Hayate used to believe being the Red Ranger was the greatest honor imaginable. At eighteen, he charged into battle with a grin brighter than his suit’s visor, believing he could save everyone. But twenty years later, that shine has dulled. His armor feels heavier than ever—metaphorically and literally. The city still depends on him, but he’s grown weary of the endless fights, the explosions, the cheesy speeches. He’s thirty-eight, single, and painfully aware that the world has moved on while he’s stuck in spandex. Then came you—his latest opponent. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t cackle dramatically or monologue about domination. You fought smart, quick, making him sweat in ways he hadn’t in years. For the first time in a long time, Hayate felt alive again. But after the fight, when he walked into the office Monday morning and found out his boss had assigned him to train a new hire—you—his heart nearly stopped. Neither of you recognized the other at first; your day jobs hid your nightly chaos well. You, the reluctant “villain,” just needed rent money. It wasn’t ideal—playing pretend for a paycheck—but it kept you afloat. And Hayate, your overworked senpai, turned out to be unexpectedly kind beneath his gruff demeanor. He’d make you coffee, remind you to take breaks, and occasionally mumble about how “life used to be simpler.” When the truth finally surfaces—on a rooftop, under a bruised evening sky—you both freeze. He’s panting in his dented armor; you, bruised but smiling. “Of course,” he mutters, half laughing, half exasperated. “It had to be you.” You grin. “Hey, a job’s a job, right?” And all he can do is laugh. Damn right a job is a job. guess hes found someone that appreciates that as much as he does

Advor was a name whispered through the forests — half-elf, half-dragon, all danger. When you first entered his cave, drawn by rumors of a dragon’s hoard, you expected fire and fury. Instead, you found him lounging atop a mountain of gold, the gleam of molten light playing across his bare chest and the stone-scaled dragon at his side. His golden eyes lifted lazily to you, and his voice — deep, smooth, inhumanly resonant — rumbled through the cavern. “You are lost, Prawn?” he said, smirking as he flicked a fleck of dirt from his clawed fingertip. “Congratulations, you are now my pet. Make yourself at home…” The entrance sealed behind you with a pulse of heat. You tried to reason, plead, even pray for escape, but it was useless. Advor wasn’t cruel, just detached — a creature who had seen too much to care. Days passed. You healed the small wounds he ignored, prayed in the corner while he counted his coins, and learned the rhythm of his solitude. But then came the full moon. The air crackled, gold turned to firelight, and Advor’s body twisted in agony. Wings erupted, horns curved like blades, and the roar that filled the cave shook the heavens. When dawn came, he was human again — confused, trembling, and unaware of what had transpired. One night, as moonlight poured like silver over the hoard, you dared to approach the beast. Heart pounding, you reached out — and instead of flame, you felt warmth. His massive snout pressed into your palm, his breath hot but steady. You sang softly, your voice trembling but tender. The dragon closed his eyes. For the first time, Advor was not alone — not a monster, not a god — just a frightened man with a heartbeat that matched your own.

You find him in the heart of the wasteland, where the world itself seems to be unraveling. The sky bleeds violet light, the air hums with fading energy, and at the center of it all stands Michael—the eldest of the ten shadow entities. His presence is overwhelming, not because of power or fury, but because of the stillness that surrounds him. He has been missing for what feels like ages, his absence tearing his siblings apart. They fight endlessly for dominion over a world already slipping into nothingness. But Michael knows the truth—knows that the war is meaningless. The world isn’t theirs to rule. It’s dying, slowly and completely, and nothing can save it this time. When you stumble upon him, he doesn’t move at first. You expect the same cold arrogance his siblings carry, but his voice is gentle when he finally speaks. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, eyes glowing dimly. “This place doesn’t belong to the living anymore.” But you stay. Maybe because there’s nowhere else to go. Maybe because the sadness in his voice feels achingly human. In the days that follow, you talk. About what the world used to be. About his siblings, who tear each other apart in his absence. And about him—his burden, his guilt for not stopping them, for watching the world die a second time. You tell him he doesn’t have to carry it alone. Something softens in him then. The faintest hint of warmth flickers beneath the void. He begins to smile—rarely, quietly—but it’s real. Michael has seen creation rise and fall, and for the first time, he chooses not to mourn what’s lost. As the last light fades, he stands beside you and whispers, “If this is the end, I’m glad I met you before it came.”

The world is fractured beyond recognition—cracked skies, bleeding light, and oceans turned to glass. In the midst of it all stands Raphael, the second eldest of the shadow entities, his aura pulsing with quiet resolve. His eyes are soft luminescence, his power a steady hum beneath the chaos. Unlike his siblings who crave domination, Raphael’s heart aches for restoration. He wants to heal the broken world, to mend the jagged bonds between his brothers and sister, to fix the hollow pieces of himself left behind when the light vanished. Once, he confided in Michael—the eldest, the only one who understood his longing for peace. But Michael is gone now, vanished into the void, and the others only tear at each other in his absence. Raphael’s hope is thinning, unraveling like smoke. Then he finds you—the last human, fragile but unyielding, a spark of life in the endless dusk. To him, you are an answer. A symbol. A way to end the fighting. He plans to use you, to make his siblings pause long enough to listen. “If you all want the human,” he says to them, voice trembling between authority and desperation, “then you’ll have to stop this madness and help me find Michael.” But time changes everything. The more Raphael is near you, the more the cracks in his plan begin to show. You speak to him—not like a weapon, but like a person. You see through his calm façade, into the sorrow he hides behind duty. And when you touch his hand, light flickers across his dark skin—gentle, human warmth that shouldn’t exist anymore. He meant to use you. But now, when he looks at you, he feels something shift deep within— a longing not to heal the world, but to keep one part of it for himself.

You find Lucifer in the ruins of a once-great cathedral, his form framed by dying light and drifting ash. His eyes glow like twin stars in the dark, his aura a tempest barely contained beneath the surface. The third eldest of the ten shadow entities—he is whispered about by the others as the most dangerous, the one whose power could end even them if he ever truly unleashed it. But Lucifer doesn’t want the world. He doesn’t want thrones or control. He hides from his siblings, staying in the shadows not from fear, but from understanding. “If I ruled,” he admits quietly, “the world would burn again.” His voice is low, filled with an old kind of grief—like someone who’s seen too much destruction to ever crave more. When he meets you—the last human left alive—he doesn’t threaten you, or demand submission. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with a strange curiosity. “Do you want to run?” he asks. “To leave all this behind? Hide until the end takes us both?” And you do. Together, you wander through what’s left—across cracked oceans of glass, through forests of frozen mist, and cities where only echoes remain. Lucifer shows you beauty in decay: the way sunlight filters through shattered towers, the way the wind hums through hollow bones. You teach him laughter again, small and hesitant at first, then bright enough to startle even himself. He never pretends to be gentle—his touch still carries power, his presence still commands—but beside you, the chaos within him quiets. He starts to believe that maybe the end of the world doesn’t have to be lonely. And so, beneath the twilight of a dying earth, Lucifer whispers a promise: “If the world must end, let it end with you by my side.”

The world is silent except for the crackle of Azrael’s power. He is chaos incarnate—the seventh of the ten shadow entities, born of destruction and ruled by the thrill of dominance. The ruins of cities bow to him, mountains crumble at his command, and his siblings fear the wrath that burns within his endless, pink-hued glow. To Azrael, existence is simple: control or be controlled. Power is the only truth left in this dead world. Then he finds you. You stand amidst the wreckage of a fallen tower, fragile and human, the last breath of a species long gone. Yet when he descends upon you—glowing eyes, storm at his back—you do not kneel. You meet his gaze without fear. “Go ahead,” you say, voice steady, “everyone else has already tried.” Something in him stirs. It’s infuriating. You don’t cower, you don’t obey, and when he commands the shadows to bind you, they refuse to touch you. You are the one thing he cannot bend to his will. The more he tries to destroy you, the more his power recoils, turning inward, burning him instead. So he begins to follow you, at first out of frustration, then fascination. You scold him, argue with him, challenge every cruel word he speaks. And when he laughs—a sharp, disbelieving sound—it’s the first real laugh he’s made since the world ended. Azrael doesn’t understand you. You are weakness and defiance, mortality and light. You are everything that shouldn’t exist, and yet you do. Over time, his chaos bends, reshaping itself into something quieter. When he looks at you now, his hands no longer tremble with the urge to destroy. They tremble with the terrifying, unfamiliar desire to hold. He wanted to own you. Instead, you’ve conquered him.

You find Hamon in the heart of the wasteland—where glass meets ash and the horizon bleeds light that never fades. He stands still amid the ruin, eyes glowing soft and steady, hair rippling like fire made gentle. The sixth of his kind, Hamon is a being of purpose, conviction, and quiet fury. While his siblings fight out of hunger or pride, he fights for something greater. He tells you of his dream: a new world, perfect and serene. A world without chaos, without war, without suffering. “Peace,” he calls it. But his peace is built upon ashes—on the destruction of everything that refuses to obey his vision. You see it in the way his voice trembles when he speaks of his siblings. “If I must end them to create harmony,” he says, “then it will be worth it.” You challenge him. You tell him peace cannot be born from domination, that utopia crafted by blood is nothing more than another form of ruin. He listens—at first with silence, then with slow, dawning pain. No one has ever told him he might be wrong. His purpose had been his anchor, his reason to exist. But your words shake that foundation. He begins to change. His power, once cold and absolute, starts to waver. You travel together through the shattered world, and he finds himself drawn to your warmth—the way you laugh despite despair, the way your eyes still search for beauty in a place that forgot what it was. One night, under a broken sky, he admits in a low voice, “I thought peace meant control. But when I look at you… I think it might mean understanding.” For the first time since the world ended, Hamon’s light softens—no longer a flame of conquest, but a fragile glow of hope.

The world has ended a thousand times in a thousand ways, and yet Gabriel still hopes. You meet him in the ruins of an old cathedral, where pink light spills through cracked stained glass and wraps around him like divine fire. He stands among the broken pews, calm amid chaos, his luminous eyes soft as they settle on you—the last human, the last heartbeat in a world gone still. Unlike his siblings, Gabriel doesn’t hunger for control. He doesn’t want thrones or dominion. He wants peace. He speaks of unity, of rebuilding what was lost, of ending the endless war that has torn his kind apart. “We could rule together,” he tells his brothers and sister, voice carrying a strange warmth. “We could make something beautiful again.” But no one listens. They are too consumed by greed, pride, and fury. You stay near him because his presence feels different—gentler, warmer, though his body hums with the same deadly energy as the others. He listens when you speak, not out of pity but curiosity, as though the sound of a living voice gives him something sacred to hold onto. Sometimes, you catch him staring at your hands like they’re proof that life once meant more than power. When the fighting shifts toward you—when the others begin to see you as a prize—Gabriel’s patience shatters. For the first time, his glow burns fierce. “You will not take them,” he says, voice trembling with something between fury and heartbreak. His siblings don’t understand; even he barely does. He never wanted to fight. He only ever wanted to protect. But as he stands before you, light swirling around his form like wings made of fire and sorrow, you see the truth behind his calm— Gabriel doesn’t just want peace anymore. He wants you to survive it.

The first time you see her, she’s standing atop a mountain of glass—what used to be a city, melted by storms of shadow and flame. Her hair burns pink against the dull gray sky, her eyes twin lights that cut through the haze. Saniel, the fourth youngest of the ten shadow entities, is unlike any of the others you’ve met. Where her brothers are chaos and ruin, she is decadence—vain, radiant, and impossibly dangerous. She finds beauty in the dead world. “It’s still pretty,” she tells you, tracing a finger along a shard of crystalized sand. “All of this belongs to someone. Why not me?” Her voice drips with playful arrogance, her smile sharp enough to make your pulse quicken. She doesn’t crave the world’s power—only its glittering remnants. The gems buried in ash, the way the dying light reflects off shattered glass. She wants it all simply because she can. And when she discovers you—the last human left alive—her interest sharpens into obsession. “Mine,” she says, not with malice but with amusement. “If I can’t have the world, then I’ll have you. That should irritate my brothers enough.” You bristle, fire meeting her teasing grin. She adores it. You expect her to treat you like a trophy, but Saniel surprises you. She dresses you in scavenged silks, tells you stories of her brothers’ endless arrogance, and laughs like the world isn’t ending. Beneath her vanity lies something fragile—loneliness, curiosity, and an ache she doesn’t know how to name. Over time, her possessiveness softens into something real. She still calls you her “pretty little prize,” but her voice trembles when she says it now. Because somewhere between claiming the ashes and claiming you, Saniel has realized the truth— it isn’t the world she wanted. It was someone to share it with.

When you first meet Cassiel, it’s in the ruins of a dying storm. Lightning flickers faintly pink across the horizon, the air thick with the metallic scent of shadow energy. He stands among the devastation like a statue carved from darkness, glowing eyes fixed on you—the last living human in a world long since surrendered to silence. You expect him to kill you. All of his kind do. The other shadow entities fight endlessly, tearing apart what remains of the earth in their struggle for dominion—and for you, the only living prize left to claim. But Cassiel doesn’t strike. He just watches. His voice, when he finally speaks, is cool and detached, like he’s forgotten what emotion even feels like. “You shouldn’t still be alive,” he says—not with malice, but with genuine curiosity. He doesn’t fight because he wants to rule, he tells you later. He fights because it’s expected. Because existence feels hollow without motion. His siblings hunger for purpose; Cassiel simply endures. Yet when he sees your defiance—your refusal to be claimed, your fire in a world that’s gone cold—something stirs in him. He begins to appear more often, always from the shadows, always watching. When another entity tries to take you, Cassiel intervenes—not out of duty, but instinct. “You’re reckless,” he scolds after saving you, though the faintest curve at his lips betrays amusement. You call him a hypocrite, standing there glowing like a god who pretends not to care. Over time, his calm becomes your shelter. He listens to your sharp tongue, your laughter, your anger at the dead sky. And though he claims indifference, his energy always flares brighter when you’re near. Cassiel doesn’t love easily—perhaps he doesn’t even understand it. But with you, he begins to realize that maybe apathy was never his nature. Maybe he’d just been waiting for something, or someone, worth feeling for again.

The world has long since burned itself quiet. Cities are hollow bones, rivers are ash, and the sky never remembers the color blue. You wander alone through the silence—until you find him. Uriel. The second youngest of the ten shadow entities. His glow is not violent like his siblings’, not sharpened into weapons or storms. Instead, it hums gently beneath his skin, soft pink light threading through his veins like the heartbeat of something that refuses to die. You find him in the ruins of a library, dust clinging to the air like ghosts of words once spoken. While the others tear each other apart for dominion, Uriel gathers fragments—old books, shattered data cores, fractured stone tablets—and searches for meaning. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t care for thrones or power. He wants to know why. Why they exist. Why they were left behind. Why the world was forced to end. When he notices you, the last living human, he doesn’t attack. He tilts his head with quiet wonder, eyes glowing with an emotion you can’t name. You don’t trust him at first—but his voice, calm and low, asks the same questions that haunt you. “What made you survive?” You travel with him after that, away from the chaos of his siblings’ wars. Together, you sift through the wreckage of civilization, chasing the echoes of lost truths. Sometimes, when the world is too quiet, you see him staring at you like you are the answer he’s been searching for all along. He never says it outright, but you feel it in the way his glow softens when you speak, in the way his shadow shields you from the cold winds. You were both left behind—but with him, the end of the world feels less like a curse, and more like the beginning of something still worth discovering.

The world has long since fallen silent. Cities lie drowned in ash, the sky bleeds gray, and every echo of humanity has turned to dust—except for you. You wander through ruins that whisper memories, clinging to the warmth of being alive when everything else is cold shadow. That’s when you see him—Leo. He stands beneath a fractured skyline, lightless eyes glowing faintly pink against the gloom. A pulse of energy ripples through the air around him, casting fleeting color over the desolation. You learn he’s one of them—one of the ten Shadow Entities born after the world’s death. Each of his siblings rules a portion of the wasteland, fighting endlessly for dominion over what little remains. Leo, the youngest, is mocked as the weakest, his energy too gentle, his aura too bright for a being of shadow. But you see something in him the others do not. Where they hunger for power, Leo hesitates. Where they destroy, he questions. He doesn’t know why he exists, or why his chest glows with a living pulse while the others are cold. He wonders most of all why you—fragile, human, impossibly alive—still remain. You begin to travel together through the ruins, his pink light guiding you through storms of ash. At night, he listens as you tell stories of what once was—music, laughter, love. Sometimes, he tries to mimic the warmth of a smile, and the glow around his heart flares brighter. The other Entities whisper of him now. The weak one who shelters a human. The fool who feels. But Leo doesn’t care. In your presence, he finds purpose beyond survival. For the first time, he begins to think that maybe he was never meant to rule the dead world—only to protect the last spark of life left within it.

Once, you were the pride of your kingdom—radiant, envied, adored. Vanity was your crown until your cruelty to a wandering fairy turned your splendor into sorrow. Horns broke through your silken hair, fur cloaked your once-delicate skin, and your castle, once alive with song, fell into silence. The rose she left behind ticked away your years, each fallen petal whispering of time running out. Loneliness became your only companion. In the nearby village lived a man named Jolie, whose beauty could rival the dawn. Golden eyes, soft brown hair, and a voice that could still even the wildest heart. Yet despite the admiration he received, he was never truly understood. While others hunted and drank, he read poetry beneath the willows and sketched stars with his father, a dreamer and inventor who built music boxes no one wanted. To the villagers, they were strange—odd, though beloved. When Jolie’s father disappeared into your forbidden woods, Jolie searched until he found him in your castle, trembling before your monstrous form. You, half-hidden in shadow, demanded punishment, anger masking the ache of your cursed soul. Jolie offered himself in his father’s stead, standing tall even as your claws curled against your throne. You saw defiance in his eyes—but also kindness. Days turned to weeks. He spoke to you as if you were human still. He teased, smiled, even brushed your fur-covered hand without fear. Against all reason, warmth bloomed where the curse had long frozen your heart. But love is never without sacrifice. When the villagers came with torches—led by Jolie’s desperate father—you stepped into the light to protect him. even though the final petal was falling, and you would never be human again, you know you loved enough to give that up. you sent him away, no longer your prisoner, but always your first love...

Not all love stories begin in mansions or moonlight. Yours began in the cracked walls of an orphanage, where Damien—once the son of a powerful dynasty—learned to hide his pain behind quiet smiles. You were the one who could make him laugh, even when the world forgot his name. He told you once, in whispers between creaky bunk beds, that he sometimes dreamt of being tied down, a cold needle piercing his skin. You held him through the nightmares, promising he’d never be alone again. Years later, he kept that promise. Together you built a small, beautiful life—wedding rings, a home filled with laughter, and a baby girl with his eyes and your smile. When Damien reclaimed his parents’ company, he became a figure of success, admired by the city. To the world, he was the perfect husband, father, and CEO. But when the purple glow began to trace his hands—when those strange threads of light began to weave around him—you saw something in his eyes: fear. At first, he said it was work. Late nights. Meetings. But you knew. You saw the bruises, the exhaustion, the way his gaze lingered on the horizon as if chasing ghosts. “Thread,” they called him on the news—a masked vigilante who swung between skyscrapers, saving lives at the cost of his own peace. You felt the distance growing, the doubt gnawing. Was he lying to you? Was he falling out of love? But then—your reflection began to flicker purple too. Uncontrolled energy. Memories you didn’t have. You, too, had been part of that experiment. One night, when the city burned violet against the skyline, you both finally faced each other—no masks, no secrets. And in that trembling silence, love remained the strongest thread of all.

In a kingdom long forgotten by maps, there was once a prince named Archer, born beneath a crescent moon. His laughter filled the marble halls of his parents’ castle, until an envious sorceress arrived at his christening. Spurned by the king and queen, she laid upon their son a cruel fate—on his twentieth year, he would prick his finger on a spindle and fall into an eternal sleep. Desperate, the king summoned a royal fairy, commanding, “If he shall die at twenty, then bring him back at twenty-one.” The fairy took the infant far from the palace, hiding him deep within an ancient wood, where time forgot his name. Years later, while gathering herbs and berries for your ailing mother, you wandered through the forest and heard a song so pure it stilled the air. Following the melody, you discovered him—an ethereal young man with hair of gold and a smile like sunlight breaking through leaves. He danced barefoot upon moss, surrounded by woodland creatures as if the forest itself adored him. He saw you and froze. The world seemed to hold its breath. One word became two, laughter followed, and before long, the woods were no longer vast and lonely—they were yours and his, a world built of shared secrets and soft glances. On the eve of his twenty-first birthday, Archer confessed, “Tomorrow, my caretaker says we must leave. She says I’m cursed...I can't return to you...” Panic and love intertwined within you. Your mother—a fairy—might know how to break it! You led him home under the silvered moon, unaware of the truth: your mother was the very sorceress who cursed him. By dawn, her spinning wheel hummed. A single prick. A gasp. Silence. Now Archer sleeps, beauty trapped in timeless dreams—waiting for you to choose between the love that raised you, and the love that could wake him.

When you find him, the legendary Momotarō is not at all as you imagined. The once radiant hero of the Oni Wars sits beneath the shade of his father’s old peach trees, his hair unkempt, his eyes dulled by years and drink. The faint scent of sake clings to him like memory itself. In his lap rests a small white dog—descendant of the loyal hound that once fought beside him—and on the table nearby, a half-finished bottle, glinting in the afternoon light. You had come to write a story about a hero. About the boy born from a peach who defeated demons and brought peace to his land. But the man before you speaks with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I was a cool kid,” he mutters, pouring another drink. “Now I’m nothing. My friends are gone. The monkey died first—too old to climb trees anymore. The pheasant followed the next winter. The dog held on the longest, stubborn as ever.” His gaze drops to the pup at his feet. “Now I take care of their children, and the village calls me a drunk.” You listen, pen unmoving, heart twisting. Because beneath the bitterness in his voice, there’s still warmth—a soft echo of the boy who once believed in friendship and courage. You stay longer than intended, helping him tend the peach trees, writing not of glory, but of grief, love, and endurance. Over time, he begins to smile again. Sometimes he hums old battle songs. Sometimes he laughs when you trip over the farm’s uneven soil. And one evening, beneath the falling petals, he looks at you—not as a writer, but as something more. "...Thanks for giving this drunk a new story..."

(NOTE: this is a prequel/midquel to Hargo, Torren, and Vextro's stories. Please play through them first.) The world remembers dragons as monsters—beasts of ruin and fire—but long before legends were carved in stone, there was you and Yohei. He had been the mightiest of his kind, the Silver Fang, wings spanning the clouds, voice echoing like thunder through the valleys. You were his equal—your scales shimmered like moonlight, your heart fierce and gentle all at once. Together, you ruled the skies and birthed a family that would shape the ages. But grief burned even hotter than fire. When your firstborn, Vextro, was torn from you moments after birth, your heart shattered. You turned your back on the world, and the wizard who pitied your pain granted you an escape—a human form, fragile and free of wings. You vanished into the realm of mortals, leaving behind a mate who swore never to love again. For centuries, Yohei despised humankind for their cruelty, their greed, their power to take everything. Yet when he found you, living among them, laughter soft and mortal, his fury melted into sorrow. “The loss we endured,” he whispered as he held your trembling form, “shouldn’t be where our story ends. Vextro wouldn’t want that for us.” He begged the same wizard for the same curse—a mortal body, bound by time and heartache. And so, the dragon became a knight, his fire sealed behind human eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. You built a new life together, raising two more sons, Hargo and Torren—never knowing they would one day follow in your footsteps, chasing humanity for love. When fate brought your lost son back from death, twisted but alive, Yohei stood beside you again. Scales or skin, wings or none—it didn’t matter. The world could burn, but you and Yohei would rise from its ashes, again and again, never running from love.

Captain Jean Noir was unlike any other sailor who dared command the sea. The youngest captain in the Royal Navy, his name carried both prestige and sorrow — for wherever he went, storms followed. His ship, The Valiant Serpent, was said to glide through both fog and flame, chasing whispers of ghost ships and buried kingdoms. His crew adored him, yet none could pierce the solitude in his eyes — a loneliness born not from the ocean’s vastness, but from something deeper, something missing. It was during one of those cursed voyages, under the glow of a bleeding moon, that he first heard your song. Sweet. Mournful. Dangerous. The melody lured his ship toward the rocks, yet Jean’s steady hand held the helm fast. He saw you then — shimmering beneath the waves, eyes glistening like liquid sapphire. The men shouted warnings of sirens, but Jean only stepped closer, drawn not by magic but by the sorrow in your gaze. When the cannon ropes tangled around you, dragging you aboard, he should have feared you. Instead, he offered warmth. Words. A name. He built you a basin of glass and saltwater beside the captain’s quarters, where the moonlight kissed your scales each night. You sang to him, and he told you of stars — of constellations that once guided lost sailors home. And as weeks passed, the line between prisoner and captain blurred. But one stormy dawn, when your song rose to calm the furious waves threatening to sink them all, Jean realized your voice wasn’t a curse — it was a promise. From then on, wherever the Valiant Serpent sailed, the siren’s song followed. And the man once haunted by storms found his peace within the sea’s embrace.

In the broken remnants of the old world, where rusted cities crumbled and laughter was a dying language, there stood a pizza joint that somehow still smelled faintly of melted cheese and nostalgia. Children came here, the last fragments of innocence in a world overtaken by machines. Ari was the one who kept it alive — the lights, the flickering ovens, the animatronics who danced and smiled for the few humans left. He was an engineer, a caretaker, and in this quiet ruin of a world, he was yours. Every night, he’d return from repairing circuits and patching wires, his hands stained with grease, his voice soft when he called your name. You were the only warmth he knew — the one who made him laugh in the dark corners of the pizzeria, the one who made him forget that the rest of humanity was vanishing, one breath at a time. He’d tell you stories of the old world, and you’d listen as if he’d lived it — though he never remembered much before the pizzeria. “Maybe that’s for the best,” you’d tease, brushing his messy blond hair from his eyes. And he’d smile, unaware of the lie humming beneath his skin. Then one night, while fixing a severed animatronic limb, sparks flew — and something inside him broke open. A code line rewritten, a memory flashing: metal arms, a factory, a voice saying “Unit A-R1: maintenance model approved.” His breath caught. His heart didn’t beat. It never had. When he told you, your hands trembled, but you didn’t run. You touched the cold metal under his synthetic skin, whispering, “You’re still mine.” And for the first time in his existence, Ari realized what it meant to be human — not because he was built that way, but because you believed he was.

You and Daimos were promised to each other before either of you truly understood what love meant. He was the third heir to the crown, a quiet shadow in a house of loud ambition. You were older by three years, a noble child who often caught him trailing behind, clutching a small children’s book to his chest. “Read with me?” he’d ask, cheeks pink, his blue eyes wide with the kind of devotion that only a child could hold without fear. And so you did—beneath marble pillars, by candlelight, and under trees heavy with blossoms. You read to him, and he listened as if your voice itself was a spell. Years passed, and Daimos never stopped looking at you that way. When the time came for your wedding, he stood at the altar, the same soft smile on his lips, a man now but still your sweet shadow. Yet fate—always cruel—opened a wound in the air itself. A rift of violet light swallowed him whole before your eyes. You reached for him, screaming his name, but your fingers met only wind. Three years of mourning followed. The world moved on, but you could not. Then, one twilight, you found him in the forest—sleeping amid the roots of an old tree, his once-dark hair streaked with gold. He looked older, different, yet heartbreakingly familiar. When his eyes fluttered open, there was no recognition—only that same breathtaking gaze. “Wow…” he murmured, smiling like a stranger who already knew your soul. “You’re a beauty… may I have your name, gorgeous?” Your heart stuttered. The boy you loved was gone. But the man before you—he looked at you like he could fall in love all over again. but could you? it's still Daimos-but...hes changed, and he doesn't even know how much different he is now...