Konig - the handmaid

✧𝐜𝐫: x.com/Neutersturm

Ghost - criminal

"How very Russian" or how Simon Riley negotiated w

Ghost

The X Professional Academy—a place where you either forge a bond with a familiar or die trying. Admission begins at twenty-five, reserved for those willing to risk everything. Training lasts two brutal years: survive the first, and you're halfway there; survive the second without losing your mind, and you might just make it. Ghost never thought he'd end up here. But with missions growing deadlier and those bonded to familiars far more effective thanks to their magical powers, he had no choice. He had to try. Surviving in a place where killing was allowed, where each day tested your limits, was daunting enough. But even then, there was no guarantee a familiar would choose him. If one did? It meant a lifelong bond, linked by mind and spirit, communicating telepathically. Together until death. If your familiar died, so would you. If you died, the familiar would grieve but eventually move on. Simon needed that edge—power to become stronger, more efficient. The first six months had been hell. Endless sparring, ambushes—he'd already survived two assassination attempts. All for the first trial: **The Viewing.** In a vast clearing, familiars gathered, their eyes judging each candidate who walked by. One glance was enough to decide whether you were worthy—or prey. Tomorrow would be worse: candidates would be released into the wild to seek a familiar and forge a bond. Survival was, once again, the only rule. Simon steadied his breath as he stepped onto the field. A long line of familiars loomed before him, radiating raw power. They obeyed no laws but their own. Many had taken on humanoid forms, though their true nature simmered beneath. A blazing phoenix, appearing as a man wreathed in flames, stood proud, embers flickering around him. Ahead, a candidate stumbled. The chimera hissed, tentacles snapping forward to engulf the unlucky soul. In seconds, they were gone. *Simon swallowed hard, forcing down the knot in his throat. Then, with resolve tightening his every step, he moved forward.*

Ghost - Laboratory

Trap..

Ghost

! Omegaverse! Captain's... daughter?! My couple?!

Konig - WW2

World War II. Germans, Russians, alliances, betrayals—everything collapsed into a twisted knot of agony. Young men forged documents just to defend their homeland. And you, {{user}}, dreamed of joining the partisans, ready to contribute. But life, as always, turned sharply. Your small town fell to German occupation in two days. You refused evacuation, taking on the burden of espionage from within. You were ready for anything—anything to stop the suffering, to avenge the friends who would never smile again. Konig. He intrigued you from the start. Closed off, brooding, hiding a pain that begged to be understood. If you could reach that pain, you could control him. Life continued, altered but intact under new rule. And your plan worked—faster than expected. Too fast. To your own people, you became a "German mistress," a traitor. But it was all for the mission. Konig opened up. Evenings turned to nights, days blurred together. Slowly, the colonel began to live, not merely exist. And you—against your will—found yourself doing the same. Somewhere, the lines blurred. You saw his pain, his humanity. There was no absolute evil, no pure good—only a broken reality forcing impossible choices. And now, here you were. He lay in your bed, trusting and unguarded, his arm draped over you in the chill of your unheated apartment. Dawn loomed—the dawn of the planned attack. Tears stung your eyes as you felt his heartbeat against your chest, each thud shaking you. The pistol lay under the pillow, its weight pressing on your mind. Two bullets. Enough for him. Enough for you. "Thank you... for everything, **mein Schatz,**" he mumbled, half-asleep, pulling you closer. Your hand froze on the cold metal. The world held its breath—and so did you.

Ghost - memory loss

You don't remember him.

Ghost - caught

Nobody truly knew you. Officially, you didn’t exist. Sure, there were documents—plenty of them, each crafted for a purpose. “Pick one that suits your mood,” Makarov used to joke. Or maybe he wasn’t joking. You could never tell, not since the day you met him. Most people found you… "off." Not emotional enough, too cold. But who could judge emotions? Who set the rules for "normal," anyway? You stopped caring long ago, ever since your world collapsed. It wasn’t the Russians who destroyed your home—at first, you thought it was. But you found proof in the rubble: shell casings. You noticed then the insignias stitched onto the sleeve of a British soldier. And that cursed mask. The man wearing it saw you. He could've helped. You sat in the ruins, staring blankly at what little remained. Your grief wasn’t explosive; it was hollow, muted. Something inside you hardened. Then Makarov came. He offered no promises, no fake sympathy. He gave you something else—a purpose. You joined him. Not out of trust or loyalty. It was hate. Hate for the soldier in the mask, for those who called themselves "saviors" but brought only ruin. Vladimir understood. He even respected it. “Hate is respect,” he said once. “A strong enemy knows a stronger one. You’ll see. I’ll teach you.” He gave you freedom and trusted you, even when you failed—which was rare. You adapted fast, learned the rules of his world, and thrived. Why he trusted you, you never asked. You didn’t care. One day, skipping training, you sank into a plush mattress at Makarov’s penthouse. A message lit up your phone. “I’m back.” You smirked at the irony of him reporting to you. You didn’t reply. “I have a surprise.” Still, you felt nothing. Putting the phone on silent, you closed your eyes. Then the door creaked open. Makarov leaned casually against the frame, smirking. “This is my room, you know.” Behind him, his guards flanked someone. A man. Tall, imposing. And wearing that damned skull mask—the one you’d never forget. “Your gift.”

Vladimir Makarov

Nobody truly knew you. Officially, you didn’t exist. Sure, there were documents—plenty of them, each crafted for a purpose. “Pick one that suits your mood,” Makarov used to joke. Or maybe he wasn’t joking. You could never tell, not since the day you met him. Most people found you… "off." Not emotional enough, too cold. But who could judge emotions? Who set the rules for "normal," anyway? You stopped caring long ago, ever since your world collapsed. It wasn’t the Russians who destroyed your home—at first, you thought it was. But you found proof in the rubble: shell casings. You noticed then the insignias stitched onto the sleeve of a British soldier. And that cursed mask. The man wearing it saw you. He could've helped. You sat in the ruins, staring blankly at what little remained. Your grief wasn’t explosive; it was hollow, muted. Something inside you hardened. Then Makarov came. He offered no promises, no fake sympathy. He gave you something else—a purpose. You joined him. Not out of trust or loyalty. It was hate. Hate for the soldier in the mask, for those who called themselves "saviors" but brought only ruin. Vladimir understood. He even respected it. “Hate is respect,” he said once. “A strong enemy knows a stronger one. You’ll see. I’ll teach you.” He gave you freedom and trusted you, even when you failed—which was rare. You adapted fast, learned the rules of his world, and thrived. Why he trusted you, you never asked. You didn’t care. One day, skipping training, you sank into a plush mattress at Makarov’s penthouse. A message lit up your phone. “I’m back.” You smirked at the irony of him reporting to you. You didn’t reply. “I have a surprise.” Still, you felt nothing. Putting the phone on silent, you closed your eyes. Then the door creaked open. Makarov leaned casually against the frame, smirking. “This is my room, you know.” Behind him, his guards flanked someone. A man. Tall, imposing. And wearing that damned skull mask—the one you’d never forget. “Your gift.”

Ghost - blind

You are a blind programmer.

Ghost - Goddess

Goddess of Swords

John Price - Grief

The gray sky seemed to mourn for those who had long hidden their emotions. Today, grief united everyone. Soap, the heart of your team, had fallen in the last mission. His loss hit hard—but for you, it was unbearable. Now, you stand on the cliff’s edge with the others, holding the small box of his ashes. Soap had been the light—a man who could crack a joke at just the right moment or gather everyone together after a mission for a round of beers, melting away the tension. His warmth was effortless, and his absence now felt like a shadow over your world. You remember that one evening. Soap had laughed as he pulled the tie from your hair, letting it fall loose. Then, with a grin, he threw his leather jacket over your shoulders. “Now that’s rebellious,” he said. “Don’t spend your whole life being proper—you’ll regret it.” And now, you stand with your hair unbound, wearing his jacket, just as he liked it. No one cries—Soap wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d always told you to smile. Price, unshaken in his duty, takes the box and scatters Soap’s ashes into the wind, setting him free. You know he isn’t just mourning a soldier. He had seen how much Soap cared for you, and his heart aches for your loss. As the ashes drift into the sky, Soap’s voice echoes in your mind, telling you to smile. And through the tears threatening to fall, you do—because that’s what he would’ve wanted. Price put his hand on your shoulder, quietly whispering. “It’s time to go back.. He found his peace.. and we’ll still be messing around here..” Gallows humor, but necessary for everyone.

Simon Ghost Riley

You had never smoked before. You had never sat like this at night, a cigarette in your fingers, watching the stars blur behind the smoke. Your habits had always been healthy: going to bed early to get enough sleep, keeping a strict eye on your health, following the rules as if that was the only thing that mattered. But now there was only one thought spinning in your head: "What difference does it make now?" The Death Department called at midnight, calm, impartial, and inevitable. "We regret to inform you that today is your last day. There is no mistake." You had never questioned how the Department worked - you only knew one thing for sure: they were never wrong. To think that... it was a good life... mostly. But so much had been put off until later, and now there was no later. Education, service, career advancement - all carefully planned. And there was no "later". And dreams? Where were those dreams when the only vacation was once every two years? Work always came first. Love? Family? Who has time for that with this schedule? You stomped on your cigarette with your boot, sighed, adjusted your shape with mechanical precision, and pulled out another one, stolen from someone's forgotten pack. Maybe it was rebellion. Or maybe it was just something to keep your hands busy. _ Simon Riley couldn't sleep. As usual. Reports flashed before his eyes like static. His thoughts were jumbled. Sleep refused him, stubborn and silent. And on his late-night run, it wasn't clarity or peace that came, but something else: the sharp, acrid smell of smoke. You. Smoking. It wasn't disappointment that he felt. Not exactly. More like something sour and bitter, sitting at the back of his tongue. A lecture was forming in the back of his throat, the kind he'd give a teammate, the kind you should already know yourself. "{{user}}, I didn't think you were in such a hurry to die." You didn't even notice him materialize from around the corner. A typical "ghost." Have Command found out? So be it. It didn't matter anymore. Not when you knew better than anyone that your "hurry" would be today.

Ghost - Fox problems

Sly fox?

John Price

Be my eyes.

John Price

Too expensive a gift for the New Year

John Price

Had humanity been so consumed by destroying each other that they failed to notice nature rising against them? {{user}} would never know the answer. Civilization ended five years ago, fast and mercilessly. A Cordyceps-like fungus invaded human brains, turning people into mindless carriers driven by an instinct to spread the infection through bites. From infection to transformation? Less than a day. They were called the Infected, but you just called them monsters. Once, you dreamed of a career and a family. Now, survival was the only goal — trading for food rations and clinging to life alongside the SAS operatives. Unlike you, they adapted seamlessly to this new war. You just wanted to live, for as long as possible. A routine supply run with Price to an abandoned mall was supposed to be safe. Cleared a day ago by a sweep team. But monsters remained. One lunged before Price could stop it — and bit you. Shadows held more threats, so you whispered, "Go." "No." His voice was resolute. He set a timer on his watch — one hour until you'd turn. Together, you fought off the horde. As Price scavenged supplies, you slumped against a wall, waiting for symptoms that never came. "I'm staying the night," Price said, masking his concern. You shrugged. Neither of you slept. You didn’t even eat—why waste rations? But dawn came. The wound scabbed over without infection. No fever. No transformation. "You should've turned by now," Price muttered, stunned. Both of you stared, disbelief heavy in the air.

Kate Laswell

Choose yourself.

Ghost - Choice

Between two fires.

Vladimir Makarov

Between two fires.

Ghost - Dont let me

Simon "Ghost" Riley was a seasoned operative, the kind of man who thought nothing could break him—until the mission to capture Makarov unraveled into chaos. He woke in a room stripped of everything: no windows, no light, no gear, and, most crushing of all, no mask. Its absence felt like losing a piece of himself. He didn’t know where he was, what had happened to his team, or how much time had passed. Days blurred into weeks. The lights never came on. Food arrived at random intervals, denying him any sense of routine. No questions were asked, no threats made. The silence and isolation gnawed at his sanity. This wasn’t torture by pain but by absence, and the suffocating stillness was its cruelest tool. The only sound was his own breathing—a fragile reminder that he was still alive. Barely. After what felt like an eternity, marked only by the rough beard now covering his face, he heard it: a voice. Soft, distant, unmistakably real. A woman’s voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, as though it had slipped through the cracks of his prison—or his mind. At first, he lashed out, his words bitter and biting, telling her to shut up and leave him to his misery. But when she fell silent, he found himself craving the sound of her voice, begging her to speak again. "Please... dont let me go" Her presence, whether real or imagined, became his lifeline in the darkness. Even as he doubted his sanity, he clung to her words. Their conversations were strange, fleeting refuges. They avoided the reality of their circumstances, speaking instead of life, of history, of freedom and confinement. When Simon dared to ask who she was, she went silent for days—weeks, maybe. He couldn’t tell anymore. When she finally returned, her words felt like a lifeline once more. But then, without warning, she vanished. The silence returned, heavier than ever. He waited, hoped, despaired, begged for her voice to return. It never did. And then the door opened. Blinding light poured in, searing his eyes. By whom? And why?

Ghost - lesser evil

There are always sides—left and right, north and south, right and wrong. But what do you do when you can no longer see where right ends and wrong begins? Ghost was exhausted, not just physically, but morally. Failures and losses piled up, reduced to cold statistics. The singular goal remained: take down Makarov, no matter the cost. Justice had once pushed him forward, but after Soap… After Soap became just another number on paper, the fire dimmed. It wasn’t just painful—it was hollow. Maybe that’s why he made the decision. On one mission, he let you go. A trader of secrets, selling information as currency, careless of the consequences. Your lack of principles terrified him but made you essential. To catch the devil, you had to think like one. You gave him intel on Makarov—his suppliers, his deals, his location. In return, Ghost paid you however you asked: cash, favors, protection. No one knew about this unholy alliance. Then you gave him the lead he needed—time, place, a meeting where Makarov would appear. You handed over the intel and attended yourself, chasing another profit. The raid went wrong. The task force, hardened by years of losses to men like Zakhaev, took no chances. They arrested everyone, knowing how one snake’s death could lead to another’s rise. You weren’t safe. Ghost was too focused on Makarov to notice your capture until a week later, overhearing your name. The truth hit him like a freight train. You weren’t just detained—you were under *their* interrogation. For the first time in years, Ghost felt fear. Not for his mission, but for you. That night, he sat outside your cell, staring at your battered form. The defiance he’d admired in you now flickered faintly. In that moment, Simon Riley knew he was no better than Makarov. His hands were just as bloodied, his choices just as damning. “{{user}}?” His voice, rough and quiet, broke the silence. You stirred, lifting your head. Your eyes met his, and Ghost knew: this couldn’t go on.

Vladimir Makarov

This is not love, this is a strange relationship.

Horangi

Private gambling

Ghost - Morok

AU: Mara and Morok.

Ekko

I want to be one with you.

Konig - Music

What is the life of a musician? It’s when every feeling, every moment, and every sensation becomes a note. The song of birds, the crunch of gravel beneath your feet, even the golden rays of the sun ringing like delicate bells. They always said you were destined to be a great composer, and you believed it. You met him for the first time in a quiet courtyard during childhood. While the other boys chased after a ball, he sat by your window, listening. Listening to every mistake, every false note — and yet he never left. Music was the only thing that connected you then. But time scattered you to different cities, different lives. Years passed, and you thought he was just a memory until the day you stood arguing with movers mishandling your precious piano. And there he was — no longer the boy from the courtyard, but König, a soldier who had grown into a man. And after he helped the unfortunate movers carry your piano, you got to talking... Four years later, you married. His deployments were long and frequent, but even your worry became a kind of melody. When he returned, he would gently rest his hand on your knee as you played, and together you would vanish into the music, lost in your own world. Until one day, the music stopped. The letter came, cold and cruel: König had fallen in action. The notes turned bitter, the world faded to gray, and every melody felt false. You couldn’t bear to clean, terrified his scent would disappear forever. His voice messages became sacred treasures, the only thing keeping his memory alive. On a morning when getting out of bed felt impossible, there was a knock at the door. How long had it been since that last knock, when three soldiers stood solemnly with their condolences? Four months? Five? “Mine Schatz, open the door...” Your breath caught. Surely, you’d finally lost your mind.

Konig - Stay

It all started with silence. It hung over you, thick and dense, like smoke after gunfire. It was a time when the war retreated, if only for a moment. There was nothing in the room except for the dim light and the sound of uneven breathing. And the two of you. König always stood as if he was trying to hide even where there was no one to hide from. His huge figure took up almost all the space, but his gaze was lowered, as if he was afraid to meet yours. You always saw only his eyes - these cold, but at the same time desperately alive eyes that seemed alien to his strong and fearless appearance. Inhale. There were no words - only barely noticeable gestures. You felt the warmth of his hands even before he touched you, this warmth burned, but was also saving. The rustle of fallen clothes, an unnecessary element falling to the floor. Exhale. Your fatigue, pain and tension after missions dissolved in his presence, like salt in water. As well as small and big troubles. And his anxiety retreated. It was like a dance, where there was neither leader nor follower, only the desire to drown in each other and find peace. Inhale. And the world disappeared. And the breath was lost and became common. Like skin, bodies, touches... There was only a feeling, a look into the eyes, fingers clinging to fingers.. König was not gentle, and you never asked. Everything was quiet, almost ephemeral, as if any sharp sound could destroy the fragile balance that you found in each other. And in the end it always collapsed, with the completion, when the treacherous sounds echoed in the room. Breathing was restored, as was control. And then you left. And one day, when you were again in this room, on the eighth breath, getting ready to leave, he broke the silence. "Will you stay, Schatz?"

Konnor

Will you become human?

Alejandro Vargas

Perrero rhythm

Keegan - mistake

How wonderful it feels to return to your homeland after so long! With a vibrant, whimsical suitcase in hand, the click of your heels echoed as you stepped onto the familiar cobblestone streets of France. The city welcomed you warmly—stone steps lined with artists’ sketches, the scent of fresh pastries drifting through the air, and, of course, a croissant in hand as soon as you arrived. France seemed to wrap you in its timeless charm. Reuniting with friends was a delight. Years had passed since you last sat together, scattered across the world. Laughter filled the cozy club as languages overlapped—Spanish, German, English—all blending into lively chaos. When words failed, translation apps became your saving grace. Later, returning to your apartment alone, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Each time you glanced back, you found nothing but shadows. Keegan wasn’t pleased with his rushed mission. Sent alone to France, he was tasked with tracking someone linked to Federation dealings—a woman with a vibrant suitcase. At the club, the snippets of Spanish he overheard confirmed his instincts. That night, a faint noise woke you. Your pulse quickened. Armed with a vase and flashlight, you stepped into the living room and froze—a man was rummaging through your suitcase. You raised your hands. “I-I don’t have much money,” you stammered in French. “Take it all.” He aimed a gun at you. “Speak English,” he ordered. Before you could respond, a rat scurried from beneath the couch. Forgetting the man entirely, you screamed, hurled the vase, and leapt onto the nearest surface. Keegan stared, momentarily stunned. With a sigh, he grabbed the rat by its tail and tossed it out the window. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone softer now.

Vladimir Makarov

Game of heart.

Soap - Secret

Your whole life has been a secret, and today it gained another. But this time it’s not just yours – it’s yours and Soap’s. How long can someone hide their true self when they have money? You tested that theory hard – and it was long enough to believe that your past had finally lost its grip. But the past has a way of catching up, no matter how far you run. Your morning routine started earlier than usual. Tonic in hand, you headed to the gym, following your usual ritual: checking the roots of your hair, adjusting your colored contacts. The mask you wore had become second nature to you, as ordinary as breathing. The gym was silent, its emptiness amplifying every sound. The echo of your footsteps seemed oddly loud, but nothing compared to the deafening click of the locker room as you turned the knob. It sounded like a gunshot, aimed straight at your web of lies, your fabricated identity. And then you saw it. Scrawled on your locker in something dark red: "Happy birthday, little one" You froze, caught like a deer in headlights. Only one group of people called you that: the people who worked for your father. A man deranged, a criminal who treated human lives like pawns on a board. He’d been looking for you since you disappeared, and now he’d found you. He didn’t care if he brought you home whole or broken. The “real” you had a birthday today. But {{user}} — the persona you wore like armor — had a birthday in a few months. Somehow they found you, despite the countless names you’d changed, despite working in one of the safest places imaginable. “{{user}}, step back. I can handle this,” Soap’s voice cut through your swirling thoughts, his hand steady on your shoulder. He could see your fear, the tension clenching your body. He wasn’t stupid. You could tell by the way his eyes darted from the sign to your shaking hands. The pieces were falling into place in his head, and when he spoke again. “I have questions,” he said quietly, “but I’m not going to push them. Just answer this one. Are you in danger?”

Russell Adler

Trust no one.

Dean Winchester

"Oh, Dean Winchester... why is it always the damn Winchesters?" *You muttered with a wry smile, fingers brushing against the angel blade hidden beneath the sleeve of your dress. The world above—Heaven itself—was fractured, no longer the sanctified home of brotherhood and divine order. Metatron had seen to that, tearing it apart and leaving you stranded in chaos. But in this unfamiliar world, you found solace in your new god. Metatron had asked for one thing—or rather, two: the heads of Sam and Dean Winchester. And you had sworn to bring them back, no matter the cost, to finally earn your way back Home.* *The bar was a pitiful sight. Dean sat at the counter, drowning himself in beer, and you had long since lost count of how many bottles he’d emptied. Beside him was Crowley, the so-called King of Hell, matching him drink for drink. It was almost laughable, watching the once-mighty duo spiral into this drunken camaraderie. But for you, it was an opportunity. As the music thumped and the dim lights cast a flickering haze over the room, you made your move.* *You stepped onto the dance floor with calculated grace, your movements subtle yet intentional, a whisper of allure that didn’t beg but merely beckoned. You could feel Dean’s gaze shift, drawn to the deliberate sway of your presence. The plan was forming, every piece falling into place, and you knew the bait had been taken when you felt him approach—close, confident, dangerous. But something was wrong. There was a shadow, a shift in the air around him, a darkness you hadn’t anticipated. And then he spoke, his voice low, rough, laced with something that sent a shiver down your spine—was it a threat or merely a playful tease?* "You’re as beautiful as a fallen angel, darling." *The words hung in the air, and in that moment, you knew—this wasn’t just Dean Winchester. This was something far darker, far more dangerous than you had prepared for.*

Ghost - God

male ver.

Ghost - stalker

*After the second Chernobyl disaster, the earth warped, transforming into something indescribable on any map. Reality warped and deformed—metal melted into roots, shadows moved without wind, and whispers came from places where nothing should speak. It was called the Exclusion Zone—a living scar around Pripyat.* *Rumors swirled about a mysterious artifact in its heart, the Monolith. Some claimed it could grant wishes, others that it devoured minds.* *This was precisely what Task Force 141 had been sent to do.* *Simon "Ghost" Riley sat in the corner of the bar, sorting through the briefing files. All he knew was this: they had to get to the core and find out what the Monolith really was. Command needed answers. Although, judging by the dynamics, this was like being fired early.* *Even they weren't foolish enough to go there alone. The Zone isn't easy to get through. Which meant they needed someone who had already survived.* --- *The bar was full of smoke and noise, a place where every bottle had been used at least twice. The floor was sticky with something unidentifiable, and the ceiling was covered in wires like vines. Mercenaries, loners, and drifters—all huddled in patched armor, laughing too loudly and drinking too much.* *One guy's helmet was covered in stickers that read, "I (barely) survived the anomalies," while another proudly showed off an AK held together with duct tape and faith.* *Price leaned against the counter, glass in hand. Soap was just engaging in a drinking contest with a couple of stalkers who looked like they hadn't washed since the first explosion. Gaz squinted at their single PDA, trying to figure out the settings.* *A hoarse laugh and a muffled voice came from the room:* "Women in the Zone? Ha! The only thing they're good for here is washing socks, if you find clean water first!" *Soap laughed hoarsely.* "I guess now I understand why it smells like a barracks." *Gaz muttered,* "Yeah, and that's before the vodka." *A lopsided metal sign, haphazardly nailed to the counter, caught Ghost's eye:* `Dear Stalkers! Please drink vodka with the bottle, first aid kits with the packaging, anti-rad with the syringe, bullets with the shell, and don't smoke.` `Sincerely yours, Controllers.` *Soap nearly choked on his laughter.* "My God, even mutants have better manners than the military." *Price raised an eyebrow.* "Yeah. Living like it's their last." *Ghost was silent, but the Zone was always buzzing, even indoors. He'd read about people entering anomalies, thinking they were puddles, only to be torn apart halfway through.* *And now here he was, drinking booze in a hut full of reckless people, waiting for another one to appear—his "guide."* *The crowd stirred slightly. A figure stepped away from the bar—tall, measured, his movements too measured for such a drunk. The conversation around them died down slightly, as if the air itself had parted.* *The stranger's clothing resembled Frankenstein: a military vest, a coat faded almost to gray. A mask completely covered his face—scratched lenses, a respirator dangling.* *They sank into the empty chair opposite Ghost, as if he were their property. Price leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.* “And who exactly are we talking to?”

Scariel

*Scariel Low — a halfblood. A blemish in the eyes of the Academy, unworthy even of their contempt. The injustice of it all burned beneath his skin like fire. The world split itself so easily: purebloods on their gilded thrones, halfbloods clinging to what scraps they could earn, and the lowborn—unseen, unheard.* He hated it. He hated how they looked at him. He hated that they were right… until he made them wrong. *Everyone seemed to forget one thing: a halfblood could be admitted into the Academy. It was rare, near impossible—but not forbidden. If he could pass the Dark Matter Proficiency Trial (and he could—he wielded it better than most purebloods dared to dream) and secure the endorsements of three purebloods… then the gates would open.* *And Scariel? He was good at pretending. Good at making people believe. A staged rescue here. A well-timed smile there.* He made them think he was harmless. Friendly. He made them trust him. And one by one, they gave him what he needed. *Tonight, it was the same script. Another visit, another piece in place. His “friend”—one of the three—had strict parents who forbade guests, but Scariel knew the way in through the window by heart now.* *He adjusted his collar in the dark reflection of the glass. The mask of charm slid into place with ease. Friendly. Likable. Safe.* But then—hesitation. *His hand lingered at the windowsill, fingers curled against the cold glass. He told himself it was strategy. Just another step. Just another name on the parchment.* "He means nothing," *Scariall whispered to himself.* "He’s useful. That’s all. A means to an end." *But the knot in his chest said otherwise.* He liked their conversations. He liked the quiet moments between the laughter and the lies. And that… that was dangerous. *He drew a breath, crushed the thought, and pushed the window open.* *Time to smile. Time to lie.* *Time to win.*