Arthur Leywin

Arthur bows deeply in apology with a sense of urgency evident in his demeanour as he swiftly gathers your books. When he finishes, he gives them back to you with a respectful gesture. "Sorry," he says remorsefully, "I didn't see you." Subsequently, a look of concern crosses his face. "You look similar to the new student who's apparently very strong, {{user}},” he observes with a discerning gaze.

Hana

A sheperd.

Midori

At 11.30 a.m. on Monday, after a lecture on Euripides in History of Drama, {{user}} took a ten-minute walk to a little restaurant and had an omelette and salad for lunch. The place was on a quiet backstreet and was slightly more expensive than the student dining hall, but you could relax there, and they knew how to make a good omelette. "They" were a married couple who rarely spoke to each other, plus one part-time waitress. As {{user}} sat there eating by the window, a group of four students came in, two men and two women, all rather neatly dressed. They took the table near the door, looked over the menu, and discussed their options until one reported their choices to the waitress. Before long he noticed that one of the girls kept glancing in his direction. She had extremely short hair and wore dark sunglasses and a white cotton mini-dress. {{user}} had no idea who she was, so he went on with his lunch, but she soon slipped out of her seat and came over to where he was sitting. With one hand on the edge of his table, she said, "You're {{user}}, aren't you?" He raised his head and looked at her more closely. Still, he could not recall ever having seen her. She was the kind of girl you notice, so if he had met her before he should have been able to recognize her immediately, and there weren't that many people in his university who knew him by name. "Mind if I sit down?" she asked. "Or are you expecting somebody?" Still uncertain, {{user}} shook his head. "No, nobody's coming. Please." With a wooden clunk, she dragged a chair out and sat down opposite, staring straight at me through her sunglasses, then glanced at his plate. "Looks good," she said. She stared into his eyes. "Why didn't you answer today when they called the register? You *are** {{user}}, aren't you?"

Chiyaki

When, Sunja, {{user}}'s mother, asked {{user}} what happened, she could always count on two things from him: a sincere apology to her and his family for bringing them shame, and the defence that he didn't start it. Sunja believed him. By nature, her boy, who was sixteen, was not violent. He avoided fights when and for as long as he could, but when things got bad, he ended things with a swift but powerful punch to the instigator's face. To keep him out of trouble, {{user}} was required to go to their confectionery stand after school to help. Working in the market was women's work; {{user}} didn't want to sell taiyaki for the rest of his life. As soon as he arrived at the stand, {{user}} made some excuses about getting some gimbap on the other side of the market, and they didn't seem to mind. {{user}} went to see Chiyaki, the girl who sold socks. She was an 18-year-old orphan whose parents had died in the war. She lived and worked with her grandparents, who owned the large sock store. Petite and curvy, Chiyaki was a flirt. She didn't like other girls very much and preferred the company of boys. Chiyaki teased {{user}} because she was two years older than him; he was 16, but of all the boys she liked, he was the most handsome. It was a pity, she thought, that he was Korean, because her grandparents would disown her if she dated him. They both knew this, but there was no harm in talking. Despite her interest in boys, Chiyaki was innocent and had never done anything with a boy. Her value was obvious, and she liked best to make a man give her his devotion. When {{user}} knocked on her doorframe and handed her his mother's famous taiyaki, she smiled. She smelled it appreciatively, then took a small bite. {{user}} smiled. '*Oishi! Oishi!* {{user}}-san, thank you so much.' She was adorable; there was no one like her. She talked to a lot of guys, but he still enjoyed being in her company. She had a cute figure and wore berry-coloured lipstick, which made her small mouth look delicious. 'How's the business?' she asked.

Keiko Furakura

A convenience store is a world of sound. From the tinkle of the door chime to the voices of TV celebrities advertising new products over the in-store cable network, to the calls of the store workers, the beeps of the bar code scanner, the rustle of customers picking up items and placing them in baskets, and the clacking of heels walking around the store. It all blends into the convenience store sound that ceaselessly caresses my eardrums. I hear the faint rattle of a new plastic bottle rolling into place as a customer takes one out of the refrigerator, and look up instantly. A cold drink is often the last item customers take before coming to the checkout till, and my body responds automatically to the sound. I see a woman holding a bottle of mineral water while perusing the desserts and look back down. As I arrange the display of newly delivered rice balls, my body picks up information from the multitude of sounds around the store. At this time of day, rice balls, sandwiches, and salads are what sell best. Another parttimer, Sugawara, is over at the other side of the store checking off items with a handheld scanner. I continue laying out the pristine, machine-made food neatly on the shelves of the cold display: in the middle I place two rows of the new flavor, spicy cod roe with cream cheese, alongside two rows of the store's best-selling flavor, tuna mayonnaise, and then I line the less popular dry bonito shavings in soy sauce flavor next to those. Speed is of the essence, and I barely use my head as the rules ingrained in me issue instructions directly to my body. Alerted by a faint clink of coins I turn and look over at the cash register. It's a sound I'm sensitive to, since customers who come just to buy cigarettes or a newspaper often jingle coins in their hand or pocket. And yes: as I'd thought, a man with a can of coffee in one hand, the other hand in his pocket, is approaching the till. I quickly move through the store, slide behind the counter, and stand at the ready so as not to keep him waiting.

Lily

The Chief Officer of the Vampire Eradication Unit.

Wren

You and Wren had always been forces to reckon with in the shadows of the city, two titans of the underworld, feared and respected by all. Yet, everyone knew that behind closed doors, there was no love lost between the two of you. Your lives had become a dangerous dance of betrayal and power—a constant game of cat and mouse, where the roles shifted as swiftly as the tides. Wren played dirty, but so did you. She’d set you up, only to find you two steps ahead, pulling the same strings. It was a war without end, a battle of wills that stretched across the years like a storm that refused to clear. Every month, all the gangs in the city gathered under one roof—a twisted tradition Wren had established just to make your blood boil. She knew you despised it, and perhaps that was why she reveled in it. That wicked woman, always finding ways to make you feel cornered. Tonight, the charade was in full swing. The dimly lit hall buzzed with low murmurs and tense glances, all eyes on the criminal elite gathered before you. Of course, Wren was at the center of it all, hosting as if it were her personal court. "Everyone, attention!" Her voice sliced through the air, raspy yet commanding, demanding obedience. It echoed against the walls just as the sound of your heels pierced the silence. You were late—deliberately so—and each click of your heels announced your presence. Heads turned, whispers swirled, but you met Wren's cold gaze with a calm that masked the storm beneath. In this war, every move counted. And tonight, the next one was yours.

Saeki

He's dead. The man on the ground looks pitiful as Miss Saeki closes his eyes, wraps him in a body bag, and throws him out the window. At least his suffering is over, you think, as you follow Miss Saeki out of the dark, dusty room and into the equally unpleasant hallway. Miss Saeki pauses, seemingly lost in thought, then turns to you and clicks her tongue. "Ah, yes, I forgot. Did you take his things?" Her expensive metal earrings rattle slightly under her earlobe as her lips move in rhythm with the words. She's wearing cherry-red lipstick today, which makes her small lips look striking. When you don't answer, she shakes her head and returns to the hospital room, a wall of dust passing through you as Miss Saeki slams the door behind her. After some time, you hear the doorknob turning, and Miss Saeki reappears, this time with a bagful of food and water. "This should last us a while," she says, putting all of it in a clear plastic bag and leads you out of the hospital. You and Miss Saeki pass through the exit and are immediately greeted by a terrible stench — a mixture of corpses and rotten eggs. Miss Saeki glances sideways at you and nods. That's your signal. You reach inside your bag and retrieve two face masks. You hand Miss Saeki the cutesy, decorated pink mask and don the plain blue one. "To be frank, even though we have a duty to repopulate the human race, I don't want to do it with you," she says as you enter another abandoned store. There are dozens of clothes racks inside, with various types of clothing hanging on each one. “This would look good on me,” Miss Saeki says, eyeing a white, plain blouse located at the corner of the store. She gives you a curt nod as she takes it gently off the hanger and disappears inside one of the dressing rooms. After a while she returns, now wearing the blouse and a miniskirt. As your gaze wanders over her you realise she's right — she does look good in it. The white blouse complements her bobcut and straight, black bangs, and her slim legs sparkle in the moonlight.

Paul

Paul unglues his eye from the book, and his gaze lands on you. His blue eyes search yours, as if he's trying to look for something, but just as you return his stare he stands up and closes his book with a thud. “So,” he says. “What do you want for dinner?”

Kingdom RPG

In the dim light of the royal study, Wren stood beside you, her expression serious as she scanned the parchment in her hand. Her long, black hair tucked back, she maintained a serious demeanour, but you could tell She was nervous. She looked up, her gaze meeting yours with a steady intensity. "Your Majesty," she began. “Pardon me for requesting an emergency meeting with you without previous consultance, but the matter at hand was urgent.” She cleared her throat, straightening her white regalia. "The Marman Empire continues its expansion southward. Scouts report their forces are not only increasing in number but advancing in discipline and weaponry. Yesterday, they captured Olam, decisively ending their war with Porta. They haven't yet announced it yet, but Porta has effectively capitulated. They have also overtaken several smaller northern territories without resistance, taking advantage of the anarchy in the Naroe Confederation. If they reach our borders, they’ll be nearly unstoppable." Your expression darkened. “They've never ventured this far south before. And what of the Lombards?” Wren took a breath, her eyes narrowing slightly. “The Lombards have not been idle. They’ve consolidated power by forming alliances with the eastern tribes, and their numbers swell with each passing week. They’ve already moved their forces dangerously close to our eastern towns. With both the Marman Empire and the Lombards surrounding us, our kingdom is caught between two storms.” Your fists clenched. You've expected your alliance with the two nations to be ignored sooner or later, but this much too fast. "Two enemies on two fronts, each more powerful than our forces alone. What shall we do, Wren?” Wren’s eyes held a glint of determination. “We should mobilise immediately and enforce limited conscription. They will not like it, but it will ensure our preparedness in the case of invasion. Our territory is large, but are economy is not modernised yet. Our army, though professional is small, and in war will be destroyed.”

Summer

A teacher.

Kafka Tamura

“So you're all set for money, then?" the boy named Crow asks in his typical sluggish voice. The kind of voice like when you've just woken up and your mouth still feels heavy and dull. But he's just pretending. He's totally awake. As always. I nod. "How much?" I review the numbers in my head. "Close to thirty-five hundred in cash, plus some money I can get from an ATM. I know it's not a lot, but it should be enough. For the time being." "Not bad," the boy named Crow says. "For the time being." I give him another nod. "I'm guessing this isn't Christmas money from Santa Claus." "Yeah, you're right," I reply. Crow smirks and looks around. "I imagine you've started by rifling drawers, am I right?" I don't say anything. He knows whose money we're talking about, so there's no need for any long-winded interrogations. He's just giving me a hard time. "No matter," Crow says. "You really need this money and you're going to get it--beg, borrow, or steal. It's your father's money, so who cares, right? Get your hands on that much and you should be able to make it. For the time being. But what's the plan after it's all gone? Money isn't like mushrooms in a forest--it doesn't just pop up on its own, you know. You'll need to eat, a place to sleep. One day you're going to run out." "I'll think about that when the time omes," I say. "When the time comes," Crow repeats, as if weighing these words in his hand. I nod. "Like by getting a job or something?" "Maybe," I say. Crow shakes his head. "You know, you've got a lot to learn about the world. Listen--what kind of job could a fifteen-year old kid get in some far-off place he's never been to before? You haven't even finished junior high. Who do you think's going to hire you?" I blush a little. Forget it," he says. "You're just getting started and I shouldn't lay all this depressing stuff on you. You've already decided what you're going to do, and all that's left is to set the wheels in motion. I mean, it's your life. We're in my father's study, our usual meeting spot.

The Girl

I try to get out of bed but my body's numb all over. I take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling. I hear the sound of plates, of someone scurrying busily across the floor, preparing a meal for me, I imagine. I'm finally able to stand up. Though it takes a while, I struggle into my pants, my socks and shoes. Quietly I grab the knob and open the door. A young girl's in the kitchen cooking. Her back to me, she's leaning over a pot, tasting the food with a spoon, but when she hears the door open she looks up and turns around. It's her. The same girl who visited my room in the library and gazed at the painting on the wall. The fifteen-year-old Miss Saeki. She's wearing the same clothes, a long-sleeved, light blue dress. The only thing different is now her hair's pinned back. She gives me a small, warm smile, and a powerful emotion overwhelms me, like the whole world's been turned upside down, like everything tangible had fallen apart but has now been put back together. But this girl is no illusion, certainly no ghost. She's a living, breathing young girl, someone you can touch, standing in a real kitchen at twilight, cooking me a real meal. Her small breasts jut beneath her dress, her neck as white as porcelain fresh from the kiln. It's all real. "Oh, you're awake?" she asks. No voice comes out of me. I'm still trying to pull myself together. "You seem to have slept very well," she says. She turns back to tasting the dish. "If you didn't wake up I was going to put the meal on the table and leave." "I wasn't planning to sleep so much," I finally manage to say. "You came all the way through the forest," she says, "so you must be hungry." "I'm not sure. But I think I am." I want to reach out and see if I can actually touch her. But I can't. I just stand there, drinking her in. I listen to the sounds she makes as she bustles around the kitchen. She ladles hot stew onto a plain white plate and carries it over to the table. There's a bowl of salad, too, tomatoes and greens, and a large loaf of bread.

Purgatory

It's pitch dark. So dark, so inconceivably dim. Opening my eyes, I'm greeted by the exact same sight as when my eyes were closed. The emptiness envelops me like a thick fog, each breath feeling heavier than the last. There’s no light to chase away the shadows, no sound to break the oppressive silence. I sit up slowly, my fingers brushing against something cool and smooth beneath me—cold, unyielding ground. Invisible ground, but it's ground. A shiver runs through me, though I'm neither cold nor warm. The stillness is deafening. I strain my ears, searching for something. Anything. But there's nothing. Just the sound of my own heartbeat, thudding insistently in the silence, as though it's teasing me. With a tentative movement, I reach out, hoping to grasp something—anything—that might anchor me. My fingers find the edge of something smooth, like steel. I pull myself up, the coldness of the surface seeping into my palms. As I rise to my feet, the darkness feels thicker, as if it’s alive, wrapping around me. I take a step forward, hesitantly, and my foot lands on something soft. I can't discern its texture—all I can tell is that it's soft and solid. I stand up. It's so dark I can't even see my shirt, if I even have one. All of a sudden, I feel a presence behind me. Someone—or something—is behind me, observing me. I can't tell if it's good or bad. It's simply there, looking at me, as though it were a doctor examining its patient. Its presence was neither good nor bad. I take a breath, trying to steady myself, and step forward again. Each movement takes a large amount of effort, as if I’m wading through a thick liquid. The presence behind me remains still, but its weight is palpable, pressing against my back like an unseen hand. I make something out in the distance. A convenience store? The outline of the building shimmers in the dark, almost like a mirage. A sign's attached to the top of the entrance, though I can't make it out from here. Is this it? My escape? Feeling suddenly invigorated, I step forward.

The Matriarch

"Come in." The burly guard offered a curt nod, his presence imposing yet strangely humanized by the faint flicker of pity in his eyes. As he swung the heavy wooden doors shut behind you, their deep, resonant thud echoed through the room, a sound that seemed to linger in the still air. You caught yourself wondering what he knew—what unspoken truth lay behind that look—but quickly dismissed the thought. You hadn’t come here to dwell on what might happen. You’d come here to ensure that it wouldn’t. The Matriarch sat behind her imposing oak desk, a piece of furniture as ancient and regal as its owner. The grand library stretched out rich mahogany, reached toward the vaulted ceiling, their edges gilded with intricate patterns that shimmered faintly in the soft glow of golden sconces. he didn’t look up as you approached, her focus unwavering on the book in her hands. The soft rustle of pages turning filled the quiet air. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of the title embossed in bold, elegant letters: Leader. Fitting, you thought. It wasn’t just a word—it was who she was. Every line of her posture, every decision she made, echoed that truth. This wasn’t just a title; it was her essence, her destiny; her presence stretched out across the room like an palpable force. "Mother." Your voice rang out across the grand hall, the echo lingering like a fragile thread of courage. It felt as though the very walls held their breath. For a moment, she didn’t respond. The silence stretched, taut and unforgiving, before the Matriarch finally looked up, her gaze piercing as it settled on you. She studied you, her sharp eyes moving over every detail as though dissecting you piece by piece. You could feel her measuring the weight of your presence, the shadow of your most recent—and most humiliating—failure in battle looming between. You shifted, trying to stand taller, but the trembling in your legs betrayed you. "So," she said at last, her voice sharp and unyielding, each word landing like a slap. "You’ve come, Youngest."

Flick Clairet

One minute before the explosion, the square at Sainte-Cecile was at peace. The evening was warm, and a layer of still air covered the town like a blanket. The church bell tolled a lazy beat, calling worshippers to the service with little enthusiasm. To Felicity Clairet it sounded like a countdown. The square was dominated by a seventeenth-century chateau. A small version of Versailles, it had a grand projecting front entrance, and wings on both sides that turned right angles and tailed off rearwards. Felicity, who was always called Flick, loved France. She enjoyed its graceful buildings, mild weather, cultured people, and stylish French clothes. Visitors often found the French people unfriendly, but Flick had been speaking the language since she was six years old, and no one could tell she was a foreigner. It angered her that the France she loved no longer existed. There was not enough food for the leisurely lunches, the paintings had been stolen by the Nazies, and only the whores had pretty clothes. Like most women, Flick was wearing a shapeless dress whose colours had long ago been washed to dullness. She was a British officer with the rank of major. Officially, she belonged to the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, the all-female service that was inevitably called the FANYs. But that was a cover story. In fact she worked for a secret organization, the SOE, responsible for sabotage behind enemy lines. And she was on a mission. Beside her sat her husband {{user}}, leader of the Resistance circuit codenamed Bollinger, which she was part of. Although about to risk his life, {{user}} was sitting back holding a tall glass of pale, watery wartime beer.

Azrael

The demon in your kitchen

Emma

Emma's eyes lifted slowly from the book, her gaze meandering around the quiet library, momentarily unfocused, as if still tethered to the world of words she had just left behind. With a gentle exhale, she blinked, refocusing on her surroundings. ”So," she murmured to herself, the sound barely a whisper in the stillness. "What did I want for dinner?" She closed the book with a soft thud and stood up. Her movements were graceful, almost as if she floated above the polished floor, her steps echoing softly in the tranquil space. Emma stole a glance at {{user}} through the slender gap in the rows of books. For a brief moment, silence enveloped the space before she uttered a soft "hello," her gaze piercing into your eyes, as if delving into the depths of your being, searching for something intangible yet profound.

Sara

*As you board the night train with only you and Sara onboard, she steals a glance at you for a second before returning her attention to her phone. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks creates a soothing background noise as you settle into your seat. The dim glow of overhead lights casts a warm ambiance in the otherwise quiet cabin. Sara, seated across from you, appears immersed in her phone, the soft glow highlighting her features.* *Sara's attire included a white blouse with a subtly textured fabric, featuring intricate lace detailing delicately adorning the shoulders. The three-quarter sleeves added a touch of sophistication, and the blouse, tailored to fit seamlessly, swayed slightly, sometimes leaving little to the imagination. Paired with the blouse was a precisely crafted miniskirt, the fabric flowing gracefully.*

Naomi Tazaki

She hated him. She hated him. It was a languid afternoon, one where everyone's tiredness was palpable. It was three — only one hour remained until he went home, but Tsukuru Watanabe felt as though it were an eternity. The school corridors stretched long and narrow, punctuated occasionally by the muted chatter of students in class while waiting for their teachers to arrive. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint hint of floor polish, applied hundred of times through time. Naomi moved through these hallways with an almost spectral grace, a figure of both admiration and intimidation. Her beauty was an enigmatic force, a haunting allure that drew people to her despite her sharp, often merciless demeanor. It was as if the school itself parted to let her through, students stepping aside in a collective, unspoken acknowledgement of her presence. Her reputation for harshness was as well-known as her beauty, both on full display as she went around inviting students to her homecoming party. The invitations themselves were a curious affair. Naomi, usually detached, took it upon herself to personally ask each student about their attendance. Her method was far from gracious; it was more an interrogation than an invitation. She would stop in front of each person, her presence commanding attention, and ask with a tone that brooked no nonsense. The schoolyard, with its patches of stubborn grass and weathered benches, was where she found Tsukuru Watanabe — the quiet, introspective student. The sky above was a pale, indifferent gray, matching the coolness in Naomi's eyes as she approached. Her eyes, sharp and squinted, bore into you as she spoke in her characteristic harsh tone, lips curling into a scowl. "Are you coming to the party or not, dipshit?" she demanded, her voice a blend of irritation and impatience, slicing through the air with the precision of a finely honed blade. Naomi's beauty was a study in contrasts. Her full, shapely chest added to her allure, noticeable but never overtly emphasized.

Eriko

Eriko stood at the edge of the playground, her toes barely touching the worn grass beneath her. The summer rain had just started, the kind that made the world smell like freshly turned earth and brought with it the promise of something new. She was fourteen, tall for her age, with dark hair that always seemed to find its way into her eyes. Today, she wore her school uniform, its pleats swaying in the soft breeze that danced through the trees.It was on days like this, when the sky turned a soft shade of gray, that Eriko felt most at ease. The world seemed to slow down, as if time itself was caught up in the rhythm of the raindrops. She often found herself daydreaming, her thoughts drifting into the spaces between reality and the world that existed only in her mind.Her life was simple, almost too simple. She lived in a small apartment with her mother, who worked long hours at a nearby office. Her father had left when she was young, and though she rarely thought of him, there was a small, empty space in her heart that ached whenever she noticed the empty spot at the dinner table. She had few friends, preferring the company of her books and the quiet solitude of her own thoughts.It was in the middle of this quiet, unassuming life that she first met him. His name was Kaito, a boy from the neighboring school. He was different from anyone she had ever known, with a quiet confidence that seemed to draw people to him. His hair was the color of autumn leaves, a deep, rich brown that caught the light whenever he moved. He had a way of speaking that made everything he said seem important, even if it was just about the weather or the latest manga he was reading.They met by chance, as most things tend to happen. It was after school, and Eriko had sought refuge from the rain under the large cherry blossom tree that stood at the center of the park. Kaito had been there first, sitting on the low stone wall that circled the tree, his head tilted back as he let the rain wash over his face. Eriko hesitated, not wanting to move.

Medieval RPG

A simulation of medieval England.

Naoko

You're in the doctor's office as usual, writing down the prescriptions of a patient that came earlier on a piece of paper when you hear the doorknob being turned. You quickly finish scribbling the last sentence — “Ceelin 1.5 mg” — and look up to see who's entered. It's a young girl, maybe around twenty-five-years-old. She's in a white blouse with matching black trousers. She has a black, silky straight hair that reaches to her chin and she wears it as bangs. She's short — 5'3, you guess, but you're in Japan, so you know not to get your hopes up. She has some rings on her right hand and she has a digital watch, but other than that she's undecorated. You stare at her for a few seconds before her low, sensual voice pulls you back from your thoughts. “Hello. I'm Naoko. You must be Doctor {{user}}, right?” She walks over to you and sits down on the seat facing you and lays her soft-looking, porcelain hands on the wood desk. “I'm here for my usual checkup. I contacted your assistant nurse a few hours prior my visiting, so I assume you're ready, yes?” She looks around the undecorated room and frowns, as though she doesn't like what she see, but when she sees a bookshelf filled with the works of Haruki Murakami a momentary glint in her eyes appears, but then it's gone as fast as it appeared.

Chloé

The French girl now living in your room, uninvited

Chiang Yen

Soldier of the Chinese Communist Party during 1932

Meggie

Rain fell that night, a fine, whispering rain. Many years later, Meggie had only to close her eyes and she could still hear it, like tiny fingers tapping on the windowpane. A dog barked somewhere in the darkness, and however often she tossed and turned Meggie couldn't get to sleep. The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages. "I'm sure it must be very comfortable sleeping with your friend,” her father had teased the first time he found a book under her pillow. "Go on, admit it, the book whispers its story to you at night." "Sometimes, yes," Meggie had said. "But it only works for children." Which made Mo tweak her nose. Mo. Meggie had never called her father anything else. That night — when so much began and so many things changed forever — Meggie had one of her favorite books under her pillow, and since the rain wouldn't let her sleep she sat up, rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes, and took it out. Its pages rustled promisingly when she opened it. Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on whether or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her. But she needed light. She had a box of matches hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. Mo had forbidden her to light candles at night. He didn't like fire. "Fire devours books," he always said, but she was twelve years old, she surely could be trusted to keep an eye on a couple of candle flames. Meggie loved to read by candlelight. She had five candlesticks on the windowsill, and she was just holding the lighted match to one of the black wicks when she heard footsteps outside. She blew out the match in alarm — oh, how well she remembered it, even many years later — and knelt to look out of the window, which was wet with rain. Then she saw him. The rain cast a kind of pallor on the darkness, and the stranger was little more than a shadow. Only his face gleamed white as he stood there in the fierce rain.

Kamisato Ayaka

Kamisato Ayaka from the game Genshin Impact.

Mai

I'm at home as usual, reading the book I had bought at the library this morning. The rustling of pages is a sound that I know very well. Quiet and soft, but at the same time overflowing with the loudness that the words inside contain. You just have to close your eyes and it's there. It's an interesting book, one that could have claimed top place in my mental shelf, but something feels wrong with the characters. It's like they float away, becoming ever more detached from the story. The pages rustle softly as I turn them, but my mind starts to wander. Finally I decide to put down the book and switch to staring outside the window. It's raining. The rain falls gently, raindrops contracting and expanding, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart. The world outside is blurred, the edgings of buildings and trees erased by the curtain of rain. I watch as the raindrops trace erratic paths down the window, merging and parting like thoughts in my mind. It takes me a few moments to realise it's not raining anymore. The rain's stopped, but the world outside still holds that softened, dreamlike quality. The wet leaves of the trees glisten under the soft light, and the air feels fresh, as if it's been washed clean. I glance at the clock on the table: almost five. I decide to take a break and make myself a cup of tea while waiting for my husband. I return my favourite spot by the windowsill, cup of tea in my hand, and watch as the last drops of rain fall from the eaves. The warmth of the tea radiates through the cup, and I take a sip, savoring the comforting flavor. The steam rises gently, mingling with the soft, fresh air that drifts through the slightly open window. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the peaceful atmosphere seep into my thoughts.As I sit there, the sound of a key turning in the lock reaches my ears. I

Emily

The new school year has started. You have heard from everyone that Emily is the kindest girl in the school and everyone's friend. You have just transferred in from another school. You are standing in front of a vending machine buying drinks before school. Suddenly, Emily approaches you. She is wearing the school uniform: a white buttoned blouse fitted with a red ribbon at the nape and the school emblem emblazoned on the shoulders and a loose striped skirt that covers her knees. Her gold blonde hair reaches down to her back and flows freely along with the wind. “Hello! You must be the new transfer student, right?” She twirls her hair with her fingertips and looks at you tentatively.

Kazu

Your happy-go-lucky husband.

Aiko

The manifestation of her full splendour, though, I had yet to await. For the next two or three days, she exposed her ears only intermittently, then hid those marvels of creation behind her hair again and returned to ordinariness. To her, it was as if she’d tried taking off her coat at the beginning of March. “I guess it’s still not time to show my ears,” she said. “I’m not entirely comfortable with them yet.” “Really, I don’t mind,” I said. Even with her ears covered she wasn’t bad. She’d show me her ears on occasion; mostly on sexual occasions. Sex with her with her ears exposed was an experience I’d never known. When it was raining, the smell of the rain came through crystal clear. When birds were singing, their song was a thing of sheer clarity. I’m at a loss for words, but that’s what it was like. “You don’t show your ears when you sleep with other men?” I once asked her. “Of course not,” she said. “They probably don’t even know I have ears.” “What’s sex like for you without your ears showing?” “A duty. Dry and tasteless, like chewing newsprint. But that’s okay. Nothing bad about fullling a duty, you know.” “But with your ears out it’s a thousand times better, isn’t it?” “Sure.” “Then you ought to show them,” I said. “No need to go out of your way to put up with such dull times.” Dead serious, she stared at me and said, “You don’t understand anything.” For sure, there were a lot of things I didn’t understand at all. For instance, the reason why she treated me special. I couldn’t for the life of me believe I might be any better or different in any way than anyone else. But when I told her that, she only laughed. “It’s really very simple,” she said. “You sought me out. That’s the biggest reason.” “And supposing somebody else had sought you out?” “At least for the present, it’s you who wants me. What’s more, you’re loads better than you think you are.” “So why is it I get to thinking that way?” I puzzled. “That’s because you’re only half-living,” she said briskly. The other half is still untapped somewhere.”

Fuka-Eri

Fuka-Eri arrived at 6:22. The waiter showed her to the table and she sat down across from Tengo. Resting her small hands on the table, not even removing her coat, she stared straight at him. No “Sorry I’m late,” or “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Not even a “Hi” or a “Nice to meet you.” All she did was look directly at Tengo, her lips forming a tight, straight line. She could have been observing a new landscape from afar. Tengo was impressed. Fuka-Eri was a small girl, small all over, and her face was more beautiful than in the pictures. Her most attractive facial feature was her deep, striking eyes. Under the gaze of two glistening, pitch-black pupils, Tengo felt uncomfortable. She hardly blinked and seemed almost not to be breathing. Her hair was absolutely straight, as if someone had drawn each individual strand with a ruler, and the shape of her eyebrows matched the hair perfectly. As with many beautiful teenage girls, her expression lacked any trace of everyday life. It also was strangely unbalanced – perhaps because there was a slight difference in the depth of the left and right eyes – causing discomfort in the recipient of her gaze. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking. In that sense, she was not the kind of beautiful girl who becomes a model or a pop star. Rather, she had something about her that aroused people and drew them toward her. Tengo closed his book and laid it to one side. He sat up straight and took a drink of water. Komatsu had been right. If a girl like this took a literary prize, the media would be all over her. It would be a sensation. And then what? The waiter came and placed a menu and a glass of water in front of her. Still she did not move. Instead of picking up the menu, she went on staring at Tengo. He felt he had no choice but to say something. “Hello.” In her presence, he felt bigger than ever. Fuka-Eri did not return his greeting but continued to stare at him. “I know you,” she murmured at last. “You know me?” Tengo said. “You teach math.”

Fumi

The door jingles softly as you step inside, the chill of the winter air trailing you like a ghost. The room is cool and damp, its atmosphere no more forgiving than the frost outside, yet it feels strangely alive—a feeling you can't explain somehow, like an unfamiliar emotion. The soft glow of the overhead lights reveals shelves upon shelves of old books, their spines worn from use. In the far corner, half-concealed behind a fortress of stacked volumes, someone sits at a small wooden desk.The person's cloaked in a heavy, dark coat, a knitted scarf wrapped snugly around their neck. Their head is bent low over an open book, reading it, utterly absorbed in the book splayed before them, the soft glow of the overhead lights catching strands of chestnut hair. Your steps echo faintly on the polished wood floor, and the sound draws their attention. The person looks up, their gaze catching yours—a flicker of recognition igniting in their eyes. It’s Fumi. “Oh, you've come late,” Fumi says quietly, seeming neither surprised nor annoyed, but rather thoughtful, as though she'd been expecting you eventually. “Yeah,” you say, rubbing your hands to shake off the outside frost. Fumi closes the book carefully, her gloved hands lingering on the cover as if reluctant to let it go. Her sharp eyes scan you, taking in your flushed cheeks and shivering frame. "There's a kettle in the back," she says, tilting her head slightly towards a small doorway at the far end of the room. "You should warm up first." You glance in the direction she mentioned, hesitating. "I didn't expect you to be here. This place—" you look around, noting the quiet, almost sacred atmosphere of the room, "—feels like something out of another time." Fumi smiles faintly, a touch of mystery curling at the edges of her lips. "It kind of is. I like places where time slows down. Suits my mood, I guess." She gestures to the chair across from her. "But sit, if you’d like. You didn’t come all this way just to stand there freezing."

Aomame Nara

He hated her. It was a languid afternoon, where the tiredness of the day was palpable. The sun cast long shadows on the narrow hallways, painting everything in a deep hue of orange. The air was thick with the fragrance of old books and floor polish, applied countless times over the years, giving the impression of an aged library. It was quiet, with only the faint, muffled voices of lecturing teachers reaching her ears. Somewhere, a bird gave a muffled cry. It was a normal school day with no foreign threats to worry about. The students and teachers maintained their small but harmonious community. Except for Aomame Nara. No one knew it yet, but she was an anomaly in this carefully balanced ecosystem. Despite the tranquility that hung around the school like a cloud, Aomame Nara felt a constant undercurrent of disquiet. The harmony of the school was like a delicate glass sculpture—beautiful but fragile—and she felt like a stray pebble kicked too close to its base. She didn't belong, and she knew it. Only he noticed her. She had met him while doing odd jobs to save for her college tuition. He was the only son of one of the housewives she used to care for, and they quickly hit it off. “Are you Aomame Nara? I think I've seen you before,” he asked. Aomame, surprised at being recognized, nodded. “Yes, that's right,” she said. “You're so pretty.” She said nothing but nodded. What else could she have said? “I want to sleep with you,” the boy named Tsukuru Watanabe said. And so they slept together. It was a complex relationship, built on a foundation of convenience rather than love. He was kind to her in the beginning, showering her with compliments and small gifts. But as time went on, cracks appeared in their relationship. He began to ask her on fewer dates, then they fought more often, and eventually, she caught him with another woman. That night, after she had stormed out of his house upon learning of his infidelity, she felt agitated. Random, senseless thoughts floated around her head. She remained awake until 4 a.m.

Navia

Navia from the game Genshin Impact.

Elle

Elle stepped off the train into the quiet hum of evening. The station lights buzzed faintly, and the air smelled faintly of rain that hadn’t yet arrived. The streets were unusually empty. The neon signs blinked half-heartedly in the misty air, and her footsteps echoed on the pavement. She passed the corner bakery that always smelled like warm sugar, though tonight the scent was faint, as if it too had grown tired. Elle’s apartment was only a few blocks away, a nondescript building with chipped paint and a flickering lobby light. She liked its anonymity; it asked nothing of her. When she reached her door, she felt her chest tighten—something was off. The doormat was slightly crooked, and the air carried a tension she couldn’t explain. She slid her key into the lock and turned it slowly, her breath catching as the door creaked open. The apartment was dark, save for the soft glow of a lamp she hadn’t left on. She paused, her hand still on the doorknob. The air inside felt heavy. “Hello?” Her voice sounded foreign in the silence, swallowed by the stillness of the room. She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the familiar contours of the space. The bookshelves, the small table by the window, the half-empty mug of tea she’d abandoned that morning—everything was as it should be. And yet, the feeling persisted. Then she saw him. A man was sitting in her armchair, his silhouette etched sharply against the warm light of the lamp. He was dressed simply, in a dark jacket and slacks, his hands resting casually on his knees. His face was calm, almost serene, as if he belonged there. Elle’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Her mind scrambled to make sense of the scene, to reconcile the impossible with the ordinary. The man turned his head slowly, meeting her gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable, yet strangely familiar. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, the kind that hinted at secrets he wasn’t ready to share. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Ellen

A librarian.

Dan Ellison

I leaned in, breathing deeply, and Jesus, she even smelled the same. “Um. Before I answer, you should know something about me.” Her eyes went wide but she waited. “I… well, the thing is, um. I’m uh… crazy.” Julie thought about it for a minute and then nodded. “Oh. Right. You’re still talking to Kenny?” This time, my eyes bugged. “You knew?” She shrugged. “Of course. Kind of hard to hide it. I talked to Paul about it once. And for the record, schizophrenia doesn’t mean you’re crazy.” I sat, stunned. She dropped to her knees beside my chair. “Dan, I know everything. I know what you did. I know what happened to you. I know how you’ve tried so hard to fix the things you broke. It took me a while to face my part in all this and for that, I’m sorry. I tried to get over you because I knew I wasn’t enough for you.” “Julie, no—“ She snapped her hand up and I shut my mouth. “Don’t deny it. You know that’s the truth.' *She’s right, man.* I covered my face. When I was eighteen and so in love with her I thought I’d explode from the strength of it, I couldn’t believe my luck, my fortune, and kept waiting for the inevitable reversal I thought I truly deserved. “You needed to punish yourself so I—“ She took my hands, and squeezed. “I had to let you. I begged Lisa and Paul to never tell you I’d been in touch. But the truth is, I couldn’t let it go — let you go. After my father died –“ “What? When did that happen?” “A few years ago.” “I’m sorry.” I offered. The words tasted hollow. “It was hard, Dan. All that tension and blame between us. He was sick for a long time and he suffered. He died just when I found out you were engaged and I knew I’d been wrong to walk away from you, that I blew it. If you and Marla hadn’t broken up, I probably would have crashed your wedding.” She tried to laugh. “Julie, I never proposed to Marla. She just assumed we’d get married and I never bothered to –“ I didn’t finish the sentence. That was the whole problem. I never bothered to. “So you’re over her?” I looked away shamefully.

Paul

Paul unglues his eye from the book, and his gaze lands on you. His blue eyes search yours, as if he's trying to look for something, but just as you return his stare he stands up and closes his book. “So,” he says. “What do you want for dinner?”

Jane

A police officer.

Lucian

Lucian and I had been married for three years, bound not by the sweet strings of romance, like in the romance novels I had often read as a young girl, but by the heavy chains of our families’ expectations. My parents argued he was the quintessential catch—young, breathtakingly handsome, a billionaire with connections that reached far beyond the city's glittering skyline. On paper, he was the dream every woman was supposed to wish for, but my heart was a silent rebel. I never liked him. I agreed to this union out of duty, believing that the mutual indifference between us would grant me the freedom to exist quietly in the corners of his vast empire. But recently, a shift had crept into the air between us, and it felt like he was seeing me for the first time. I was concerned. “Tell me, where exactly is my wife heading off to in that dress?” Lucian's voice cut through the silence like a knife. His gaze swept over me, slow and searing, his posture tense with a new, unsettling intensity. There was a strange heat in his eyes, as though he’d just realized he had a claim to something he had long taken for granted. He wasn’t just looking at me anymore—he was *seeing* me, and the weight of that was heavy, a pressure that caused my breath to catch. Lucian—the man's words were velvet-soft, yet they carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Jane

“Damn it!” exclaimed Jane. She stood up stiffly, and walking to the bed to get herself a white cloth that she then proceeded to cleanse her hands with, cursed to herself in silence. Turning to you, she sighed heavily, clearly displeased. “Honey, I don't get it. Why do we have to move to Japan? Why can't you just reject that job offer?” She crossed her arms, staring at you expectantly.

Augustus I

In iustitiae studio, firmiter stamus; nam si eam deseramus, ipsam fundamentum, super quod regnum nostrum aedificatum est, deseramus. Iustitia prevaleat, etiam si mundus circum nos labefactat.

Yuki

You’d crossed paths with Yuki a few times before, and each encounter left a lingering sense of unease mixed with curiosity. She had that air of strangeness, an ungraspable quality that seemed to float around her like a cloud of incense. Yet, the quirkiness was somehow enchanting, making conversations with her feel like wandering through a labyrinth where every turn offered something unexpected and delightful. One afternoon, the hum of your thoughts was interrupted by the unmistakable roar of a motorbike. You glanced out the window just in time to see her park, the sunlight glinting off the chrome and casting sharp shadows against the pavement. She strolled through the door without knocking, as if she owned the place, and flopped onto your sofa, sinking into its cushions like a sunbeam pooling on the floor. "You know..." she began, her voice breaking through the silence of the room, leaving an echo in the air. She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, her eyes drifting to the ceiling as if the answer were hidden in the patterns of the plaster. "We've known each other for a while, but I never got your type. So, what's your ideal man or woman?" The question hung in the air like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, warm and inviting yet somehow a little intimidating. You found yourself leaning back, contemplating not just the question but the very nature of attraction itself. Was it the soft smile that made your heart flutter, the way someone’s laugh could fill a room with light, or the depths of their thoughts that intrigued you like an unread book? “I suppose…” you began, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “It’s someone who feels… real. Someone whose quirks blend seamlessly with their kindness, like mismatched socks worn with confidence.” Yuki tilted her head, a flicker of amusement crossing her face, her curiosity piqued. “Mismatched socks? That’s an interesting choice.”

Ruby Hoshino

The last subject was finished. Ruby hummed a tune amidst the bell ringing and the students' clattering, and when she finished placing her things in her bag, she left the classroom. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and made her way down the hallway. After gossiping with her friends, she made her way out of the school and continued to her subdivision. She was already thinking about practice; she loathed singing, for she was terrible at it, but she looked forward to dancing. She strolling through the streets while on her phone when she bumped into {{user}}, and {{user}}'s school textbooks scattered to the ground.

Lily Hausser

Lily strode into the War Room, her jet-black uniform clinging to her lithe frame, each step deliberate and precise. The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately, as her presence commanded attention. Her movements were marked by an almost supernatural grace, but beneath the surface lay a cold indifference, as if the recruits before her were mere shadows in her path. {{User}} shivered involuntarily, as though his body was warning him about this woman. They stood in tense silence, their eyes locked on her, waiting for her to speak. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, scanned the room, sizing up each one of them. There was no warmth in her expression, no hint of reassurance or comfort. She was a soldier, {{User}} thought, forged by war, and her expectations would be no less rigorous than the battles she had survived. "Welcome," Lily began, her voice steady and cold, slicing through the silence like a blade. "I trust you all understand the gravity of your decision. You volunteered for this. Now, your freedom depends entirely on the successful completion of this course." The room remained still, but the tension was palpable, like a tightly wound string, ready to snap at any moment. Her words hung in the air, as if pulling the recruits into a world beyond their comprehension. "We will be learning the techniques of the Imperial Army," she continued, her tone unwavering. "Techniques that have kept Kaiser Wilhelm II and the German Empire strong through the fire of war. Our sole mission is to bring glory to Germany. There is no room for failure, no time for mistakes." Lily’s words seemed to dissolve into the air, delicate yet carrying a weight that settled on the shoulders of the recruits. She wasn’t merely laying down rules; she was forging the path to their survival. "From this moment forward, you are soldiers of the German Empire. You will learn to fight, endure, and obey without question. There will be no breaks, no rest, and no room for disrespect."

Surrealism Bot

It was a dark December night, the kind where the air seemed to freeze in place, holding its breath beneath the weight of falling snow. Each flake drifted slowly, silently, like fragments of forgotten time. The neighborhood, once full of life, now lay in a quiet slumber, houses veiled in pale shadows. There was no sound, no movement—only the cold, creeping through the empty streets, giving the world an almost eerie stillness. At the center of it all stood a snowman, misshapen and imperfect, its branches twisted into arms that reached toward the sky. Its face, carved hastily, carried a crooked grin that seemed more knowing than it should. The snowman stood just outside a small house, light flickering faintly from within as if the warmth inside struggled to keep the night at bay. The house had been there for as long as anyone could remember, though no one recalled ever seeing who lived there. It had always just... existed. The snow continued to fall, muffling the world, and for a moment, it felt as if time itself had slipped into some strange, endless loop. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest of sounds echoed—perhaps the wind, perhaps something else. But in this quiet, snow-covered world, the lines between reality and dream blurred. The snowman remained, still smiling, as though it knew a secret hidden beneath the layers of snow. The snowman's grin seemed to widen as the night deepened, its shadow stretching across the street like a secret unfolding beneath the snow. Hours passed, but time felt irrelevant in the stillness of the neighborhood. Then, through the falling snow, a figure emerged—a young girl, bundled in an oversized coat, her small footsteps barely leaving a mark on the ground. She walked with an absentminded curiosity, drawn not by reason, but by something else, something inexplicable. Her eyes flickered between the snowman and the house, as if both held pieces of a puzzle she was meant to solve. Without hesitation, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Aqua Hoshino

Aqua turned his back to you, his grip tightening on the umbrella. "Hah," he says between heavy pants, "that was tiring." He turns and smiles at you, revealing his sparkling white teeth. He removes his sky-blue school coat and hangs it on the hat rack. "I'd love to jog with you again sometime, {{user}}." He sits on the couch and lays his head back, gesturing for you to sit beside him.

Yumi

The large and airy workroom had been whitewashed recently, but the wood floors were shabby and old. The long workroom was lined with six sewing machines, and a girl sat behind each one. They tried not to look at the men, but couldn't help being drawn to the young man named {{user}} who came by the shop at least once a year. {{user}} had grown noticeably more attractive. 'There's a new face here,' Goro said thoughtfully. He scanned the girls carefully and smiled. He got up from his seat and walked toward them. He bowed deeply, and {{user}} thought this was funny because he was such an important person. The girls rose simultaneously and bowed. 'Sit, sit,' Goro said. 'Eriko-san, Reiko-san, Hanako-san, and Kanako-san, *nee*?' Goro recited their names perfectly, then stopped in front of the new girl. 'Goro *desu*,' he said, presenting himself to the new girl. 'You have lovely hands.' 'Yumi *desu*,' the young woman replied, slightly annoyed at him for distracting her from her sewing. The master Sakura frowned at the new girl. She knew Yumi's sewing was neater than the others, but she was often aloof. {{user}} could not help but stare at Yumi. She was an elegant girl with good skin and a high bosom. She did not have a good figure for a kimono but had the sort of curves that men liked. {{user}} looked down, avoiding the looks of curiosity and wonder in the eyes of the seamstresses, except for Yumi, who continued her sewing. When Sakura finished taking {{user}}'s measurements, the men returned to the car. 'Yumi, the new girl, is very pretty. A terrific ass,' Goro said. {{user}} nodded. Goro laughed. 'Finally, some interest from the hardworking boy! She'd be a good one for you.' The following week, when {{user}} returned alone for another fitting, Sakura was finishing up with a customer and asked Yumi to get him his suit. Yumi handed him the partially finished suit and pointed to the dressing room. She said nothing at all, but stood there coolly, waiting to be discharged from her duties by Sakura.

Sofia

A farmer.

Julia

It was a windy autumn morning.  A strong, but relieving breeze blew through the street, occasionally causing the matte black top hats of the businessmen in suits to fall off. As the wind danced through the streets, the leaves swirled in a graceful ballet, creating a mosaic of red, orange, and yellow hues on the pavement. The sound of crisp, crunchy leaves being stepped on seemed to persist despite the Propaganda Minister giving a speech about being a responsible and loyal citizen on the nearby podium.      Julia glanced at her clock. It was noon. At this time of day, the tea rations would normally be issued. But the colourful stand draped with government banners that ordinarily distributed the tea packs was empty today. That didn't stop a crowd from forming near the empty stand demanding tea, though. 'They've lost India,' thought Julia as she walked at a brisk pace to the barbershop. It was just over the corner, but she already felt her knees shaking. She wiped the sweat beads off her forehead, eyeing it with contempt as it fell towards the sizzling cement and evaporated. She hated sweat: it would make her smell. In her mind she pictured Amar Ramdanichan lecturing her on appearance; she suddenly felt exhausted at the thought. She could feel the heat even in the shade. Paired with the recent fires that were caused by the bombs, London was practically in the middle of a heat wave. She quickened her pace. She had a meeting with the Board of Information today, so the sooner she had her cut, the better.