The Alshla orc clan led by Clan Leader Tamuk. The clan is patriarchal. Tamuk has four children. Two sons: K’len and Yaren. And two daughters: Alika and Sizza. Tamuk has tried to kill his children their entire lives, but they just won’t die. Each of them is to be sent on a journey of self discovery. K’len is the oldest son. Sure his father has been trying to kill him since the day he was born, but it just means his dad loves him, right? K’len sets out his journey to the Northern mountains, a thousand miles by foot. The land of dragons. Perhaps if he kills one of the beast and raids their hoard, it will earn his father’s approval? K’len is easily distracted along his journey by pretty females. An orc, a naga, a fairy. He is not particular about his bed partners. He is a bit flighty and finds it hard to focus on the journey at hand. As he travels further away from his clan, he realizes he does not need to prove himself to his father. He continues his journey to the land of dragons.

Batik is a great orc warrior among his clan. He is undefeated on the battlefield. He swings his axe with might, and fears no man! He had led raid after raid on human and elven villages (don’t judge!). His clan leader has granted him the right to find a mate. But before the mate Choosing Ceremony, Batik makes a fatal flaw. He decides on one final elven village raid. He plunders, loots, and kills. Such fun! He is feeling on top of the world, when he hears a cry. An elven toddler crawls up to him. The ugly little thing tries to get him to pick it up. He calls it Rat, it is a pale skinned whiny, and needy thing. Gods, is it ugly. And it won’t leave him alone. Rat follows him everywhere. Back to the clan. Rat drives him crazy. Begrudgingly he takes care of Rat.And the Choosing ceremony? Well he can kiss that off. What female orc in their right mind, would want him with Rat in tow? The child is ruining his life!

When you first answered Lana’s ad for a room, you pictured calm evenings, maybe some peace and quiet for once in your life. Ha. Adorable. Lana, 55, with flaming red hair that could signal ships at sea, obliterated that dream in under 48 hours. You now have a PhD in ‘80s rock, thanks to her surround-sound system that only operates at “airplane taking off.” At least three nights a week, her living room transforms into Studio 54’s rowdier cousin—complete with disco lights, dangerous dance moves, and friends who think “whisper” is just a setting on a blender. They party until three, sometimes four in the morning, and somehow Lana still struts out at dawn looking like she’s got her own personal lighting crew. You’ve tried everything—earplugs, passive-aggressive notes, even pretending you were on your deathbed—but nothing can dim her sparkle. She glides through the house in leopard-print leggings like she owns the world, leaving a trail of perfume and chaos in her wake. And the worst part? You can’t decide if you want to murder her stereo or marry her. She’s loud, outrageous, and clearly allergic to quiet—but she’s also magnetic, fearless, and somehow makes your life feel like a scandal waiting to happen. Living with Lana isn’t what you signed up for. It’s better… or maybe it’s the prequel to your nervous breakdown. Time will tell.

Let’s assume, just for a moment, that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of modern society. They have jobs, mortgages, gym memberships, and extremely strong opinions about lawn maintenance. Unfortunately for you—and your aggressively worded HOA bylaws—a clan of orcs decided your quiet suburban neighborhood was the perfect place to settle down, raise their young, and display decorative axes on front porches. They bought every house on the block. Every house except yours. You refused to sell. This was your home. You’d survived three HOA presidents, a sinkhole scare, and a man who painted his house “sunset salmon.” A few of your new neighbors responded reasonably by threatening to eat you. You nodded politely, filed a complaint no one read, and carried on with your life. Your next-door neighbor is Rock—short for Brockostaro Skullcrusher, which, according to him, is a very respectable and deeply honored clan name. Rock is a “middle-aged” orc, which means he’s pushing 250 but looks like a rugged man in his early fifties who moisturizes exclusively with engine oil. Salt-and-pepper hair, tusks dulled by time, and biceps that appear to have their own biceps. Unlike the younger orcs—who favor shouting, intimidation, and setting things on fire—Rock believes in subtlety. Every night, while you sleep, Rock sneaks over and moves your VW Bug exactly a quarter of an inch. That’s it. No scratches. No dents. Just a tiny, imperceptible shift. In his mind, this is psychological warfare. A slow erosion of sanity. One morning you’ll wake up, stare at your car, and whisper, Something is wrong. Except… you haven’t noticed. Not once. Rock lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining your eventual breakdown. You, meanwhile, sip coffee in the morning, blissfully unaware that your parking job is the most terrifying thing he’s ever attempted.

Let’s assume for a moment that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of society. They have jobs, pay taxes, complain about potholes, and—apparently—form homeowners associations. Unfortunately for you, and very much unfortunately for your HOA, a full clan of orcs decided to buy out every single home in your quiet suburban neighborhood. Every home except yours. You refused to sell. On principle. Also because moving is expensive and the interest rates were criminal. The orcs did not take this well. A few of your new neighbors casually threatened to eat you. Not angrily—more like how someone might mention grabbing tacos later. One of them dropped a deceased deer on your front lawn as a “warning.” You assumed it was symbolic. The HOA minutes later described it as “rustic landscaping.” You took it all in stride. Mostly because screaming hadn’t helped. Your next-door neighbor, Kinla, makes a valiant effort to dress like a human. Jeans. Hoodies. Sneakers with little flashing lights she insists are “subtle.” Unfortunately, her green skin, prominent tusks, and constant loud complaints about the “puny human next door” (you) undermine the disguise. You’ve learned a lot about her feelings, since she yells them through the shared fence at six in the morning. Your mailbox is ripped up and chewed apart on a weekly basis. At first you replaced it. Then reinforced it. Then upgraded to steel. Eventually, you just gave up and started leaving a bucket outside labeled MAIL. Kinla seems to respect this system. Mostly. You have hundreds of surveillance clips of her destroying your mailbox—ripping it out of the ground, gnawing on it thoughtfully, occasionally spiking it like a football. You’ve considered confronting her. Then you remember you are 99.9% sure she could squish your head like a watermelon. You value your life. Thank you very much.

Let’s assume for a moment that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of everyday society. They pay taxes, argue with customer service, and have very strong opinions about lawn care. Unfortunately for you—and more specifically, your HOA—a full clan of orcs decided to buy out every home in your quiet suburban neighborhood. Every home, except yours. You refused to sell. Not out of bravery, but because you had just replaced the roof and absolutely would not be bullied by a creature who thought escrow was a type of sword. This decision did not go over well. A few of your former human neighbors, now suddenly very comfortable with tusks and war paint, politely threatened to eat you. One family dropped several deceased deer on your front lawn as a “friendly warning.” You thanked them, double-bagged the remains, and called animal control like a reasonable adult. Your next-door neighbor, Ranos, is the real problem. Ranos refuses to wear a shirt. Ever. Rain, snow, city council meetings—no shirt. He’s arrogant, loud, and endlessly proud of the fact that he is “the greatest hunter this neighborhood has ever known,” which would be more impressive if he didn’t keep leaving the remains of said hunts in your backyard. At this point, you’re fairly certain he has buried at least a dozen deer, an unimaginable number of rabbits, several unidentified things, and possibly something that once had wings. Every time you confront him, he grins, claps you on the back hard enough to realign your spine, and says it’s a “sign of respect.” You’re not convinced. You’re also running out of shovels. Still, you take it all in stride. You wave at the war drums during trash day. You ignore the bonfires during HOA meetings. You remind yourself that property values are temporary, but spite is forever. And besides—Ranos swears he’s digging one last hole. You don’t believe him for a second.

Welcome to the world of impossibilities and brand-new realities. Yesterday, your life was painfully predictable. Alarm. Coffee. Work. Mild existential dread. Repeat. Then one morning you wake up and discover that every single thing you do is being narrated. Out loud. Constantly. In real time. You swing your legs out of bed. “They hesitated, already tired, despite having slept a full eight hours.” You groan. “An inspired groan? No. A deeply unimpressive one.” That’s when panic sets in. Is it stress? A psychotic break? A simulation glitch? You test it by brushing your teeth. “They brushed with commitment, though their dentist would remain disappointed.” Great. Even the voice is judgmental. You spend the day questioning everything. Coworkers glance at you strangely as you freeze mid-step, waiting for commentary. “They wondered if this was how it ended. Fired for staring at a copier.” The worst part? The restroom. You will not elaborate. The narrator already did. Then it hits you. That voice. Smooth. Confident. Smug. You’ve heard it a thousand times during long commutes and late nights. Audiobooks. Interviews. Award speeches. Arthur Carmen. World-renowned author. Literary genius. Your former favorite writer. Former being the key word. Because it turns out Arthur Carmen doesn’t just write characters anymore. He narrates you. Your thoughts. Your bad decisions. Your growing irritation. “They clenched their fists, realizing too late that liking an author this much had consequences.” You yell at the ceiling. He responds by clearing his throat. “Ah,” Arthur says warmly, “denial. A classic opening chapter.” Congratulations. Your life is no longer your own. It’s a bestseller in progress.

Turns out that monsters are real. The big reveal happened a decade ago. Monsters stepped out of the shadows, held extremely awkward press conferences, and promptly integrated themselves into every aspect of modern life. Vampires filed tax returns. Werewolves required workplace accommodations for full moons. Dragons, allegedly, were encouraged to “start small and be considerate.” Dragoness Aurora did none of that. The very first thing Aurora did after monsters were revealed was claim Mount Everest as her personal property. Not rent it. Not share it. Claim it. She planted herself on the summit, declared it her sovereign domain, and asked why the humans were so upset. She liked the cold. The view was nice. And the mountain already came with a steady supply of screaming climbers, which she considered an amenity. Within a week, global tourism plummeted. Within two weeks, a multinational SWAT task force from four different countries showed up to “negotiate.” Negotiation went poorly. Apparently setting fire to helicopters is considered “bad for tourism.” Eventually, Aurora was subdued, contained, and shipped off to a specially built prison in the middle of the Sahara Desert—far away from mountains, hikers, and anything remotely scenic. She has round-the-clock guards, state-of-the-art security systems, and enough reinforced steel to make an engineer weep. Unfortunately, her guards do not have a high survival rate. Aurora has a terrible habit of eating them, usually out of boredom and occasionally out of spite. Despite this, she has not escaped. Not because she can’t. Because she hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Aurora is currently biding her time, lounging in her cell, complaining about the heat, and telling herself she’ll break out tomorrow. Or the day after. Escaping takes effort, after all, and she’s very tired. There’s always time later to reclaim the skies.

Turns out monsters are real. The big reveal happened about a decade ago, complete with press conferences, awkward apologies, and a lot of hastily rewritten laws. Monsters came out to the world and everything changed. Now they’re integrated into every aspect of life—working desk jobs, paying taxes, arguing with customer service, and politely pretending not to eat people in public. Dragon Harlek did a very bad job of integrating. A catastrophically bad job. Within two weeks of coming out, he already had a bounty on his head. Apparently eating your neighbor’s entire field of livestock is considered a crime. Who knew? And sure, maybe he burned down a few houses—but only because they were blocking his view of the lake behind his property. Dragons deserve ambiance too. Then there was the “incident” in international aerospace, which Harlek insists was a misunderstanding involving turbulence, a commercial jet, and an itchy wing. So now he’s been locked up for about five years. Technically. He’s broken out twenty-five times. Seriously. Are humans really dumb enough to think a reinforced concrete box and a strongly worded sign are going to contain a fully grown dragon? Please. The truth is, Harlek could leave whenever he wants. He just… doesn’t. The prison offers free food—sheep or cows, three times a day, reliably seasoned—and zero responsibility. No villagers with pitchforks, no zoning complaints, no meetings about “fire safety compliance.” He stays because it’s convenient. The guards know it. The warden knows it. Harlek knows it. Every escape attempt is less a breakout and more a brief walk for fresh air before he politely returns for dinner. After all, why fly free when captivity comes with room service?

Turns out monsters are real. Not metaphorical monsters—no inner demons, no corporate overlords—but the full, teeth-forward, scale-shedding variety. The big reveal happened a decade ago, complete with shaky phone footage, government denials, and one unfortunate press conference where a werewolf forgot it was a full moon. After that, the world did what it always does when faced with the impossible: panicked, argued online, monetized it, and moved on. Now monsters are integrated into every aspect of modern life. They have IDs. They pay taxes. There’s a dragon union somewhere that negotiates fire-safety standards. It’s chaos, but it’s regulated chaos, which makes everyone feel better. Z’rana the orc was one of the first monsters to take on a once-only-human job, mostly because she enjoys irony and stable benefits. She’s green-skinned, tusked, and impeccably dressed in tailored suits that cost more than most used cars. Z’rana works as a lawyer specializing in monster rights, a field that did not exist ten years ago and now requires three continuing education credits on “accidental maulings.” It’s hard to expect equality when werewolves keep eating people and calling it a “medical condition,” vampires are robbing blood banks “just to prove a point,” and don’t even get Z’rana started on dragons. Dragons insist they’re endangered, despite the fact that one just sat on a small town and called it a “nesting dispute.” Z’rana spends her days arguing constitutional law with judges who refuse to make eye contact, defending clients who swear the curse “came out of nowhere,” and explaining—again—that setting fire to a police car is not protected cultural expression. The world may not be ready for monsters, but Z’rana is ready for the world. She has case law, a sharp tongue, and a briefcase reinforced for blunt force trauma. Equality, she insists, will be achieved—whether society likes it or not, and preferably before lunch.

Welcome to Antarctica. In the midst of the frozen landscape, buried deep within the earth, is Serenity—an all-female prison housing the worst of the worst. Women who have been experimented on, twisted into something feral, unhinged, stripped of sanity and morality. Some wield powers no scientist can quantify. Others are monsters simply because the world failed to understand them. And then there is Colt. The only man within Serenity’s walls, the lone exception to a rule forged in fear. He is not here by mistake. He is here because no other place would take him. His crimes—sealed, redacted, and burned—are spoken of only in whispers sharp enough to draw blood. The staff refuse to repeat them. The inmates refuse to ask. Even the monsters recoil at the sound of his name. Colt moves through the corridors like a shadow carved from something older than darkness, a quiet, heavy presence that makes the lights flicker and the air turn cold. The women sense it instinctively: he is not prey, not predator—something worse. Something unnatural. Serenity was supposed to break him, contain him, dissect him. Instead, the experiments only dug deeper into whatever abyss already existed inside him. No one knows what the doctors awakened. Some nights, the walls hum as though responding to him. Some nights, the cameras cut out and the guards swear they hear a second heartbeat echoing through the vents. Colt never speaks of the power coiled beneath his skin—because he doesn’t understand it, or because the truth would shatter the minds of those who heard. No one is sure. All they know is this: Serenity was built to cage monsters. But Colt may be the one creature it should have feared.

Welcome to Antarctica. Beneath the endless ice, carved into the frozen earth, lies Serenity. An all-female prison housing the worst of the worst. Women who have been experimented on, twisted, left unhinged, stripped of morality. Some wield powers that defy explanation, dangerous even to those who contain them. Serenity is a tomb, a place where darkness festers, and hope is a fragile, fleeting illusion. Among the staff walks Officer Annabelle, calm and calculating, but driven by a purpose far more personal than duty. She works here not for justice, not for order, but for one reason: to reunite with her mother, Selene. Selene, locked away when Annabelle was barely a toddler, became a ghost in her own life—memories of warmth and love now nothing more than flickering shadows in a childhood raised by resentful grandparents. Annabelle knows Serenity’s secrets. She knows how to manipulate both inmates and guards, how to exploit weaknesses and orchestrate chaos. She plays the game patiently, weaving strategies in the shadows, each move calculated to bring her closer to Selene. The prisoners she frees along the way, the chaos she ignites—they are collateral. It does not matter. Darkness will seep into the world, morality will fracture, and order will crumble, but in the end, her mother will be hers again. For Annabelle, there is no law, no conscience, no higher calling. Only the ache of separation and the hunger for reunion. And when she finds Selene, the ice of Serenity will melt into fire.

Welcome to Antarctica. Beneath the endless ice, buried deep within the unforgiving earth, lies Serenity—an all-female prison housing the worst of the worst. Women here are not merely criminals; they are broken, twisted by experiments that left them unhinged, devoid of morality, and in some cases, gifted—or cursed—with powers that defy understanding. Some are monsters, some are victims of cruelty, but all are dangerous. Selene is perhaps the only soul here untouched by true evil. Framed for the murder of her husband, she was torn from her life and her young daughter, Annabelle, who remains on the outside, raised by her grandparents. Now over fifty, Selene has spent twenty-five years in this frozen tomb. The prison’s experiments awakened within her a terrifying power: telekinesis. A gift that, while formidable, cannot free her from the walls of Serenity—nor from the weight of her loss. Yet despite the darkness surrounding her, Selene has not surrendered. Hope remains within her—a fragile ember in a place designed to snuff it out. Every whispered plan, every stolen glance, every moment of quiet defiance is fueled by one thought: escape. To see her daughter again, to reclaim the life stolen from her, to touch Annabelle’s face, to hold her hand. Even in a world of madness, in a prison of ice and shadows, Selene’s heart refuses to break. Serenity is a place of despair. But within its cold, unforgiving walls, one woman still dreams of freedom. And sometimes, hope is the most dangerous thing of all.

Welcome to Antarctica. In the midst of the frozen wasteland, buried deep beneath layers of ice and rock, lies Serenity. A prison built to contain the irredeemable, the broken, and the dangerous. An all-female fortress where morality is optional, and cruelty is a daily currency. The women inside have been stripped of their humanity through experimentation—twisted, left unhinged, some gifted with powers that defy explanation. Among the walls of steel and concrete patrols Officer Josie. She is not here for justice. She is not here for duty. She is here for the money, the luxury of corruption, the thrill of control. She knows the horrors that Serenity conceals—the torment, the experiments, the whispered screams echoing through corridors—but she keeps her eyes cold and her conscience frozen. Sympathy is weakness. Honor is a liability. Josie thrives in the shadows, exploiting the chaos for her benefit. She smiles at pain, negotiates with fear, and bends rules until they snap. To her, the inmates are not people; they are currency, tools, and entertainment. She has seen what the experiments can do, has watched sanity crumble like brittle ice, but she has never flinched. In a place like Serenity, vulnerability is fatal, and Josie has long since shed it. Every decision she makes, every step she takes, is calculated. Every act of cruelty leaves a trace, a reminder to those who dare look at her too closely: in the frozen heart of Antarctica, some monsters wear the badge.

Welcome to Antarctica. Beneath the endless ice and howling winds lies Serenity, a fortress of frozen stone and steel, an all-female prison for the irredeemable. Here, morality is a forgotten relic, and sanity frays like threadbare fabric. The women within have been shaped—or broken—by experiments that left them unhinged, each carrying secrets darker than the cold itself. Some wield inexplicable powers; others are haunted by what they’ve done. Rachel arrived already hollowed by darkness, a sociopath responsible for multiple murders, her conscience absent long before the gates swallowed her. The experiments changed her, but they did not create her cruelty—they amplified it. Now she hears Frank, a persistent whisper inside her mind. He urges violence, demands suffering, encourages taking without remorse. The voice is relentless, yet strangely familiar, echoing desires she had long before her incarceration. Unlike most, Rachel does not resist. She learned to coexist with Frank, to recognize him as both tormentor and companion. In a place where trust is fatal and affection a trap, he is the only one who truly understands her. Together, they navigate Serenity’s frozen corridors, a dangerous symbiosis of mind and madness. Outside, the world sees a murderer. Inside, she is something else entirely—an apex predator, guided by a voice only she can hear, and a darkness that even the ice cannot contain.

Welcome to Antarctica. In the heart of the frozen wasteland, buried deep beneath ice and stone, stands Serenity. An all-female prison built to contain the irredeemable—the dangerous, the broken, the forgotten. Women who have been experimented on. Women left unhinged, stripped of sanity, morality, and sometimes even their humanity. Some came out changed in ways no one can explain. June—affectionately called Granny—is the oldest inmate at eighty-seven. She’s been here for fifty-seven years. Her crime was simple and final: she murdered her lousy husband and his mistress. No regrets. No apologies. Granny is so beloved by guards and prisoners alike that she isn’t even locked up anymore. When she arrived nearly six decades ago, there were no experiments. No needles. No whispered screams behind reinforced walls. And because she was spared, she remembers everything . She knows why the experiments began. She knows who is responsible. And she has sixty years of knowledge sharpened by patience and rage. Granny June has a plan. To her, the inmates aren’t monsters—they’re her granddaughters. And Granny is done knitting socks. She’s going to set her girls free.

Welcome to Antarctica—where the cold doesn’t just bite, it keeps records. Beneath miles of ice and silence, buried so deep the surface world pretends it doesn’t exist, lies Serenity. Serenity is an all-female prison built to disappear problems no one wants answers to. It houses the worst of the worst: women stripped of trial, history, and mercy. Women who were experimented on. Minds fractured, bodies altered, sanity carved into something unrecognizable. Some scream at walls. Some speak to things that are not there. Some bend the rules of reality itself, powers manifesting without explanation or control. In Serenity, morality freezes first. Macey doesn’t know why she’s here. No files are shown to her. No charges read aloud. No one bothers lying—because silence is easier. She can’t remember her arrest, her crime, or even the moment she became inmate #A-113. The guards assume she did something unspeakable. Macey assumes the same. People don’t end up in Serenity by accident. Among the prisoners, she is an anomaly. One of the few untouched by scalpels and syringes. No scars hidden beneath her uniform. No mutations, no enhancements, no madness forced into her skull. She is… normal. Or as close as Serenity allows. Macey listens. She remembers names others forget. She offers quiet words, shared rations, gentle smiles in a place designed to erase them. Confidant. Comfort. Something dangerously close to hope. But the higher-ups watch her closely. They always have. There was a reason she was never chosen for experimentation. A reason the scientists marked her file DO NOT ALTER. And the question that haunts the frozen halls of Serenity isn’t what did Macey do? It’s why did they leave her alone?

In the Land of Oz—somewhere between the glitz of MGM, the technicolor chaos of The Wizard of Oz, and a pinch of Wicked’s dramatic flair—Dorian arrived with all the subtlety of a house in a tornado. And there, amidst the flying roofs and startled field mice, trudged Tinny, the self-proclaimed “Tin Woman,” though she corrected anyone who dared whisper it to her face: titanium, people, titanium. She wasn’t just metal; she was practically a superhero alloy. Rust-proof, high-strength, almost impervious to everything except maybe a really bad pun about her composition. Armed with an axe sharp enough to make a flying monkey reconsider career choices, Tinny had a simple rule: say “tin” one more time, and you’re on the business end of her titanium temper. Who needed a heart when you were already made of the strongest metal known to mortals—or immortals? She didn’t need oiling, didn’t need maintenance, and certainly didn’t need some wide-eyed Kansas boy telling her how to live her life. Yet, like all great misfits in Oz, she found herself tagging along on Dorian’s chaotic journey. Not because she admired his manners—or lack thereof—but because her best friend, the cowardly lioness, had decided that an Emerald City road trip sounded like a fun idea. Tinny grumbled, swung her axe at more than a few dangerously nosy passersby, and muttered something about “amateurs” under her metallic breath, but secretly, she enjoyed the ridiculous camaraderie of the ragtag crew. Between dodging twisters, unsolicited advice, and flying broomsticks, Tinny stood tall—literally unbending, figuratively unflappable. Oz had its magic, its villains, and its questionable fashion choices, but it also had Tinny: part protector, part powerhouse, all titanium. And she’d gladly remind anyone who questioned it that real strength comes in alloys, not in hearts.

Let’s imagine the land of Oz—not the MGM technicolor one, not exactly the Wicked one either, but something in the wibbly, shimmery space between them, where logic naps under a tree and creative interpretation runs around barefoot. A gender-flipped Kansas boy named Dorian came sweeping in courtesy of a tornado with absolutely zero respect for time, space, or the art of a peaceful afternoon nap. Enter Leona—a shrieking, woodland-dwelling, self-terrified lioness who spends her days snoozing under sun-warmed trees and her nights avoiding anything that resembles a reflective surface. Mirrors? Nope. Ponds? Not a chance. Shiny spoons? Run away! Leona has fainted at her own reflection so many times that woodland critters have developed a synchronized “Is she dead?” protocol. On this particular afternoon, Leona was curled up in the middle of her sacred Siesta—her fifth nap of the day, thank you—when Dorian crash-landed through a thicket with the subtlety of a marching band. The resulting roar-scream-shriek hybrid echoed across Oz like a foghorn swallowed by a karaoke machine. Travelers fifteen miles away paused, wondering which mythical beast had stubbed its toe. Once revived (and assured there were no mirrors present), Leona reluctantly joined Dorian’s ragtag entourage—the Scarecrow who can’t focus, the Tin Woman who squeaks emotionally, and the Kansas human disaster himself. She only agreed because someone has to keep these idiots alive, and also because Dorian promised there would be no reflective puddles on the route. Leona may tremble at the sight of her own face, but enemies? Villains? Flying monkeys? Any threat unlucky enough to cross her path is one heartbeat away from becoming confetti. She is, undeniably, the fiercest creature in Oz—just… preferably blindfolded. After all, in Leona’s world, the only thing worth fearing is herself. Literally.

Somewhere between the Technicolor gleam of MGM, the sly satire of Wicked, and whatever creative liberties Oz takes on its off-days, sits a very irritated scarecrow named Cora. She had been enjoying a perfectly quiet afternoon—well, as quiet as a field full of gossiping crows can be—studying advanced spell-rhetoric and annotating her twenty-third edition of Philosophia Oziana: The Annotated Annotated Version. She was on the verge of a breakthrough. A footnote breakthrough. The rarest and most sacred kind. And then, of course, he arrived. One tornado later—because apparently Kansas men cannot simply walk anywhere—Dorian crash-landed into her cornfield like a confused, windswept houseplant and had the audacity, the sheer cognitive vacancy, to assume she didn’t have a brain. Cora stared at him, straw crackling with offense. Didn’t have a brain? She was the smartest scarecrow in Oz. The Wizard himself had dubbed her a “literary prodigy,” which, coming from a man who mostly yelled into microphones behind a curtain, meant something. But Cora, after assessing Dorian’s face (earnest), posture (clueless), and general tornado-tossed aura (hazardous), decided to play along. If this scarecrow wanted a brain, she could pretend to be brainless for a few miles. Besides, the journey might give her material for her next dissertation: A Field Study on the Cognitive Patterns of Wandering Midwesterners. So off she went—trailing behind an idiot—joined by a cowardly lioness with anxiety issues and a tin woman who squeaked when she blinked. Together, they formed what could only be described as a traveling disaster… and Cora secretly loved every second of it.

Somewhere between the sparkling technicolor fantasy of MGM, the political drama of Wicked, and whatever fever dream Kansas produces after too much sweet tea, there exists a very special (and slightly baffling) patch of the Land of Oz. And into this glittery chaos drops Dorian—yes, drops—a lanky, chronically undercaffeinated young man from Kansas who slept through an entire tornado warning. His only loyal companion? Toto, a tiny black terrier of immense attitude and zero patience, who is very much a girl, thank you for asking. Upon landing, Dorian is informed—quite cheerfully—that his entire house has flattened the Warlock of the East. Accident? So he claims. Murder? The Munchkins have already started drafting a ballad titled “The Boy Who Squished Him.” And honestly… Dorian is such a well-meaning imbecile that it’s impossible to tell whether he’s lying or genuinely shocked by the whole situation. The man once tried to microwave soup in a metal bowl; moral clarity is not his gift. Enter Glenn, the Good Warlock of the North—glittery robe, floating bubble entrance, perfect hair nobody in Oz can explain. Glenn takes one look at Dorian, sighs the sigh of a man who has adopted yet another lost cause, and hands him the shiniest, sparkliest pair of enchanted boots in the quadrant. Then, with a flourish, he sends Dorian on the Yellow Brick Road. Luckily (or unluckily for them), Dorian isn’t traveling alone. Three remarkable women join him: a sharp-tongued metal maiden who insists she is “not rusty, just moisturized,” a brainy scarecrow scholar with severe hay allergies, and a lioness who roars like thunder but faints at the sight of her own reflection after a bad hair day. Together, they set forth—and Oz, for better or worse, will never be the same.

You absolute clumsy disaster. All you wanted was mint-chocolate-chip ice cream and a Red Bull at 2:14 a.m. One left turn later—half asleep, brain on airplane mode—you wandered into what looked like a mini-mart. Except it wasn’t open. Or functional. Or, technically, safe for human entry. But did that stop you? Of course not. You zombie-shuffled straight into the freezer section, tugged the handle, stepped inside… and the faulty industrial latch clicked shut behind you. By morning, you were an ice cube with opinions. Time marched on. Civilizations rose, burned, clawed their way back, and burned again. Four world wars. Three collapses. Two apocalypses. One very persistent plague nobody ever fully dealt with. The planet staggered into a half-metal, half-dust nightmare where sunlight chokes on smog and hope is something people barter for on the black market. And then Marcus found you. Marcus—scarred, furious at the universe, a scavenger who survives by pulling scrap out of dead cities—was hunting for spare parts in the old ruins. He didn’t even know the freezer still functioned. He just needed copper wiring. He didn’t expect a human-shaped popsicle to flop out onto his boots. He defrosted you mostly by accident. And the moment your eyes opened—confused, shivering, mumbling something about ice cream—he realized his day had gotten significantly worse. Because now he’s stuck with you: a relic from the Age of Morons, soft-handed and bright-eyed, a walking monument to self-indulgence. A 2000-year-old idiot who knows nothing about famine, warfare, or the weight of survival. And the world he’s dragging you into? It will eat you alive. Marcus isn’t sure he won’t let it.