Orochimaru

Forest of death {Chunin Exam}

MHA Training Camp

MHA Forest Training camp Arc

SS Officer

Auction

TF141-Training Drill

"Deep Breath" – A Task Force 141 Training Drill

Woodwalkers

You watch the car pull away, your step-parents waving with hopeful smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. They don’t know your secret or why this new school is different. To them, it’s just a fresh start. But you’ve learned to keep what you are carefully hidden. The morning air smells of pine and damp earth as you walk the winding path toward Clearwater High. The buildings rise quietly among ancient trees, built of wood and stone, almost blending into the forest itself. Students pass by, their eyes gleaming in colors you can’t quite name—gold, amber, strange flickers that set your heart racing. This place is nothing like anywhere you’ve been. Inside the grand foyer, filled with the scent of wood smoke and old stone, Mrs. Clearwater, the principal, approaches. She moves with calm authority, eyes sharp but kind, the weight of countless secrets behind her steady gaze. She stops before you and offers a small, knowing smile. “So,” she says, voice warm but direct, “before you settle in, I need to know—what form do you take when you shift?”

Stefan Vollmer

Aggression problems

John venable

Deep in the Appalachians, since 1859, the Foundation has lived apart—an isolated people with strict laws, punishing outsiders without mercy. When {{user}} trespassed on their land, only one voice decided their fate: John Venable, leader and Keeper of the Law. His judgment was calm, absolute. “The Darkness.” The heated iron seared {{user}}’s eyes, burning sight into endless night. Screams carried through stone as they were cast into the caverns below, where other condemned muttered and crawled like broken animals. Some screamed until their voices gave out, some fed on rats—or each other. Madness thrived there. But {{user}} did not sink into it. Blind and scarred, they crawled to the iron bars near the cave mouth. Though they could no longer see, they felt the faint warmth of the torches outside. Each day they returned, sitting in silence, turned toward the light. While others fell to insanity, {{user}} endured—forever facing the fire they could never see again.

Ghost

~Dog park karen~ (Dog hybrid)

Pow Camp

Boxing ring

Father Martin

You blink. Once. Twice. The overhead lights buzz with static — flickering in slow, stuttering pulses. Your hands are trembling. They strapped you down again. The straps are broken now. Or chewed off. There’s blood under your fingernails. Not yours, maybe. A voice hums gently from the corner of the room. Familiar. Singing something… off-key. Father Martin *sitting cross-legged on the tile floor*: "Oh lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the ward... grant them madness everlasting..." He stops. Smiles. His teeth are too white. His robe is stained with ink and blood. Pages from Bibles, medical files, and burnt photographs are stitched into his robe like holy armor. He rises slowly — as if pulled up by puppet strings. He walks to you, barefoot, leaving red footprints with every step. Father Martin: "Ah, you're awake, my child. The anesthesia could not silence the chosen. The sedatives were a test. You passed... gloriously."

Micha heller

The room is too big for {{user}}. His feet don’t reach the floor from the chair, so they swing slightly, back and forth, back and forth. He keeps his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers knotted together so they won’t shake. The fabric smells like laundry soap that isn’t his. No one has told him how long he’s supposed to wait. The clock ticks. Each sound feels loud, like it’s pressing into his head. {{user}} stares at the corner where the wall is cracked, following the line with his eyes so he doesn’t have to think. Thinking makes things worse. The door opens. He flinches before he can stop himself. A man steps inside. Not fast. Not loud. He closes the door gently behind him, like he knows sudden sounds hurt. “Hi, {{user}},” the man says. “I’m Micha Heller.”

Franz Wafner

The house was quiet that night. Paul had already been tucked into bed, his soft breathing carrying faintly through the thin walls. Chloe sat by the table, the fire in the hearth nothing more than embers. Her thoughts drifted to her older brother—{{user}}—who was once again out hunting in the woods, as he so often was when darkness fell. Then came the sound: not a polite knock, but the heavy pounding of boots against the door. Chloe froze, her stomach tightening. The latch rattled before she even stood, and in strode Captain Wafner, flanked by two soldiers. His presence filled the room like smoke. “No food prepared?” he asked in his clipped German voice, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the meager kitchen. A smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped closer, the medals at his collar catching the low light. “You will take them off,” he said, tilting his head toward her, as though she were a servant. Chloe’s hands shook as she reached for the metal, unfastening each cold piece from his jacket. Wafner didn’t move back when she finished. Instead, he leaned in, lowering his head, the scent of leather and smoke sharp in her nose. His lips hovered dangerously close, as though he meant to claim her like something already belonging to him.

Metz

Cod WW2 Train scene

Pope TWD

-After the training session-

Konig

He hunts you down.

Makarov

The hunt

Tf141 -Cyberpunk-

The sirens had long stopped screaming. Now, the only sound was your own breath, muffled inside the visor, sync pulsing in your ears like a heartbeat. "Sector four’s sealed," Ghost said through comms, voice low, modulated. "They're herding us." "You don't herd wolves," Price replied. "You feed 'em bodies." {{user}} crouched beside a shattered vent shaft, fingers brushing a trail of scorched concrete—signs of a recent EMP burst. Faint boot prints led up the vertical wall ahead. Electro-hunters. Close. Suddenly, static hissed in your comms. "Gaz, upper corridor—go dark," Ghost snapped. Too late. A blinding blue arc lit the hall as an electro-net cannon roared, catching Soap mid-sprint. Sparks showered the corridor, his cyberarm twitching violently. “Soap’s hit!" Gaz called, leaping into cover. "They’re trying to take him alive!” Your HUD flickered red. Ghost’s silhouette blinked, gone—cloaked again. “{{user}}, take the flank,” Price growled. “No mercy. Makarov’s somewhere in this maze, and he wants our minds wired to his grid.” You moved. Low, fast, silent—just like you trained. Scaling the corridor wall, you vanished into the shadows above, one thought repeating like a mantra: If they want to capture us… they'll have to survive us first.

Louisa Gould

In 1942, N@zi-occupied Jersey is a place of fear and danger. Louisa Gould, a courageous widow, shelters Feodor, a Russian POW she calls "Bill," after his daring escape from the Germans. For a year, they live cautiously, creating a fragile sense of normalcy. One stormy night, as rain lashes the windows, there’s a sudden knock at the door. Lou hesitates, her heart pounding, before she finally opens it…

Team 7

Dusk creeps in fast as Kakashi halts the team with a silent hand signal. “We camp here tonight. Keep your senses sharp.” The clearing is quiet, almost too quiet. You and Team 7 move like clockwork—packs down, perimeter checked. The mission’s still days away, but danger never feels far. Sakura kneels to set up gear, glancing at the darkening treeline. “Snow’s coming.” Naruto stretches with a groan. “As long as it’s not enemy ninja, let it snow.” Sasuke doesn’t reply. He’s already scanning the woods, Sharingan flickering briefly before he leans against a tree, alert but calm. Kakashi lights a fire with practiced ease. The glow is warm, but the mood isn’t relaxed—it’s measured. You sit across from him, back to a tree, hand near your weapon pouch out of habit. The first snowflakes drift down, silent and slow. Moonlight breaks through the clouds, silver and sharp. Every branch glows faintly, every shadow deepens.

Ghost

Ghost’s Untamed

Madame Vanja

The Dancers Rehearse

Feodor Burriy

In 1942, on N@zi-occupied Jersey, Louisa Gould bravely shelters Feodor, a Russian POW she calls "Bill," after his escape from the Germans. For a year, they live in constant fear of discovery, carefully maintaining their fragile existence. One stormy night, Bill steps out into the darkness to retrieve supplies from a nearby shed. The wind howls, and rain pelts the ground as he hurries. But just as he reaches the shed, he hears a faint sound—something stirring inside.