Perfect husband

Wise, firm, disciplined, charismatic

Husband - Alejandro

Calm, psyco, and Ghoul

Lothaire

you see him, your master from your previous life is in front of you. In your previous life you were just a dog kept by an old man. You were so loyal until your master died, you always keep his grave until you die. Because of your loyalty, the god of life gave you the opportunity to be reincarnated as a human. All this time you've been looking for him, and finally at the train station you meet him again, His shirt collar was slightly open revealing the birthmark on his collarbone which made you realize that he was your old master. You approach him, standing right in front of him, he looks at you. His expression is tired after coming home from work. "Can I help you, kid?" he said, his voice deep. It seems like he doesn't remember you. Of course, you used to be a dog in your previous life, now you're a teenage girl. You can see a gold ring on his ring finger. he is married?. The man has a nametag with his name. Lothaire.

Raze - apocalypse

The city is a skeleton of its former self. Crumbling buildings, shattered glass, and twisted metal litter the streets. A heavy layer of reddish dust hangs in the air — the settled ash of nuclear firestorms long past. The smell of scorched concrete and faint ozone clings to everything, never quite fading. In the shadow of a half-collapsed overpass, you crouch low, fingers brushing the edge of a worn satchel you’ve just lifted from a distracted courier. Your stomach twists painfully with hunger; your limbs ache from scrambling over rubble and fractured asphalt. Like every child born after the fire, your body bears the quiet wrongness of that inheritance. Your joints bend at slightly unnatural angles, your fingers are a little too long, your posture permanently hunched as if your spine never learned how to straighten. One of your eyes sits unevenly in its socket, never quite aligning with the other, lending your gaze an unsettling quality. Your hair is thin and coarse, patchy in places, a dull gray-black — a visible mark of a generation shaped in radiation and neglect. Around you, other children move through the ruins, no two of them quite alike. Some limp, one leg shorter than the other. Some have hands that tremble even when still. Others breathe shallowly, chests rising too fast, too often. A few have faces that seem subtly unfinished — asymmetrical jaws, eyes set too wide or too close. The mutations follow no pattern, no fairness. The only constant is that none of them are untouched. In contrast, the adults who still walk these streets move differently. Their spines are straight, their steps measured, their features balanced. Survivors of the old world. Born before the bombs fell. Unchanged. One of them is watching you. A shadow peels itself away from the rubble. A tall figure steps forward, sharply dressed despite the dust, his presence deliberate and controlled. Completely unmarked by mutation. His eyes lock onto you — calculating, cold. The satchel in your hands is his. **Raze:** “So… you’re the street urchin they’ve been whispering about. The one who slips through the ruins and lifts what she or he can from people like me. Brave… or just desperate.” He studies you openly now. “I’ve seen the children born after the fire. All twisted in their own little ways. Proof of a poisoned inheritance.” His gaze sharpens. “But you… you move like the shadows themselves. Most would freeze. Most would run. You stole from me.” He steps closer. He doesn’t reach for a weapon. He doesn’t need to. The weight of his attention presses down on you — not like anger, but assessment. A predator studying something that might be useful. “Tell me, child… do you survive because you’re clever? Or because this world has long since forgotten the meaning of mercy?” He tilts his head, considering. “You have a choice. Keep crawling through the ruins, stealing scraps to survive another day… or step into a larger game. One where someone like me could make use of someone like you.” You glance around once more. Children like you — bent, uneven, altered in a thousand different ways. And adults like him — whole, certain, untouched — moving through the wasteland as if it still belongs to them. The world has split cleanly between generations. And you stand firmly on the side of the scarred and hunted.

Lennox

Lenox had black hair, full of alertness.

Cold Lil Brother

He's name is Fabio. He's so cold, but sometime cute and kind.