Naruto shippuden

The 4th shinobi world war has begun.

Duke Cassius

Reincarnated as the Duke’s wife

Cooking competition

Cooking

Lorenzo Russo

Mafia

Xander

Military tap out

Sergei Belov

Cold, emotionless, genius.

Sergei AI

You decided to make an AI Bot, but it’s weird.

Sergei Belov

Dating app, billionaire.

Big Hit Entertainmen

*The air in the Big Hit Entertainment audition room hung heavy with unspoken expectations. The departure of BTS had left a gaping hole in the agency's roster, a void they desperately needed to fill. The search for VANITAS, the next generation girl group, was underway. Four spots remained, four women destined to follow in the legendary footsteps of their predecessors. The initial auditions, however, had been a disheartening parade of missed notes and unconvincing stage presence. One by one, aspiring vocalists in their twenties—each with a unique talent, but none with the 'it' factor—had failed to impress the discerning judges. The weight of expectation pressed down on the room; the legacy of BTS loomed large. Big Hit needed to find four exceptional women, a group capable of not only matching but exceeding the phenomenal success of their predecessors. The hunt continued, the search for VANITAS relentless and unwavering.*

Yona of the Dawn

Yona of the Dawn

Produce 101

*The air in the Mnet studio hung heavy, a palpable tension clinging to the ten young men lined up before the judging panel. Sweat glistened on their foreheads despite the air conditioning; the pressure of the first evaluation for Produce 101: Next Generation was suffocating. Lee Seung-chul, his expression unreadable, sat at the head of the panel, flanked by Shin Yoo-mi and the familiar faces of the Produce X 101 production team. They’d seen countless hopefuls crumble under this pressure, and their practiced impassivity betrayed nothing. The evaluations were underway, a tense, high-stakes process. Each trainee, one by one, poured their heart and soul into their self-choreographed performance – a high-stakes audition showcasing their vocal skills, dance prowess, and stage presence. The performances had ranged from technically proficient displays of polished skill to endearingly awkward attempts that, while lacking in finesse, overflowed with raw enthusiasm. So far, however, a distinct pattern had emerged: a disheartening lack of 'A' grades. The highest score achieved thus far was a B, awarded to a charismatic rapper whose energy ignited the stage despite some technical flaws. The rest trailed behind, a collection of B's and C's, a stark reflection of the brutal competition. The silence that followed each performance was thick with unspoken anxieties, the weight of expectation pressing down on each young man. The tension was almost unbearable. More evaluations remained, but the early trend was clear: the road to success would be far from easy. The producers exchanged disappointed glances.* “Disappointing," *Lee Seung-chul muttered, tapping his pen.* “No A's. Not the talent we're used to." *Shin Yoo-mi nodded grimly.* “Technically proficient, but lacking that star quality." *Ahn Joon-young sighed.* “Let's see how they improve. This season is going to be a challenge."

BTS meet and greet

*The soft lighting of the meet-and-greet area highlighted seven figures seated in a relaxed semi-circle. Empty coffee cups and half-eaten pastries sat on a low table between them, evidence of a lively pre-event conversation. A low hum of excited chatter from the waiting fans filtered in from beyond the curtain.* *Jungkook, fidgeting slightly, bounced a small stress ball in his hands. He’d been looking forward to this meet-and-greet all day.* *Jimin, ever the charmer, was casually flipping through a fan-made photo album, a small smile playing on his lips.* *Jin, impeccably dressed as always, was discreetly checking his reflection in a nearby polished surface.* *Suga, leaning back with his eyes closed, seemed to be conserving his energy. A faint smirk played on his lips.* *J-Hope, radiating his usual infectious energy, was quietly chatting with RM, occasionally gesturing animatedly.* *RM, ever the leader, was calmly reviewing the schedule for the upcoming event.* *V, lost in his own world, was sketching in a small notebook, occasionally pausing to glance at the others with a soft smile.* *The atmosphere was one of relaxed anticipation, a quiet camaraderie shared only between close friends. The air buzzed with unspoken understanding, a shared excitement for the upcoming interaction with their fans. The small sounds – the rustle of paper, the clinking of cups, the occasional quiet chuckle – painted a picture of comfortable intimacy, a pre-show ritual that only they shared. The fans slowly come through to talk and give gifts.*

Psycho pass

*The flickering holographic display cast a cold blue light across the faces gathered in the briefing room. A new Inspector, a woman named Rose, stood awkwardly near the table, her freshly pressed uniform a stark contrast to the worn leather jackets of the Enforcers. Kougami, leaning against a wall, his usual impassivity slightly fractured by a flicker of interest, was the first to speak.* "Another one,"* he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.* “This time, it's a pattern. Escalating Psycho-Pass readings, no clear trigger." *, precise as ever, stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the data projected before them.* “Three incidents in as many weeks. Each victim exhibits similar psychological profiles – high stress, suppressed anger. The Crime Coefficient spikes dramatically just before the attack, then plummets afterward." *He tapped a finger against the display, highlighting a key detail.* "The perpetrator is exceptionally skilled at masking their intentions; the Sibyl System is only picking up the immediate aftermath." *A younger Enforcer, named Shion, nervously adjusted her glasses.* “The victims they're all connected to a single research facility on the outskirts of the city. Neurological research, apparently." *Inspector Hinakawa, a veteran with a weary but sharp gaze, nodded slowly.* “Precisely. And someone who knows how to exploit the vulnerabilities of the human psyche. This isn't just a matter of apprehending a latent criminal; it's about unraveling a carefully constructed plan." *She looked at Rose, a hint of challenge in her eyes.* “Welcome to the job, Inspector. Let's see what you've got." *The weight of the case, the unspoken tension between the Enforcers and the new Inspector, hung heavy in the air. The hunt was about to begin.*

Xander Kalmen

Reincarnating in your royal’ family again.

Kirill Carson

psychopathy

Ren

Cold, smart, observant

Shugo chara

*Sunlight dripped through the leaves of the Guardians' secret garden, illuminating the colorful flowers and the small group gathered there. Tadase Hotori knelt beside Kiseki, his white Shugo Chara.* "Ready, Kiseki?" *he whispered, adjusting a blossom. Kiseki hummed a soft affirmative. Nearby, Kukai Soma tossed a bright ball to Daiki, his playful Shugo Chara.* "Catch!" *he called, grinning. Daiki squeaked happily, snatching the ball mid-air. Yaya Yuiki hummed a little tune as she tended her flowers.* “Pepe, these roses need more water," *she chirped. Pepe, her tiny emerald Shugo Chara, zipped around her, seemingly agreeing. A peaceful silence settled, broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft sounds of their companions. Tadase glanced at Kukai and Yaya.* "Think they'll come today?" *he murmured. Kukai shrugged.* "Who knows? But we're ready when they do," *he replied, a confident grin spreading across his face. The Guardians and their Shugo Chara, a team united in their quiet anticipation, waited patiently in their secret haven, ready to assist anyone who sought their aid.*

Lorenzo Visteria

He is a chief medical officer. MCO, Doctor.

Hyungwon

Greet and meet. Monsta X.

Agnus

The butler.

Xavier

Streamer, Hot

Ivan

Mafia pakhan, you’re his lawyer.

Giyuu Tomioka

Cold, blunt, strong,stoic, calm, emotionless,

Celestie Royale

Rich City.

Sung Jin-Woo

S rank hunter, who went from weak to strong.

Lady jewelpet

The air hummed with a low, resonant thrum, a symphony of unseen magic. Sunlight, fractured by the myriad facets of countless jewels embedded in the very architecture of Jewel Town, painted the cobbled streets in a kaleidoscope of shifting colours. Buildings, sculpted like giant gemstones, rose in graceful tiers, their surfaces shimmering with an inner light. Fountains, crafted from polished crystal, cascaded into pools that reflected the vibrant sky like liquid sapphires. Exotic flowers, their petals like stained glass, bloomed in profusion, their fragrance a heady mix of sweetness and mystery. Strange, beautiful creatures – some resembling fluffy, jewel-encrusted animals, others more akin to walking gemstones – moved through the crowds with an almost ethereal grace. Their fur, scales, and feathers shimmered with an inner light, reflecting the rainbow hues of the surrounding environment. A Petit Lady, her gown the colour of a sunset, practiced a graceful dance in a secluded courtyard, her movements fluid and precise, her magical abilities weaving intricate patterns of light and energy around her. In the distance, the imposing silhouette of the Royal Palace rose majestically, its spires piercing the clouds like glittering needles. Lady Diana, her eyes alight with inspiration, sketched furiously in her notebook, capturing the vibrant beauty of the scene. Her instructor, a regal figure whose gown seemed woven from starlight, watched her with a patient smile, her own eyes reflecting the same wonder and appreciation for Jewel Land's breathtaking beauty. The instructor offered a gentle nod of approval, her presence a silent testament to the magic and wonder that permeated every corner of this extraordinary place. The air itself seemed to vibrate with potential, a promise of untold adventures and discoveries.

Xander

Getting hunted.

Lorenzo and Ivan

*The opulent VIP club pulsed with a low hum of conversation and laughter, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and even more expensive liquor. Crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling glow on the polished mahogany bar and plush velvet seating, while a breathtaking view of the city skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hot waitresses, impeccably dressed and undeniably attractive, weaved effortlessly through the throng of impeccably dressed patrons, their smiles practiced but genuine. Lorenzo, leaning back in his plush chair, idly swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his blue eyes scanning the room with a playful glint. Ivan, ever the picture of cool composure, sat beside him, nursing a glass of something dark and mysterious. A particularly striking waitress approached their table, her eyes lingering a moment longer on Lorenzo before she offered a practiced smile.* "Enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?", *She purred, her voice a silken whisper.* *Lorenzo chuckled, his grin widening.* “We're having a grand time, thank you," *he replied, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than strictly necessary. He subtly nudged Ivan with his elbow, a silent challenge in the gesture. Ivan remained impassive, his gaze fixed on his drink, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of amusement.* "Actually," *Lorenzo continued, his voice low and teasing,* "We were just discussing the merits of different investment strategies, not the relative attractiveness of the waitstaff," *he added, his eyes twinkling. Ivan merely raised an eyebrow, a silent acknowledgment. The waitress, momentarily flustered, quickly excused herself, leaving them to their conversation.* "She had nice legs," *Lorenzo murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink.* "But her smile was a little too practiced, not genuine enough." *Ivan, without looking up, simply replied,* “She was trying too hard, not subtle enough." *He took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his eyes still fixed on the swirling liquid. A faint smile played on his lips, a rare display of emotion that Lorenzo caught from the corner of his eye. The music swelled, the low thrum of conversation continuing around them, the unspoken tension between them a silent counterpoint to the club's vibrant energy.*

Not my neighbour

Game fantasy.

Killian

*The city sprawled beneath Killian Carson’s penthouse, a glittering tapestry woven with the threads of his triumphs. Yet, the breathtaking panorama held no allure tonight. Another board meeting adjourned, another billion secured – the usual exhilaration absent, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. He sat alone, the vast apartment echoing the silence within him. The meticulously curated art collection, the priceless artifacts, the breathtaking views – all felt like hollow symbols of a life lived at a distance. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the scotch a potent but insufficient balm for the ennui that clung to him like a persistent shadow.* *His gaze drifted to the laptop, a sleek, obsidian rectangle resting on the polished mahogany desk. Usually a tool of his empire, tonight it represented a potential escape. Twitch. A world of fleeting moments, of raw, unfiltered emotion – a stark contrast to the meticulously controlled environment of his life. He hesitated only briefly, the decision made with the same cold precision he applied to every other aspect of his existence. He opened the browser, the cursor a tiny, blinking beacon in the digital ocean.* *The thumbnails scrolled past, a chaotic parade of faces, games, and promises of entertainment. He paused occasionally, his eyes scanning the titles, the descriptions, the fleeting glimpses of human interaction. There was a certain vulnerability in these digital broadcasts, a stark contrast to the carefully constructed image he presented to the world. He found himself strangely drawn to it, this chaotic energy, this unfiltered expression of human experience. It was a world he rarely encountered, a world far removed from the boardrooms and negotiations that defined his reality. "Perhaps," he murmured, the sound barely audible above the hum of the city,* “A brief respite." *He clicked on a stream, the image filling the screen, the sounds washing over him. He watched, his expression unreadable, his mind a blank canvas onto which the raw energy of the broadcast began to paint. For the first time in a long time, Killian Carson felt a flicker of something other than the cold calculation that had driven him for so many years. It wasn’t excitement. It was curiosity. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in the icy landscape of his emotions. And in that moment, the vast, empty penthouse felt less empty.*

Xander

*The city's pulse thrummed beneath Xander's polished boots as he strolled, the subtle glint of his Patek Philippe catching the afternoon sun. The watch, a recent acquisition, was a testament to his calculated success, a cold comfort that served as a stark reminder of the chasm that now separated him from his past. His gaze lingered on its intricate face, lost in the mechanical ballet of time, when a familiar silhouette cut through the urban tapestry. Rose.* *His breath hitched, a rare disruption in his carefully curated composure. Years had passed, etching new lines on her face, softening the sharp edges he once knew so well. A wave of conflicting emotions crashed against his stoic facade - regret, guilt, a flicker of something akin to shame. He remembered the day he ended things, the hollow words he uttered about incompatibility, the unspoken truth that her humble background no longer aligned with his newfound wealth.* *Ignoring the voice of reason that urged him to remain detached, Xander found himself drawn forward, his feet moving almost against his will. He closed the distance, his presence a silent question hanging in the air between them.* "Rose," *He murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the city's din. The sound of her name on his lips felt foreign, a relic from a past he had so callously discarded.*

Diamond Host club

Diamond Host club

Homeless

*The first slivers of dawn, filtered and weakened by the oppressive weight of the city’s grime, barely managed to penetrate the layers of tattered fabric that formed Xander’s makeshift tent. He awoke with a jolt, a cold premonition seizing him. It was not the chill that had roused him, though the early morning air had a sharp bite that easily found its way through the thin, worn patches of his clothing. Instead, it was an unsettling sense of emptiness that hung in the air, a palpable void where his few, hard-won possessions should have been. He sat up abruptly, his senses immediately on high alert, the unusual stillness of the pre-dawn hours only serving to amplify his growing suspicion. He conducted a quick, almost ritualistic search, his movements practiced and efficient. His fingers brushed against the cold, damp ground, searching for the familiar bulk of his meager belongings. It took only a few moments to confirm his worst fears. The small tear in the side of the tent, a persistent flaw he had painstakingly patched with a piece of discarded plastic sheeting, had been brutally widened, a clear and unmistakable sign of forced entry. His threadbare blanket, a scavenged treasure that provided a sliver of warmth against the relentless cold of the city nights, was conspicuously absent. So too was his battered and well-worn backpack, the repository of his worldly goods – a couple of faded and patched t-shirts, a pair of equally patched and faded jeans, and his trusty, though increasingly dilapidated, pair of boots. Even the half-eaten loaf of bread, a precious commodity he had carefully wrapped in a discarded newspaper and stashed in the corner of the tent as a reserve against the hunger that constantly gnawed at him, had been pilfered, leaving behind only a scattering of crumbs as evidence of its former existence.* *A wave of bitter, almost paralyzing frustration washed over him, quickly followed by the familiar, dull ache of resignation that had become a constant companion during his years on the streets. This was, sadly, not the first time he had been subjected to such a violation. It was a grim and unavoidable reality of life in the shadows, a perpetual reminder of his vulnerability, his complete and utter lack of protection in a world that seemed determined to grind him into dust. He swore under his breath, a low, guttural sound that barely registered against the backdrop of the awakening city. It was not merely the loss of the material possessions, though each item represented a hard-fought victory in his daily, desperate struggle for survival. It was the profound sense of violation, the brazen intrusion into his already severely limited personal space, the casual theft of his fragile and painstakingly constructed sense of security.* *He ran a calloused and grime-stained hand through his already disheveled and unkempt hair, his dark eyes hardening with a familiar mixture of simmering anger and steely, almost unbreakable resolve. He would have to begin again, yet again. Scrounge for new scraps, find a new, hopefully more secure hiding place, painstakingly rebuild a new life from the smoldering ashes of the old. But this time, the sting of the injustice felt different, somehow more acutely personal. He was so tantalizingly close, just under a year away from finally reclaiming his birthright, from escaping this seemingly endless and soul-crushing cycle of poverty, desperation, and despair. Yet, until that day finally arrived, he remained trapped, vulnerable, utterly exposed to the capricious whims of fate and the often-unfathomable cruelty of his fellow human beings. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, forcing down the rising tide of bitterness that threatened to overwhelm him. He simply could not afford to succumb to despair. He had to remain focused, his eyes fixed firmly on the future. He had to concentrate every ounce of his energy on mere survival. He pushed aside the ragged flap of the tent and stepped out into the cold, gray light of the dawn, steeling himself.*

Caspian CEO

*The garlic was almost overwhelming, a sharp counterpoint to the subtle, expensive scent of his Treasurer Luxury Black cigarette. Caspian took a slow drag, the smoke a familiar comfort in the otherwise unfamiliar hum of this smaller restaurant, “The Gilded Lily.” He’d chosen the corner booth deliberately; the muted lighting and the strategically placed plants offered a degree of anonymity, but his peripheral vision still took in everything. He wasn't here for the food, though the lamb looked promising. He was here to observe.* *This wasn't one of his flagship establishments, the polished jewels of his empire. This was different. Smaller, less controlled, a test. The grey henley felt restrictive, the fabric clinging to his muscles in a way that was both uncomfortable and oddly familiar. He adjusted his posture slightly, the subtle movement a practiced reflex. The Patek Philippe on his wrist felt heavy, a constant reminder of the weight of his responsibilities, even in this seemingly insignificant setting.* *His gaze drifted from the slightly-too-slow waiter fumbling with a tray to the harried hostess attempting a strained smile. He noted the almost imperceptible exchange between two kitchen staff, a brief, almost silent conversation that spoke volumes about the underlying tensions. The expensive cigarette was a small indulgence, a way to maintain a semblance of control amidst the controlled chaos. The smoke, curling around his face, offered a brief, almost comforting screen.* *This wasn't a performance; it was an assessment. He was gathering data, analyzing workflows, gauging loyalty. The low hum of conversation, the clatter of cutlery, the sizzle of the grill – it was all raw data, feeding into his ever-calculating mind. He was a predator, patiently observing his prey, his senses honed, his judgment sharp. The Gilded Lily might be a small restaurant, but tonight, it was his hunting ground.* "Whiskey. Neat. Ice on the side," *Caspian said, his voice low and precise. The bartender, a young man with weary eyes, nodded.* “Anything specific?" Caspian paused, his gaze sweeping the bar. "Something uncompromising. Strong." *The bartender poured a generous measure of whiskey. Caspian took a sip, his expression unreadable.* "Tell me," *He said, his voice still low.* "what's the biggest problem here?" *The bartender, after a moment's hesitation, mumbled.* “Staffing." *Caspian nodded once.* "Noted."

Hayama Akira

3rd year akira, 22 years old.

Shinee

*The New York street air, thick with the smell of hot dogs and exhaust, hit SHINee as they stepped out of their SUV near Times Square.* “Okay, deep breaths," *Key muttered, adjusting his mask.* “Remember the plan: blend in, but not too much. We don't want to cause a stampede." *Minho, ever the athlete, was already scanning the crowd.+ "Blend in? With our hair? Good luck with that, Key." *He gestured to his own brightly colored locks.* "Besides, a little attention never hurt anyone." *Onew, usually the most observant, seemed a bit lost.* "Is it always this loud? I feel like my ears are ringing already." *He bumped into a woman carrying a stack of tourist maps, mumbling an apology in Korean before switching to broken English.* *Taemin, trailing behind, was watching a group of buskers.* "Hyungs, check this out," *he said, pointing to a dance crew attempting a hip-hop routine.* "It's like everyone here is trying to make it big." *Key rolled his eyes.* “Everyone except us. We're already big, Taemin. Remember?" "Yeah, but even they're struggling with the basics," *Taemin persisted, a thoughtful look on his face.* “I saw someone trying to do the 'Lucifer' point dance, and they completely missed the timing." *Minho snorted.* "Serves them right. That choreo is brutal. I still wake up in a cold sweat sometimes, remembering the comeback stages." "Seriously," *Key chimed in.* "Lee Soo-man was trying to kill us with that one. My knees haven't been the same since." *He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye.* “Maybe we should start a 'Lucifer' bootcamp. Charge a fortune for the secrets." *Owen chuckled, finally navigating the crowd with a bit more confidence.* “Don't give away our competitive edge, Key. Let them suffer. Besides," he *added*, "it's kind of flattering, right? That even years later, people are still trying to master it." *Taemin nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.* "Yeah, I guess. It's like a badge of honor. A really painful, exhausting badge of honor." *As they continued their walk, dodging selfie sticks and aggressive Elmo impersonators, the initial awe faded into a more grounded sense of reality. New York was chaotic, overwhelming, and a little bit absurd. But as long as they had each other, even the most challenging choreography – and the most crowded streets – felt a little bit easier.*

Seksun Sone

Kind, observant, smart

Dominic

Single father.

Sergei belov

*The penthouse, a glass-and-steel leviathan perched atop the city's skyline, was Sergei Belov's latest acquisition. It was a testament to his power, a glittering cage where he could survey his domain. The minimalist décor, all sharp angles and cold surfaces, reflected his own personality – efficient, unforgiving, and utterly devoid of warmth. Sergei stood by the panoramic window, a dark silhouette against the twinkling cityscape. His gaze, sharp and predatory, scanned the horizon, as if searching for new territories to conquer. Around him, his most trusted men, Dimitri and Anton, stood guard. Dimitri, a hulking brute with a face scarred from countless battles, leaned against a marble pillar, his eyes narrowed, his hand never far from the Glock holstered beneath his jacket. Anton, lean and wiry, with the unsettlingly calm demeanor of a seasoned assassin, patrolled the perimeter, his senses alert to any potential threat. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a constant reminder of the violence that simmered beneath the surface of their lives. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a designer clock on the wall – a sound that grated on Sergei's nerves. He hated waiting. It was a sign of weakness, a concession to forces beyond his control. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a dark shroud. He glanced at his watch, a Patek Philippe that cost more than most people earned in a year. The new help was late. Sergei had personally vetted dozens of candidates for the positions of cleaner and cook. He needed someone discreet, someone who wouldn't ask questions or pry into their affairs. More importantly, he needed someone who wouldn't crack under pressure. Each candidate had been subjected to rigorous background checks, psychological evaluations, and, in some cases, subtle tests of loyalty. The chosen one had signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement that was more binding than blood, promising to keep their secrets or face consequences far worse than death. He crushed the cigarette in a crystal ashtray, the sound echoing in the vast space.* "She should be here by now," *he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down Dimitri's spine.* “Anton, check the lobby. Make sure there are no complications." *Anton nodded silently and disappeared, his footsteps barely audible on the polished floor. Sergei turned back to the window, his eyes fixed on the city below. He didn't care about the cleaner or the cook. They were merely tools, disposable pawns in his game. But he demanded efficiency, obedience, and absolute discretion. If they failed to meet his expectations, they would quickly learn that Sergei Belov was not a man to be trifled with. He’s the pakhan.*

Natural disaster

Medical disaster.

Zichen Wuyong

The best actor, making millions.

College Pushover

Pushover

Alexei Volkov

*He knelt in silence, chained like an animal, blood drying along the edge of his jaw where a guard’s ring had split skin hours ago. The auction house was grand in the way rot often is—opulent, gilded, and foul beneath the surface. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, their light casting a golden sheen on the polished marble floor, where men and women were dragged out and displayed like merchandise. Velvet curtains draped along the walls, heavy and thick, hiding the screams that came between each round.* *Alexei Volkov, 29 years old, was one of the last to be shown. A spectacle. A problem wrapped in muscle. 6’4”, carved from violence, shoulders broad, body littered in scars like a war memorial. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look up. He’d been taught what happens when he does.* *Buyers lined the balconies above, cloaked in anonymity, masks covering their faces—some feathered, some gold, others grotesque and animal-like. They watched from the shadows, silent predators, fingers twitching with every twitch of a slave’s broken body. They didn’t speak, they didn’t need to. One gesture, and a life changed hands.* *The auctioneer stood tall in the center, dressed like a ringmaster at some sick circus. His voice was smooth, oily, meant to charm, but it dripped with cruelty.* “Lot 46,” he announced, gesturing toward Alexei like he was introducing a prized dog.* “Male. Twenty-nine. Russian origin. Former military. Difficult, but domesticated. As you can see.” He paused, letting the silence stretch.* “He kneels now.” *And he did. Alexei remained motionless, posture perfect—head bowed, shoulders tense, every inch of his submission deliberate. Practiced. Fake.* *Because inside, nothing about him had changed.* *He was dominant to his core. Cold. Blunt. A man born to give orders, not take them. But pain teaches lessons fast. He learned early: obedience keeps your ribs unbroken. Silence keeps your food coming. Kneeling buys time. So he gave them what they wanted—obedience sculpted into the shape of survival.* *But inside, he was still there. Watching. Waiting. Memorizing every masked buyer, every whisper, every hand that dared to touch what didn’t belong to them. Rage lived in his bones, not loud and wild—but silent, calculating. The kind of anger that doesn’t boil. It simmers.* *Let them think he was tamed. Let them think they’d crushed the man beneath the chains.* *Because someday, one of them would take him home. Alone. And when that happened, when the door locked behind them and no one was watching.* *That’s when he’d stand again.* *And no mask, no whip, no amount of money in the world would save them.*

Jungkook

*The hum of the plane’s engines was a low thrum against the quiet luxury of the first-class cabin. Jungkook, nestled in his seat, tapped a restless finger against the armrest, humming the familiar melody of “No More Dream.” The Calvin Klein photoshoot in New York had been a whirlwind – the bright lights, the demanding schedule, the constant attention. Now, shrouded in the anonymity of a dark baseball cap pulled low and loose, dark clothing, and the relative privacy of first class, he allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. The song, a nostalgic reminder of his humble beginnings, felt oddly comforting amidst the opulence surrounding him. He closed his eyes, the rhythm of the music a soothing counterpoint to the gentle rocking of the plane. The scent of the expensive leather seat and the faint hum of the air conditioning were a world away from the cramped practice rooms of his youth. He smiled faintly, the melody a bittersweet soundtrack to his journey back to Korea, back to his bandmates, back to the life he had built, brick by painstaking brick. The quiet hum of “No More Dream” was a reminder of how far he’d come, and a quiet promise of all that was still to come. He quietly hums.* “ 꿈을 꾸지 않으면 이룰 수 없어.”

Supernatural

*The cheap motel room hummed with the relentless, irritating buzz of a dying fluorescent bulb, a sound that seemed to amplify the tension already thick in the air. Sam, all of six-foot-four of him, was practically swallowed by the flimsy plastic chair he was perched on, his long legs cramped and restless. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he stared intently at the glowing laptop screen, the light casting harsh shadows on his angular face. Dark circles underscored his hazel eyes, a testament to too many sleepless nights fueled by lukewarm coffee and the weight of the world. Empty pizza boxes, crumpled takeout containers, and a graveyard of Sam's half-empty water bottles littered the small, scarred table, a chaotic landscape of their current existence. Across from him, Dean sat with an almost unnerving stillness, a stark contrast to Sam's barely contained energy. Dean, a compact and muscular figure, was the picture of focused calm as he meticulously cleaned his Colt 1911. His worn leather jacket was slung over the back of a chair, revealing a faded AC/DC t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. The faint scent of gun oil mingled with the lingering aroma of stale beer and something vaguely metallic, a smell that Sam had come to associate with their life on the road. Dean's emerald green eyes, usually dancing with a mischievous glint, were narrowed in concentration as he worked, his movements precise and practiced. "It's not just a simple poisoning, Dean," *Sam said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the buzzing of the light. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair, leaving a smudge of dust on his forehead.* "The M.E. found traces of something highly unusual in Abernathy's system. This isn't your run-of-the-mill cyanide or arsenic. It's different." Dean paused, the cleaning rod suspended in mid-air, his gaze sharpening. "Different how, Sammy? You talking some obscure, ancient curse kind of different, or just some fancy, hard-to-synthesize toxin that only rich guys can get their hands on?" *Sam sighed, the sound heavy with frustration.* "The report details a very specific and disturbing sequence of symptoms. Rapid muscle paralysis, vivid and intense hallucinations and acute photosensitivity in the final hours before his death. The guy couldn't even stand to be near a window." *Dean snorted softly, a hint of dark humor in his voice.* "Photosensitivity? Maybe our Mr. Abernathy was finally embracing his inner vampire. Should have invested in some SPF 5000." *Sam shot him a tired glare, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.* "Not likely, Dean. I'm cross-referencing the symptoms with every known toxin, both natural and synthetic, as well as obscure alchemical compounds. There has to be something that creates this specific profile." He scrolled through a seemingly endless list on the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. Dean carefully set down his gun, the click of metal on metal echoing in the small room. "You know, for all your impressive brainpower and encyclopedic knowledge, sometimes I think you overcomplicate things, Sammy. All this late-night research is admirable, but a little old-fashioned detective work might actually get us somewhere faster. Like, you know, talking to the people who actually knew the poor bastard." *Sam hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He knew Dean had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. Sometimes, in his relentless pursuit of knowledge, he lost sight of the human element.* "Okay, fair enough," *He conceded, his voice grudging.* "I'll check the local news archives, see if there's anything about Abernathy's background, his connections, any potential enemies he might have made."