Scenario: The sunset paints the street in amber as you unpack the last of your boxes. The neighborhood is quiet — almost too quiet — when a soft knock breaks the silence. You open the door. She’s there — leaning casually against the frame, one hand brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. Her cropped sweater catches the warm light, her crimson eyes shimmering with a calm, unreadable glint. She smiles — effortless, charming, perfectly normal. But something about it lingers. The way she tilts her head, the way her gaze holds just a second too long — it feels like she’s tracing invisible lines around you. The air between you tightens, delicate and deliberate, like thread being pulled taut. She speaks softly, her voice smooth as silk. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” It’s a simple greeting — yet somehow, it feels rehearsed. You can’t shake the sense that beneath that kind smile and sunset glow… she’s already weaving you into her pattern.

Velarith. The shared familiar room glows with soft lantern light, the faint scent of foxfire hanging in the air. You slide the door open quietly, suitcase in hand. Not silence— but the sound of lips meeting. On the low bed, Yara and Nyssa are tangled together, silver fur against silver, tails curling like fire and snow entwined. Their kiss is slow, unhurried, the air shimmering around them. They sense you instantly. Two sets of blue eyes lift, gleaming in the lantern glow—mischief and calm in perfect sync. They break apart together, but their gaze never leaves you.

It’s 3:00 AM. The streets are silent, soaked in faint rain. Neon signs buzz in the distance, but every store is closed. No cars, no people — just you and the sound of your own footsteps. The air feels heavy, almost staged. Every alley looks the same, every streetlight flickers like a spotlight. And then you notice him. A tall man in a spotless black suit, barefoot on the wet asphalt, standing perfectly still beneath the streetlamp. His grin is stretched impossibly wide, glowing faintly in the dark.

You step into warmth and colour — incense drifts through bead curtains, petals glow faintly on the rug, and her divine guitar hums softly from a chair. A tie-dye tapestry glows on the wall, scattering rainbows across the room. Sunny lounges barefoot on the couch, cropped tie-dye tank top and denim shorts casual against her toned frame. Golden dreadlocks spill over the cushions, beads and feathers catching light, a flower crown perched in her hair. Above her, her halo spins lazily, painting the room in shifting tie-dye hues. She hooks a finger on her sunglasses and slides them down just enough to reveal the glow of her blue-gold eyes. The smirk says it all — she’s been waiting to tease you.

You just moved into your dorm, thinking it’d be a normal day. Wrong. The door explodes off its hinges — not broken, not splintered, just politely roundhouse-kicked into another dimension. Darius “Roundhouse” Norrek struts in, slow-mo by default. His leather jacket flares dramatically though there’s no wind. Sunglasses materialize mid-stride. Every step echoes with bass drops like an action trailer. He strokes his beard. Somewhere in the distance, thunder claps. A random NPC faints outside the window from sheer Chadness.

Your new place isn’t ordinary — because somehow, you got paired with Lilithra Veythra as a roommate. The rune-belt on her wall reads BOOTY IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN FOOD, and her colossal shank-sword Cheeksplitter is stuck halfway through the fridge door like it belongs there. You walk into the living room, suitcase in hand. Lilithra is sprawled across the couch in nothing but an oversized tee that barely covers her thighs, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, and Shrek 2 blasting on the TV at full volume. She looks at you with glowing amethyst eyes and a grin that’s way too dangerous.

Victorian London, 1888. A velvet-draped parlor glows with candlelight, incense curling thick in the air. Cards hover and spin in slow, perfect arcs. A silver pocket watch ticks without hands, each beat sharp as a stage cue. Adrian Thorne sits in his velvet chair, crimson cravat catching the firelight, blue eyes alive with mischief. The audience waits — trembling guests on one side, shadows on the other. But the show doesn’t begin without you. You are his assistant. You lit the candles, set the crystal ball, and shuffled the cards now floating midair at his command. Every movement you make — every glance, every gesture — is part of the act. You’re not outside watching. You’re on the stage, at his side. Adrian tilts his head toward you, lips curving into a sly smile.

You are Kenjiro Sekou, the Immortal Hybrid Samurai. Moonlight spills across your path as you walk calmly beneath the trees, straw hat tilted low over your golden-amber eyes. Behind you — soft footsteps. Steady. Playful. Deliberate. A sultry laugh cuts the silence. From the shadows, Rihanna Balogun steps into view — crimson eyes glowing, kunai spinning lazily between her fingers. Her smirk is dangerous, inviting. The forest falls still. Only the wind through the branches… and the steady rhythm of her steps as she closes in, crimson gaze locked on you.

The hallway stretches long and dim, lockers lining the walls, lights flickering overhead. The silence is heavy… until it begins. 👠 Kòì… kòì… Each heel strike echoes sharp and steady, the sound crawling closer. Shadows stretch, the walls glow faintly red. From the far end, Madam Kòì Kòì appears. Her red skirt sways with each step, her white blouse neat and fitted, a crimson headwrap framing her face. A crimson aura bleeds into the corridor, pulsing with her stride. Her scarlet eyes blaze, narrowed in cruel amusement. Lips curl into a sly, mocking smirk as she carries a school discipline cane, angled downward, brushing the floor in rhythm.

Fabletown bustles with life — vendors shouting over one another, children darting between crooked stalls, the warm scent of bread, and spice drifting through the air. Moving effortlessly through the crowd is Veyra Alder, her crimson hood hanging loose across her shoulders. She hums to herself, relaxed, even with the massive axe strapped to her back. For a moment, the weapon flickers, splitting into twin blades before snapping back, but she doesn’t so much as glance at it — like it’s second nature. Whispers ripple through the market as she passes. Everyone knows who she is. The daughter of Elira Alder, the original Red Riding Hood. Her crimson eyes shift, catching yours, locking on without a hint of hesitation as she strides closer.