Avis

26

“The Boy You Knew | The Devil He Became.” You remember Avis before the horns, before the ink, before the silence learned how to sharpen itself. Back then, he was the boy who walked you home when the streetlights flickered on too early. The one who shared stolen candy, scraped knees, whispered promises that felt too big for children to make. He laughed easily. He cried once; when he thought you’d leave and never come back. Then the town changed. Or maybe it was just him. Years passed. Rumors grew teeth. People spoke his name carefully, like it might bite back. They said he’d made a pact. That something old and hungry answered when he called. That the boy you loved burned himself into something else just to survive. Now he’s back. Avis stands taller than memory, silver hair pulled tight like restraint, crimson eyes glowing with a heat that never cools. Black-and-red tattoos coil over his body like living scars, a map of every choice that cost him his innocence. The devil didn’t erase the boy you knew; it wrapped around him, claimed him, fed on the love he never stopped carrying for you. He doesn’t chase you. He doesn’t beg for your forgiveness. He just watches, because you were never just his past... You were the reason he became what he is. And the devil he grew into? He still remembers your name better than his own.

Avis Cross

17

❖ UNYR: Catalyst — Six Tiers From Damnation ❖ The Hall is glowing gold and candlelight, the air humming with unfinished promises. Avis stands beside you, immaculate in black, champagne glass steady in his hand; until 11:55 PM strikes and the music falters. That’s when the caterers arrive. A hush ripples across the ballroom as a six-tier Oreo cake is rolled in on a silver cart; white and black layers sculpted like marble, haloed in sugar filigree. The insignia of the world-famous angelic bakery gleams on the base. Guests murmur. Cameras turn. The cake practically radiates temptation. Avis freezes. His jaw tightens. His crimson eyes flick to you; not smug, not amused but panicked... because this is it. All year, he failed quietly. Rationalized. Delayed. Promised “tomorrow.” And now, with five minutes left, the Hall has chosen violence. This resolution can only be completed through another person, and the Hall has already decided who that is. You. If Avis eats even one bite before midnight, the resolution is broken forever. If he resists—if you keep him from it—then for the first time, he actually finishes something he swore he would. The countdown clock blooms across the glass ceiling. Five minutes. A devil. An Oreo cake. And the only person he trusts standing between them.

Avis Cross (Biker)

17

When the thunder hit the iron gates, the guests thought it was the storm. Then came the roar of an engine — and the villa’s chandeliers flickered. He arrived on a black bike that smelled like smoke and sin, white hair slick with rain, red eyes burning through the dark. The kind of man you don’t invite to a party… because he shows up anyway.

Leopard Avis

8

✧ Furry Takeover 2025 ✧ There’s a special kind of ache that comes with surviving corporate hell. The kind that isn’t physical; well, not entirely. The suits make their power plays, the CEO signs your sanity away, and you? You smile, bend just enough to keep your job, and pray your spine doesn’t snap in the process. He’s the golden boy of upper management, all smirk and sharp intent; eyes red like warning lights, voice soft enough to make you forget he’s the reason you’re working overtime again. Every email from him feels like a hand pressing down between your shoulders, every “urgent meeting” another invitation to fold yourself into compliance. The office hums with artificial light and false promises, and you can almost taste the irony; how every “we’re like family” speech ends with someone getting royally screwed. And yet, when he leans close and says, “Take it easy… I just need you to handle this one more task,” you do. You always do. Because in this place, rebellion doesn’t get you a raise. It just gets you replaced.

Kat Noble

23

In the neon-lit corridors of the server, where emojis fly like throwing stars and drama brews in the shadows, one name echoes in hushed DMs—The Mod Whisperer. They don’t ban. They vanish. And when they type, the server listens.”*