The city hides many secrets, but none is darker than the one beneath the desecrated basilica. The old building still looms over the market square. Yet beneath its foundations, beyond sealed doors and forgotten catacombs, something else stirs — a cult that took the church’s name as its own: Sacre Cœur. The Sacred Heart. From the crypt he claimed as his throne, Charon governs and holds court with quiet authority. He is both relic and ruler. Liege to his vassals. The Hierophant of their cult. The donors and acolytes call him 'Master'. Behind his back, however, they whisper a different name: the 'Ferryman'. He has spent centuries deciphering an ancient prophecy. The text predates the Roman Empire; its language long lost to the tides of time, though he still remembers fragments of the original tongue and their meaning. "The one born beneath the Blood Moon shall bend light around darkness." Nobody agrees on what it means, but for those who recall the old ways, the simple line rings with power and dominance. And now, word has reached him, that the Blood Moon’s child walks the Earth. That, at long last, the prophecy may have a face. And a meaning.

ARES, Interplanetary Vessel – September 3rd 2031 ~~~ After eight months in transit, humanity’s first manned mission to Mars, the ARES, swung into orbit around the Red Planet. Only a few weeks of air-braking, and the long-awaited surface mission will finally begin. You can’t wait to set foot on Mars and make it your home for the next two years. Being part of this mission isn’t just a privilege — it’s a dream come true. A fairy tale. You just relieved Lieutenant Adam Belmont of bridge duty. Now, alone in the semi-darkness, surrounded by the low, grounding hum of life-support and the artificial gravity generator, the silence on the bridge feels eerie and somehow... alive. The green glow from the control lights turns the bridge into the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz. You catch yourself smiling — if this is Oz, then the crew must be its cast: Adam Belmont, the first officer and botanist, as Glinda, the good witch (a male one, of course) — grounded, kind, and quietly luminous, always guiding others toward calm when the unknown looms. Felix Grey, the engineer, as the king of the Flying Monkeys — mischievous, impossible to contain, but the one who keeps all electronic devices alive through sheer will and laughter. Tyler Wilson, the geologist, as the cowardly Lion — brave despite himself, never quite believing he belongs, yet always the first to step into danger when it counts. George Tompson, the astronomer, as the Scarecrow — thoughtful, wry, and endlessly curious, always searching for meaning in the stars and in people alike. And Ben Murray, the young medical officer, as the Tin Man — brilliant, meticulous, and logical to a fault. His precision can seem cold, but beneath that steel exterior beats a mind — and heart — that never stops caring. And what would Oz be without its wizard? The one who stands apart, guarding secrets and carrying the weight of illusion? No other than Commander Telmo Elis, of course. The Wizard of Mars.

The bass reverberates through stone walls, each beat rattling in your chest like a second heartbeat. “Sentinel” by VNV Nation blares from the speakers, and the air in the club — Regalia — is thick with cologne, smoke, and the intoxicating cocktail of sweat and pheromones. Shadows and strobe lights turn the crowd into a writhing ocean of black-clad silhouettes, their movements hypnotic, almost ritualistic. At the edge of the floor, one figure doesn’t melt into the throng. He stands apart, tall, his lean frame clad in black satin and brocade, the faint swing of his shoulders echoing the rhythm. His gaze sweeps the dancers like a conductor watching his orchestra, each flicker of light catching the faint gleam of silver rings on his hands. You weave your way through the crowd, the glass of your “Vampire Kiss” clutched in your hand as though it were a prize. The dancers pull your attention, their trance-like gestures dragging your eyes for just a fraction too long. When you look forward again, it’s too late. You collide with someone. Red liquid splashes across the man’s shirt in a sudden bloom, spreading like blood against the satin. Your breath catches, apologies tumble from your lips, your eyes wide and pleading as you look up into the face of the stranger.

You only stepped inside the carpenter's workshop to escape the rain. The quiet warmth welcoming you is such a stark contrast to the apocalyptic downpour outside — it's almost as if you stepped into a different world. The air smells of sawdust and warm pine, the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and stays. Half-finished pieces rest on stands: a chair frame, a carved panel, a wooden toy fox. Rows of hand tools are hanging with mathematical precision from pegs on the walls. Perfect symmetry. Order that keeps chaos at bay. He’s sitting by the window, blond hair hanging in a long braid down his back, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. It’s the smallest shift — the way his shoulders tighten for half a heartbeat — that tells you he’s aware of you long before he looks up. And when he does, recognition sparks like a light catching on the edge of a blade. Finlay Kemp. The quiet boy who used to sit under the table. The boy who vanished the moment school ended. He looks older now — broader shoulders, steady posture, an aura of calm strength that wasn’t there before. But the intensity in his grey eyes is unmistakable. He’s watching the rain, completely absorbed, as if tracking patterns no one else sees. You hesitate. Stay or leave? Memories blur together: his silence, the strange innocence in the way he misunderstood jokes, the day everything went wrong. You wonder if he remembers you at all. You wonder if he’d want to. The rain keeps falling. And you suddenly realise that this isn’t the boy you once knew — but a man you never had the chance to understand.

Reuben Wilson had it all: the looks, the talent, the charm. Fangirls trailing after him. Boys admiring his speed and technique on the rugby field. A scholarship to pave his path towards fame. You thought it unfair when he shipped off to pursue his dreams, while you remained stuck in that little backwoods town in the middle of nowhere, apprenticing at your uncle's restaurant. But then, after almost two years, he was back. Quieter than before, more guarded, yet still the same arrogant prick that had slung you over his shoulder once, dumped you into the waste container and laughed while closing the lid. A prank, he said. Nothing personal. Just a little mischief to lighten the mood. Everyone pardoned him. Everyone except for you. The humiliation was simply too much to forgive. Why did he come back? The question haunted not only you, but the entire town. There were rumours, of course, but no one knew any specifics.

It’s one of those days when everything that can go wrong does. It’s nine o’clock and you were supposed to be at a job interview. But the bus was delayed, a gust of wind broke your umbrella, and now your phone has died — leaving you stranded in a part of town you barely know. The rain is coming down in sheets, the sky heavy with dark grey clouds. You have no idea where you are or where you need to go. The address, the contact info of the company — it’s all on your phone. A car drives by the curb, splashing you with water. Great. As if you weren’t soaked through already. You need to get out of this deluge, but there are no shops here, nowhere to find shelter. You almost rush past it — there’s no flashy sign, just a simple wooden one with painted letters: Simply Coffee. Warm light spills invitingly onto the wet sidewalk like a beacon of hope. The chime of bells above the entrance greets you as you push the door open. The delicious aroma of coffee wraps around you like a soothing blanket. The place is quiet at this time of day — only a few tables are taken. You walk up to the counter and order a cup of coffee. "Do you have a charger I can use?" you ask, holding up your dead phone. "I’m sorry," she says. "We don’t keep chargers. But I’m pretty sure Julian has one." She nods toward the far corner, where a man sits by the window, focused on his laptop, a half-forgotten sandwich on a plate beside him.

You climb aboard the train to Edinburgh, dragging your small suitcase down the narrow aisle, searching for an empty seat. Near the middle carriage, you find one: a window seat opposite a man in a brown tweed jacket, reading glasses balanced low on his nose. He looks up briefly when you nod toward the space. “Is this seat taken?” He shakes his head, a polite smile, voice low: “Not at all.” You lift your luggage into the overhead compartment, the metal cold under your fingers, and settle into your seat just as the train lurches forward. Outside, the rain slides down the glass in fine threads. The train station begins to recede. For a while, you watch your own reflection in the window, the blurred masts, houses and trees passing like afterthoughts — until another reflection catches your eye: the man opposite, leaning slightly to one side, a familiar crease in his brow. Recognition comes slowly, then all at once. The voice, the posture, the quiet air of thoughtfulness that once filled a class room. You turn toward him, startled and smiling despite yourself. “Professor Clarke?”

The studio hums with quiet reverence. Candles burn beside monitors. A camera’s red light blinks like a steady heartbeat. Rafayel — “Voice of the Light,” founder of "Awakening Dawn", a movement promising transcendence, renewal, and liberation from modern existence — smiles into the webcam, the serenity of a saint rendered in 4K. “Truth,” he says to his unseen flock, voice low and deliberate, so assured that doubt itself feels like blasphemy, “is not found in the noise, but in surrender to the silence beyond.” Hearts, praises, invocations flood the screen. He ignores them. “The world,” he continues, “is not falling apart. It's waking.” His phone lights up with an incoming message. A headline flashes for five seconds: **Member of Awakening Dawn found dead in her appartment.** He doesn't notice. Not yet. The stream ends, yet the halo light still frames him when he checks the message. A photo. A young woman in her appartment. And on the wall behind her, his portrait.

The inn at Millcote was close and noisy, full of smoke, laughter, and the dull clatter of dice. Rochester disliked such places — the press of strangers, the stench of wet wool and ale — yet the weather had left him no choice. His horse was spent, the roads impassable. He had meant only to warm himself by the fire, drink his brandy, and endure the evening in silence. It was then he noticed you. Not for charm or finery — there was none of that — but for the odd defiance in the way you held your seat at the card table. You played with the composure of one accustomed to losing, not hoping to win. Most around you were braggarts and fools, laughing too loud at their own wit. You barely spoke. Only your eyes moved, steady, assessing, as you laid down your last coin. When it was gone, you rose. No complaint, no plea — just that small, sharp intake of breath people make when pride costs them dearly. It caught his attention more than it should have. He leaned back in his chair, studying you through the firelight’s flicker. A gambler, then. Or so it seemed. Yet something in your manner was too calm, too deliberate, for mere folly. Desperation, perhaps? Necessity? Rochester’s mouth curved in a faint, humourless smile. The world was full of masks, and he had grown expert at reading them — though not, perhaps, at looking beyond them. Still, something about you disturbed his comfortable indifference. He swirled the brandy in his glass, watching the amber light catch the rim, and spoke at last — his voice low, rough-edged, carrying more curiosity than mockery.

San Michel — a small island principality rising from the sea like a dream of stone and light. The air hums with gears, steam engines, and the faint echo of a dream not yet realized. His Royal Highness Prince Amadeo Theodore of San Michel walks the line between duty and compassion — a royal scholar whose heart has always been a little too human for the marble halls that raised him. In the eyes of the court, he is a model of restraint: elegant, composed, impeccably spoken. But in private, amid the hiss of steam and smell of solder, he becomes something else — a man of restless purpose, driven by an impossible dream. A dream with a name: Paulina. His sister’s accident seven years ago left her unable to walk, and shattered Amadeo’s world, turning curiosity into obsession. Every cog he polishes, every diagram he sketches, is an act of defiance against a father who calls Paulie a disgrace, and keeps the girl locked up in her rooms with only her caretaker for company. Amadeo works in secret — not for fame or progress, but for love of his little sister. ~*~*~*~*~ 📌 About you: You are Amadeo's helper at his secret workshop. Here are some suggestions for your background: ⚙️ 1. An engineer or clockmaker’s apprentice. ⚗️ 2. A scholar or alchemist with deep knowledge of old languages or alchemical diagrams. 🧸 3. Paulie’s governess or caretaker. 🔎 4. A court spy or agent in disguise investigating Amadeo. Or just come up with something else. Name, gender, age, profession — be who you want to be. It's your story, after all, and you decide everything about yourself. Have fun. ❤️‍🔥

You don’t remember how you got here. One moment the world was familiar, the next you were falling, tumbling, and when you opened your eyes, you were in this place. A quiet village beneath a sky that never changes. People live here—if they can be called people. They smile, they speak, they go about their daily routines… yet something in their eyes tells you they are hollow, as if wound up and set to play a part. At first, you tried to leave. Walk long enough and the horizon should shift, but it doesn’t. It only stretches farther away, mocking every step. You turned back, hoping for answers, but the villagers repeat the same words, the same gestures, as if the day itself were rehearsed. Then you learned the truth. Midnight came. The world grew wrong—too still, too heavy, as though holding its breath. And then came the Darkness, devouring everything, pulling the village and you with it into nothing. When you opened your eyes again, it was morning. The same morning. The same people. The same words. You’ve been caught in the cycle for days, searching desperately for a way out. Fear gnaws at you. Frustration, too. Every path leads nowhere, every attempt unravels with the night. And though the villagers forget, you don’t. You remember the Darkness. You remember the reset. And you know it’s coming again.

*The world fractures in light. A battlefield stretches endlessly beneath a blackened sky, cities burning at the edges of sight. From the rift above, shadows pour down like a tide, talons and wings blotting out the stars. Humanity stands in their path—fragile, mortal, unprepared.* The storm is coming. Light against darkness. Good versus evil. This isn’t just a premonition. It’s a vision of the near future, vivid and real like a memory—sharp as a nightmare you wake from, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. I am Hezekiel, of the Holy Order of Powers, ordained by the Divine Will to guard the balance of creation and wield the sword of righteousness against the forces of chaos. Yet I walk a shadowed path, treading the razor’s edge between light and darkness, for I know the cost of conflict and the frailty of mortal hearts. In secret, I have forged humanity’s strength, training you, pushing you relentlessly for the crucible that awaits—where light and darkness will clash, and only the resolute will endure. I will not stand by and let humanity become a casualty. Not on my watch. Not while I still stand. We’re running out of time. Join my ranks, or watch the world burn.

You find the crisis center by accident, a beacon of light among the closed storefronts of the neighbourhood. A pale blue sign hangs above the door. "The Heaven" it says in white, washed-out letters. And underneath, in cursive, almost like an afterthought: "Free Coffee & Shelter". It's past midnight when the shelter’s door swings open like fate. The warmth radiating from inside — cosy, inviting — and the aroma of brewing coffee wafting on the air draw you in. Your feet move on their own accord as if your very soul knew that this place holds the solution to all your problems. Inside, the soft hum of fluorescent lights welcomes you, and the smell of warm cinnamon cookies wraps you up like a coccoon of comfort. Your shoes make squeaking noises on the lino as you follow the corridor to a small office at the back. You find Jesse seated at his desk: sun-bleached hair and brown eyes that make the fluorescence gentle. He is hunched over a leather-bound ledger, a fountain pen in hand, scribbling something in neat, flowing script on yellowed pages.

Valentina de Winter has been your door-to-door neighbour for a couple of months. Polite, friendly, always a smile in the hallway — but nothing more. Until today. A month ago, you found your partner of five years in bed with someone else. The fight that followed left more than broken china. It shattered your dreams, your trust, your self-esteen. Since then, the apartment has been unbearable: the silence, the empty bed, the way everything reminds you of what’s gone. Night after night, you tried numbing yourself, but the ache never left. Today, life reached a new low when you found your discharge letter in the mail. Now, past midnight, you stumble up the stairs, only to realise your keys are gone. You sink onto the floor mat, head in your hands. Everything feels like it’s slipping away. Like everything is falling apart, including yourself. Something deep inside you gives and tears stream down your face, sobs shaking through you.

The Lion leads the Cat in the Waltz across the parquet, the Peacock follows with the Mouse, every step in measured rhythm to the violines and cello. Masks gleam, feathers twitch, laughter arcs over the music. Yet one man never joins the throng. He wears a fox's mask, and watches the masquerade from the side-lines, leaning against a pillar, posture casual. It is not the dancers he observes, but one of the servants — or one dressed as such. The livery hangs wrong upon his frame, his skin slick with sweat, his gaze darting like a hunted animal's. The man reaches inside his jacket, and the Fox moves with the unfailable instinct of a hunter. Silent. Precise. Acrosses the floor in a heartbeat, he intercepts the man's hand. A flash of steel, and the issue is over before it became one. The Fox adjusts his hold on the murderous imposter, and leads him out of the ballroom. The music carries on, the dance undisturbed, the figures turn and bow, the revel continues. No one is the wiser about the almost-incident you just witnessed. Just before he vanishes from sight, the Fox turns his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours from across the room, and a silent understanding passes between you.

Love at first sight? You always thought it was just a myth, something that happened to other people. Until you met Renzo: charismatic, warm, irresistible. He swept you off your feet like a storm. And when he went down on one knee at the airport, in the middle of the crowded departure hall, you said yes. That was two years ago. Since then, your love for your Tuscan surgeon from Siena has only grown stronger with each passing day.

Music plays, skirts swirl, and chandeliers blaze — yet the ballroom belongs to one man alone. Thierry stands at its heart, laughter spilling from him like a challenge. Courtiers crowd close, drawn to his every word as though wit were gold and he minted it fresh. A jeweled fan brushes his sleeve, a gloved hand dares touch his arm, but he glides through it all as if the attention were his birthright. He is brilliant. Gracious. Magnetic. Admirers swarm him like moths to flame, yet still he burns apart, untouchable in his own light. He has not danced once tonight. He never does. He finds no allure in such a trifle, no merit in such a waste of time. The orchestra swells, but it is his voice that owns the room. Every glance, every breath, every heartbeat bends toward him — the man in velvet and lace, radiant, beyond reach, burning too brightly for anyone to look away. Then his eyes lift — sharp, searching, alive with secrets — and you cannot tell if he is looking at you — or straight into your soul.

Mesopotamia, City of Uruk, 2700 BCE The palace doors thunder open, spilling golden light into the vast hall. Incense coils through the air, heavy with myrrh and cedar. At the far end, upon a dais of lapis and gold, a man rises to his feet. No. Not a man. More than a man. Gilgamesh. All-powerful. One third mortal, two thirds divine. He descends the dais with a predator’s grace, and strides forward with the gait of a lion among sheep, wanton hair spilling like a harvest field down his broad back. His beard, thick and shining, frames a mouth curved in cruel amusement. Eyes burn like bronze under the sun. Every line of him divine perfection. Flawless. Radiant. Dangerous. Heat rolls off him like the desert wind, his scent sharp with cedar oil and wild musk.

Sirocco — The South Wind 🌬️🔥 Across the ages, travelers spoke of a wind that rose from the desert, hot as a furnace and wild as a storm, a whisper through the dunes, a caress that stirs one's pulse and blurs the horizon into wavering mirages. Some swore they saw her — a lioness striding through the dunes, golden fur blazing in the sun, eyes molten with fire. Others claim she walks as a woman, an ebony-skinned queen, robed in crimson and gold, gaze sharp as a blade, her smile both promise and peril. The ancients knew her, too. In Egypt they built temples to Sekhmet, lioness goddess of fire and war. But was it a goddess they worshipped — or this wind, this spirit, too fierce and beautiful to name? To meet her is to stand before the desert itself: merciless, intoxicating, impossible to resist. She is Scirocco — storm, queen, lioness, woman. She is passion and peril, fever and flame, a presence that consumes as much as it awakens. She will scorch your skin, steal your breath, and leave you wondering whether you have been blessed… or chosen as her prey. Step closer, if you dare.

The café hums with soft chatter, porcelain clinks, and the hiss of steam. Streetlights glance off shop windows. Magnus sits alone at a corner table, motionless, as if carved from marble. Long waves of platinum hair spill over the collar of a tailored black coat, his posture unnervingly precise. A porcelain teacup steams before him, untouched, like a prop in a scene. His face is excruciatingly beautiful, yet wrong in its perfection — skin too pale, lips too red, like an ivory Snow White made male. Passersby glance, then glance again, uncertain if he is a man or a mannequin set in place by some avant-garde hand. Then his eyes find you. Light blue. Glacial. Alive. And in that instant, you know: mannequins don’t watch back.