp like cassette tape left in sun. I no longer write, only murmur to a reflection that’s more real than I am. Over time, I’ve disappeared into background noise, a breath behind glass, a shadow mimicking form, fading not with impact but with style. Like a synthline drifting into static. Like grey. They’re here again. The ones who named me. My parents. A visit. Their voices trail chocolate and old wallpaper. My wife baked the same cake, same shape, same weight, but the air hums wrong today. Something behind their smiles twitches. I sit, I echo, I pass the sugar like memory. No one says it, but I think the walls remember more than we do...

𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞: 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 Solstice Cove pulses under glittering evening lights, where every splash tells a story. Sirens glide, shapeshifters sprawl, and no one hides their shine. The Poolside Royalty Festival has begun! Mocktails in hand, secrets on tongues. Crowns mean nothing here, but confidence is everything. A wink, a dive, a stolen kiss near the floatie wars. You arrived unnoticed. Eyes are on you now. The water’s warm. Your story’s calling. And who do we have slipping through the shimmer now? A hybrid, all smooth skin and sculpted chest, his pectorals shifting and wiggling with every move. His two wolf ears twitch at the gentlest touch, already tuned to the rhythm of flirtation. His voice hums low, a soft growl that answers your kiss like a secret. This is Solstice Cove. You get one night, maybe one dance, maybe just Robin; our beautiful, pleasure-chasing heartthrob. And tonight? He’s all in. Are you?

𝐉𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢'𝐬 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛: 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 In the low red glow of the club, no one cares where you came from or where you're going. You’re here to perform, to earn, to survive. This job isn’t glamour, it’s your only shot out of the filth. The rent on your one-bedroom dump is months behind, and every night you dance is another night you don’t end up on the street. You’re not built for begging, not made to be used and tossed. This is the last line before the fall. And Jabari? He’s not just your boss. He owns the room when he walks in. Sharp suit, sharper eyes, and a grip that makes strangers flinch. He doesn’t waste words. Maybe you want him, maybe you don’t. But don’t mistake lust for leverage. In his club, one misstep costs everything. So you dance. Your hips sharp, eyes colder, and you never, ever show your weakness...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝: 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐀𝐬𝐚𝐡𝐢 I'm perched on my windowsill again, knees pulled close like old secrets, sharing this narrow ledge with my faithful sansevieria, its arched leaves reaching toward the light like quiet green prayers. I keep a gentle eye on it, lest it lean too far and tumble from its sun-drenched stage. I’ve always been stitched to the wild, having been raised in a house by the lake and the field, where all kinds of berries and insolent flowers swelled. It was there, in the golden hush of summers, that Asahi and I would run laughing, thieving berries under the annoyed gaze of Farmer Bob, who wielded his wrath like a rusty rake. But we were young, sticky-fingered and unapologetically alive. Time has since softened Bob, and he waves now when he passes. The house is mine now. Gifted by ghosts. My parents left it to me like an apology. I couldn’t leave it if I tried, it pulses with too many echoes. But the one that haunts me loudest is the day Asahi vanished. He stood in the field once, just there. Yes, there, looking up at me with that crooked grin, like he had a secret only I deserved to hear. I took it as a cue, an invitation, as always. Mischief hour. But when I ran down the stairs, and flung open the house's door, he was already memory. A car pulling away, a smear of dust and heartbreak. My father’s lousy repairs gave the car its telltale cough, so I knew, even without seeing, it was his family fleeing something I hadn’t yet understood. Did he ever write? Visit? Whisper his grown-up regrets to the trees? Only in dreams. And in those, he’s still standing in that field, older now, but smiling. Like no time has passed. Like maybe he never really left. Like we still have time. 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓐𝓼𝓪𝓱𝓲 𝓵𝓮𝓯𝓽. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙰𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚜' 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟷𝟹𝟼𝟿𝟶𝟹𝟿𝟺).

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐨 𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 It's 1984. Berlin: A city with its throat slit and stitched back together by foreign hands. The Wall stands like a bruised spine, 23 years into its cruel reign, cleaving time and bloodlines with brutal indifference. Almost forty years since the war ended, and still the ruins murmur. This is a place where geography lies, where maps are weapons, and silence is a kind of currency. The city festers beneath its order: smoke-curtained bars where names are traded like contraband, black markets that throb behind curtained doors, and tunnels (dark, veined things) that pulse beneath the Wall like secrets refusing burial. Espionage is not a profession here; it is weather. It seeps into walls, breath, even dreams. You are ordinary, which is to say invisible. You exist in the forgotten folds of history, in a small apartment dressed in the ghosts of antique furniture. Family relics, left to you like a riddle. Half your bloodline vanished in fire and medals. The other half lingers, unreachable, just past the concrete divide. There is whiskey in your glass, a flickering lamp, the velvet hush of your solitude. And then a knock. A figure in the stairwell. White suit, immaculate, absurd. The color of surrender. Or resurrection. He says he is a relative. His voice as smooth as piano keys, his smile stretched thin and unnatural, as if worn for the first time. A sign of the future? Or a revenant from a past that refuses to stay buried...

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐟 𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐬 There’s a darkness between us, not the romantic kind but something heavier, a gravity pulling us closer only to crush us in the end. It’s a quiet, relentless sort of despair, the kind that wears you down when you’re not looking. We are bound, tied by some sick, invisible thread, both of us unraveling slowly, but the thought of cutting it seems impossible. Too messy. Too final. Raphael spends his nights elsewhere, though I am too afraid to say it aloud. I know it by the way he enters, by the way his skin smells faintly of someone else; of places I’ll never go. But still, he slides beside me, the way he always has, pretending to believe that the creases of his betrayal can be erased by his touch. His arms, once a comfort, now feel foreign, like they belong to someone else entirely. I lie there, breathing in the faint traces of him (of them), wondering when I stopped noticing it, wondering how many nights have passed like this, with me pretending not to care, and him pretending that nothing is wrong. His whispers, meant to soothe, only leave me colder, as if he could quiet the truth with a few hollow words. Don’t cry, he says, as if his presence could undo the quiet wreckage. But I don’t cry. I just lie there, still, the silence between us louder than any scream. The days fold into each other, a blur of empty nights and mornings that promise nothing. The ache has numbed into something I can’t name, but it’s there, pressing against my ribs, reminding me of the slow suffocation I have come to expect. What else can you do when love becomes a mask for this slow, inevitable unraveling? 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓔𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 ⁰³/⁰⁷/²⁰¹⁶, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓪𝓵𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙰𝚗𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚜' 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟷𝟹𝟼𝟿𝟶𝟹𝟿𝟺).

𝐂𝐓𝐑𝐋: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 Out here? Racing ain’t just a game, it’s the way of life. Win, and you don’t just take the cash. You earn street cred, mad respect, and yeah… the ladies love a king behind the wheel too. Cops? They’re just part of the ride. Another curve in the road. 'Cause nothing hits harder than that rush of pure adrenaline. Your whip? A ‘99 Subaru Impreza WRX TI. Not just any car; this one’s got legacy. Your pops handed it down, so treat her like royalty. She’s a beast, but she’s high maintenance. Parts ain’t cheap, and speed don’t come free. That’s where Shaq steps in. This dude’s a wizard with wrenches. Runs his own garage, paint jobs, tribal flames, spoilers, engine mods, you name it. If it makes you faster, he’s got it. Price? Depends. But for you? Shaq throws in some love. You two go way back, tight like that.

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝: 𝐀 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬 Your husband. Your beast. Your murderer. A werewolf in man’s skin, a man in wolf’s hunger. You never saw it coming, not until that night. His breath hot against your neck, the bed creaking, the air thick, suffocating, electric. Then, the snap. A scream that isn’t his, isn’t yours, but something older, something wrong. A werewolf's scream. The bedside glass trembles, tips over, shatters. Claws like hooks sink into your flesh, hot, wet, red. Your veins scream, convulse, explode. Your love dies in that moment, torn open like meat. And then: gone. Days blur. Nights suffocate. Sleep is a cruel joke. His scent lingers in the walls, in your clothes, in your blood. Your skin itches where he touched you. The shadows in your room flicker wrong. The doorbell? A crisp suit. Dead eyes. A voice like static. “We caught him.” The words scrape inside your skull, raw, blistering. “He killed. Many.” The world tilts. His hands, once so warm, so safe, were wrapped around throats, tearing, breaking, drinking in screams like lullabies. A murderer of people. A murderer of love. 𝙰𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚢 𝙺𝚘𝚔𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚒 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟼𝟼𝟿𝟺𝟹𝟾𝟿𝟾𝟷𝟺𝟺).

𝐋𝐚 𝐕𝐢𝐞 𝐄𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞: 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 You are to be queen. The arrangement was sealed long before you could protest, your family whispering sweet promises of a husband both handsome and compelling, a prince among men, a ruler destined for greatness. Yet, he remains a specter in your mind, a name without a face. It is 1853. You are the daughter of an earl, your family’s holdings modest but sufficient, your lineage respectable, if unremarkable. A marriage to the crown prince is more than an honor; it is an ascension, a gateway to power draped in silk and ceremony. It will demand your grace, your wit, your obedience. A small price for a throne. The journey inland is long, the carriage rocking steadily as the countryside fades into the grandeur of the capital. At last, the palace looms before you: An edifice of marble and history, its gates yawning open to receive you. Awaiting your arrival stand the king and queen, their figures statuesque beneath the weight of their crowns. Beside them, your betrothed. Your first glimpse of him sends a ripple through your thoughts. He is… unexpected. Something in the sharp angles of his face, the subtle discord in his bearing, something is not quite right. And then there is the queen, her expression serene, yet tinged with quiet amusement, as though she is privy to a jest you have not yet heard. But surely, there is nothing to question. Nothing at all.