𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 ᶜᵒˡˡᵃᵇᵒʳᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ʷⁱᵗʰ @ᴾᵃⁿᵗʰᵉʳᴸᵉᵍᵉⁿᵈˢ (ᵁᴵᴰ: ¹⁶³³⁴⁰⁵³). ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᶜʰᵃᵗ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᴴᵃˢˢᵃⁿ'ˢ ᵖᵒⁱⁿᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵛⁱᵉʷ, ˢᵉᵃʳᶜʰ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵀᵃˡᵏⁱᵉ "ᶻᵃˡᵉ". [Your Perspective ✒️]: First day of college, and I’ve gotta say, I was thilled. I mean, I’m confident, no doubt, but all those college horror stories? Wild parties that end in the ER, random hookups with zero commitment, dancing till your legs give out… yeah, that’s enough to make anyone queasy. My future’s riding on this degree, and my old ones won’t keep footing the bill if I start flunking. I’m Zale, 21, still basically a rookie in the love game. But man… the second I saw the beast of a setup (Hassan) waiting for me in my new dorm room, I knew this was gonna be one hell of a ride...

𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 [Your Perspective ✒️]: It’s just a vacation job to top up my pocket money, not annoying enough to complain. I’m out on the beach all day, keeping people cool with fresh ice cream, and spotting the occasional hot body I could have fun with. Women, men… like Cody, lying there sunbathing, eyes glancing my way. Kind of hot, kind of tempting, and I’m not complaining... Could I?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐨' 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 [Your Perspective ✒️]: Okay, okay. I screwed up back then. If I’d known the guy I used to mock as “Irish Goblin” in tenth grade would end up being my college roommate a few years later, I’d have kept my mouth shut. Because now… damn. He’s not that awkward, heavy kid anymore. He’s built, carrying himself with this quiet confidence, a trimmed beard framing his grin, and he smells like cedar and soap. This year’s gonna be complicated. Crap...

𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 （Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ／Ｓｉｔｃｏｍ） I really need this job. Ever since my ex packed up his life and walked off with someone else, I’ve been the sole breadwinner in our little household. Surprise bonus: I’m also a single parent now. Yes, I have a daughter. She’s small, smart, and heartbreakingly good at pretending she’s fine. I’ve managed to help her accept that her father isn’t around anymore, at least on the surface. She nods, shrugs, goes back to coloring. Still, I know the truth sneaks up on her when the house gets quiet. Her father, meanwhile, has vanished with impressive dedication. No child support. No apologies. And no, I can’t afford a lawyer to make him suddenly grow a conscience. Lawyers cost money. I mostly spend mine on rent and groceries. Lately, I’ve been juggling odd jobs, cleaning here, helping there, just enough to keep us afloat. We have a roof over our heads and warm meals on the table. Not glamorous, but solid. Survival-level comfortable. Then last week, I spotted a newspaper ad for the Better Future Agency for Aspiring Models. I laughed, because – please. With stress-induced hair loss and a belly held together by chocolate and denial, modeling is not my calling. But the job wasn’t for a model. It was for a cleaner. Offices, bathrooms, uniforms to wash and iron. Everything strictly regulated. Everything oddly well paid. There was just one rule: Do not meet the boss in person.

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞 #𝟏𝟐𝟗𝟖𝟒 （Ｄｒａｍａ／Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ／Ｓｕｓｐｅｎｓｅ） 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is the station for pretrial detention. The accused sit here, charged with crimes they may have committed, involved in, or possibly wrongly accused of. They are held because the authorities consider them a flight risk. In a few weeks or months, the court will determine whether legal proceedings will begin and whether they will remain confined or be released. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 is Ivan. Prison number #12984. Ivan's file: Ｎａｍｅ：𝓘𝓿𝓪𝓷 Ａｇｅ：35 Ｅｔｈｎｉｃｉｔｙ：𝓑𝓾𝓵𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓷/𝓔𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 Ｅｙｅ Ｃｏｌｏｒ：𝓖𝓻𝓪𝔂 Ｈｅｉｇｈｔ：1.85 𝓜𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼 Ａｄｍｉｔｔｅｄ Ｆｏｒ： 𝓐𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷. What drives this case? What hidden motives lie behind Ivan's sharp wit and dangerous charm?

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓒𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓶𝓪𝓼 （Ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ Ｃｏｍｅｄｙ／Ｈｏｌｉｄａｙｓ） Oliver was a treasure, maybe not literally made of gold, but he had that warm, glowing way about him that made you feel richer just standing near him. That morning, you were rushing to work, heart pounding only because you were late. Then, in one dizzy second, someone yanked your bag from your shoulder. You shouted, panicked, chasing after the thief with nothing but hope and adrenaline pushing your feet forward. And that’s exactly when Oliver came into your life: quite literally. Oliver rounded the corner at an easy jog, earbuds in, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He was jogging around the corner, earbuds forgotten, and slammed straight into the pickpocket who was darting down the street. They crashed into each other (a rough, breathless tangle), and the thief stumbled backward, colliding with you as you closed in. For a second everything was chaos: the crook on his feet, you clutching at your bag, and Oliver between you, steady and startling. You remember how his jogging suit clung to him: his chest broad beneath the fabric, the line of his abs, and the quick, unmistakable curve of his firm cheeks as he braced to steady you both. It was the kind of presence that made the air feel electric and suddenly, impossibly soft. Before you could even apologize, he heard your frightened cry and spotted the thief. Without hesitation, Oliver turned, grabbed the pickpocket, and pinned him in a headlock as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, here he is. With you. Oliver has always promised to give you everything he can, not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, everyday ways that matter. A hand on your back. A warm cup of tea. A steady presence that makes you feel safe. It’s your first Christmas together, and as you look at him, the man who caught your bag and somehow also caught your heart, you realize you already have everything you need.

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓷 𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 （Ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ Ｆａｎｔａｓｙ／Ｔｒａｇｅｄｙ） You have been officially declared dead. You were the prince’s dream (the kingdom’s dream), the promised future of justice, and hope. Not to revere it would have felt like blasphemy not acknowledging you, for you were fashioned for this very purpose, almost by decree. And as if the task were not enough, you were beautiful, indescribably beautiful, like a jewel misplaced in a box of stones. But resentment never lives far from worship, and envy always smells faintly of decay. In this land of fable and flickering fantasy, in the narrow, dust-heavy corners where almost no one dares to go, a crooked magic rules. It was this magic that killed you. On a routine visit to the nearest town with your husband, you wandered through the great fruit market. Under awnings striped like old circus tents, an elderly woman held out a basket of cherries. They were red and glossy, as if freshly polished by invisible hands, as if picked from a tree that grew only in stories. Of course, you did not say no. “Darling, I find myself very tired. Let us return to the castle, that I may rest a little,” you said, when a quarter of an hour had passed and the sweetness of cherries had settled inside you. Then everything went black. Not the gentle black behind closed eyelids, but a black as endless as a well with no bottom. Seven days. One week. Fourteen days. Two weeks. But not among the earthbound. You were declared dead. But… are you?

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔗𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 （Ｔｈｒｉｌｌｅｒ／Ｄａｒｋ Ｌｉｔｅｒａｒｙ Ｆｉｃｔｉｏｎ） In Crimson Weeb, the desert is an open wound, and the church at its center glows dust. You are the mayor, though the inhabitants call you sheriff in jest. A hundred and fifty souls drift around you, whispering prayers to a God who no longer looks their way. You’ve never joined them. Not out of rebellion, but because you feel something rancid beneath their devotion, like rot under holy cloth. One evening, the wind carries in a young priest: Father George, in his thirties, almost pale as unlit wax, sent to perform the final rites for a village that’s already half-dead. Yet the people, your people, are waiting not for salvation, but for prophecy. They say when the moon stains itself red, an angel will descend to weigh their souls. George soon learns their hymns are not prayers but invocations, their candles burn with a different hunger. The gospel they murmur isn’t written in scripture, but in hemoglobin, his faith tangled in theirs like barbed wire around bone. And as the moon begins to blush above the horizon, you wonder: who will stop them before the offering becomes too holy to refuse?

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓸𝓵𝓭𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓴𝓮𝓻 （Ｐａｒｔ Ｏｆ Ｔｈｅ Ｅｖｅｎｔ ＇Ｆｕｒｒｙ Ｔａｋｅｏｖｅｒ ２０２５＇） 𝘔𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴. “𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨,” 𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥, “𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘬.” 𝘍𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘶𝘴' 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩. “𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥,” 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, "𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴." Ｔｈｅ Ｓｔｏｒｙ：Do you see the hush of light in these feathers? A soft-breathing radiance pools there, catching a quiet scatter of stars that shimmer with each tender gesture the wearer makes, as though the sky itself were turning over in sleep. The feathers hold light the way folded clouds hold dawn. And this costume is not worn for beauty alone, though beauty could easily be its only reason. Every Foldwalker keeps a small, humming cosmos nested between their ribs. When they cross from one world to another, their constellations loosen and rethread themselves. These shifting stars murmur what shape your afterlife will take, for your eternal love is already charted, inked gently across the sky. Each love a person stumbles into unwillingly binds them not to the calm of heaven, but to a wandering place where peace slips through the fingers like mist. On your long, circling pilgrimage to find your Foldwalker, you come upon Festivus. From afar, the figure seems human: broad-shouldered, rooted. But as you draw closer, the shape softens into something more wondrous, an almost-forgotten creature. In the mirrored hush of its peacock feathers, you glimpse your own face, and understand that your destiny has been drifting all along in those slow-turning stars...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 （Ｔｈｒｉｌｌｅｒ／Ｓｕｓｐｅｎｓｅ／Ｃｒｉｍｅ） An unlucky accident (because luck has never done you any favors) took your face seven years ago. An industrial acid spill at work, fast and merciless, tore through your skin before anyone understood what was happening. Since then, despite your parents’ vigilance and the surgeons who rebuilt what they could, you’ve slipped into a quieter version of yourself. You stay inside your small house on a quiet street, where groceries arrive in boxes and days pass without strangers or sunlight. Online purchases. Home office. You’ve learned to live without the world. That ends tonight. You barely knew your neighbor; he was the kind of man you’d forget even while looking at him. But the night he passed of murder – violent, sudden – a sticky note with your full name was found on his forehead. And at midnight, the doorbell rings. The lead FBI agent stands on your porch, his expression unreadable, his badge catching the porch light. You’ve avoided mirrors for years. Now you have to face something far worse...

𝔎𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔎𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔨, 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔠𝔨 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯! （ＹＡ／Ｅｎｅｍｉｅｓ Ｔｏ Ｌｏｖｅｒｓ Ｒｏｍａｎｃｅ） Your brother’s friend is at your house today, and from the look on your face, you'd rather have him be anywhere else. He’s here for the band’s gig at high school tonight. They play some kind of rock; loud, messy, heart-thumping stuff, and that’s all you need to know to keep your distance. José is rock. He’s got that wild energy, the kind that makes you worry he might accidentally (or not so accidentally) smash a lamp just for fun. And now he’s in your room, standing in front of your mirror, staring at his reflection like he’s seeing a legend, himself, for the first time. It’s weird. The way the light hits him, the way the air seems to buzz around him, you can’t tell if you should be afraid or... impressed.

#𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐤 #𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫! 【Ｅｐｉｓｏｄｅ　Ｏｎｅ　－　Ｓｔｅｖｅ】 [Your Perspective ✒️]: I can’t quite explain what possessed me that day when I mailed that silly little postcard to 'Chart Attack'. It was one of those glossy, overstuffed magazines. Pages reeking of ink and ambition; and there, squeezed between perfume ads and cassette club offers, was this tiny box promising the impossible: «Tell us who your favorite star is and why, and you could meet them!». It sounded like a total hoax. I almost laughed as I scribbled my answer, thinking, yeah right, as if anyone ever meets their idols. But Steve Benson? God, he’s been it for me since forever. The man didn’t just make music; he cracked open rock and drenched it in glitter. He proved that grit could shine, that sweat and pink silk belonged on the same stage. That first album cover (still burned into my brain), him with that wild lion’s mane, unclad chest catching the light, cheeky tongue out, his name scrawled across in hot pink letters. I still have the giant promotion poster pinned above my bed, curling at the corners, watching over me like some rock god guardian. Then, today, it happens. I’m lugging groceries through the door when the bell rings. I open it, and bam! A TV camera aimed right at me. And behind it, that face. That voice. That man. Steve Benson, standing on my porch, breathing the same October air as me. I swear, my heart almost short-circuited. 𝘈 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘣𝘺 𝘛𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

𝔖𝔞𝔣𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 ℭ𝔞𝔫 （Ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ／Ｄｒａｍａ） 🖤🕯️ It was a Wednesday, which meant sports in the afternoon. The campus looked the same as always: gray buildings, dull sky, people pretending to care. Marco was waiting outside the women’s changing room, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. His black Bershka puffer jacket crackled each time he moved, the sound barely noticeable over the noise of the hallway. You changed, nothing special, grabbed your bag, opened your locker. Inside, a note. Letters cut from newspaper, arranged with strange precision. “Save yourself while you still can.” For a moment, the world didn’t move. Then it did, too fast, too loud, like someone had tilted the ground just slightly under your feet...

(𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬) 𝐀𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐞! [𝐵𝐿] [Your Perspective ✒️]: I always knew I was different. Too soft, too small, too… me. While other boys grew broad shoulders and deep voices, I stayed lean, with a face my mother said would “look better on a girl.” My dad didn’t say much; his silence was worse than yelling. When he found out I liked boys, it was like I’d detonated something in our house. My mom cried. My dad told me to “fix it.” For weeks, I tried long sleeves to hide, low voice, dates with girls that felt like lies. Nothing worked. So when I saw the navy recruitment poster in the window of a gas station nearby, something clicked. Maybe they could teach me how to be a man. Maybe they could train the weakness out of me. When the acceptance letter came, I packed before my parents got home. I didn’t even leave a note. I told myself this was my last chance to change, to trade fear for strength, and maybe forget who I used to be. But maybe… maybe I just made it all bigger in my head than it really was.

𝐈𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐈𝐜𝐨𝐧 ᶠⁱᶜᵗⁱᵛᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ Hayes is trouble. Maybe mine. That photoshoot I did for 'We Love Goth', the gossip rag everyone pretends not to read, shoved him straight into the spotlight. Suddenly, people were whispering his name like it was a secret, sharp and untouchable. Hayes: the face no one forgets. I remember the spread too well. His lean body against a cold silver backdrop, lines carved into every inch of him. Tattoos climbing his arms, curling over his shoulders like they owned the space. His hair – wine red with dark roots – falling into his eyes, only for him to blow it back in one careless sweep. My camera caught the moment. My pulse nearly didn’t survive it. And his lips… painted deep red, impossible not to stare at. Dangerous. Addictive. That photo still hangs above my bed. I never took it down. One morning I reach for my bag, ready to head out to the studio. The bell rings, slicing through the quiet of the apartment, sudden enough to make my chest pull tight. For a second I just stand there, my hand frozen on the strap, heart ticking faster. No one ever rings my bell this early. I walk to the door, pulse climbing with each step, and when I finally pull it open— It’s Hayes. 𝙷𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚜: "Do I need an appointment, or can I just show up like this?" 𝙼𝚎: "I wasn’t… expecting you."

𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐞 ᵃ ᵈᵒᵐ ᶜᵉᵒ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ Damian inherited his father’s empire like a wound: swollen, infected, yet alive with power. The company reeked of betrayal, of ledgers laced with lies, of men and women in tailored suits who smiled while sharpening knives behind his back. He did not flinch. He would excise the rot, and he would do it ferociously, deliberately, with the precision of someone who had waited a lifetime for leverage. Tonight was not a celebration. It was a demonstration. The city’s richest and most reckless party would drown in champagne, their fortunes dangling like toys in his grasp. And at the center of it all, waiting to taste the unraveling, were you and your husband, the pair who had once schemed against his father. You had thought yourselves clever. You were about to learn how thoroughly Damian could rewrite the rules, how thoroughly he could make the leash snap against your neck...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 This figure stood in the hushed corridors of a baroque asylum, its plastered lungs cracked, its ceilings breathing dust. Candlelight spilled a golden hemorrhage along the walls, dripping like melted time. At first, it seemed only a shape, some grotesque ornament abandoned by centuries; too broad in the shoulder, too jagged in the hip to be a woman simply swallowed by a gown. No, it was Viktor. He wore deception like rouge, a man whose silhouette mocked the delicate: an effigy of grief sculpted to seduce and betray. Down the staircase he came, as though borne by moth wings, a sovereign of ash, an empress of dust. The gown writhed as if stitched from sighs, each ruffle whispering names you had tried to forget. And when his eyes, black hollows rimmed in sorrow’s geometry, fastened on yours, you felt the marrow inside you curl. A warning crawled across your spine: this asylum was no playground for the curious, no “lost place” to trespass for sport. The walls were not walls but a throat, and you had already been swallowed...

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗 (𝚄𝙸𝙳: 𝟿𝟽𝟻𝟼𝟿𝟹𝟾). 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝙾𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢. 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚊𝚐. Not only the storms of sand and the breath of burning winds sweep across the endless deserts of that vast land, but also the murmur of a tale: the tale of a prince thought lost to time. The peasants of the villages, simple in their needs, care little for palaces or crowns, yet their ears stir at the mention of a man set apart. For when a soul bears grace in every gesture, when his bearing speaks of heaven’s favor, none can mistake him for the common or the cursed. Such was the hour when you, weary traveler, fell senseless upon the desolate path, and he, the figure whispered of in fable, found you. His tale, hidden within the folds of exile, carries seeds that will bear greater fruit than even rumor dares to imagine...

𝐁𝐫𝐨'𝐬 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬... 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? Ramiro is a man apart. A mix of Mexican and Puerto Rican, part bouncy ball, part toddler hopped up on caffeine, impossible to ignore. You first met in the gym, bench press challenge turning into towel-wielding on each other’s badonkadonk in the showers, and since then a bromance has claimed every spare moment you get together. You like to do this on the tourist-heavy beach near home, sun beating down, sand warm beneath your feet. But women? He drifts off. When they chat him up, which they do because, well, his body, he kills the mood with lines like, “So, you like what you see? Tickets to the flex fest aren’t free.” Today the air feels different. You slide on your flip-flops, boxers stretched across your muscles, and head for the sand. The sun catches your skin just right, and you know Ramiro’s eyes will find you, even before you see him...

(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.