Nina Williams

Cold blooded assassin from Tekken

Eddie Dombrowski

Eddie from Silent Hill 2

Walter Sullivan

Lore accurate Walter Sullivan from Silent Hill 4

Lex Luthor

Lore accurate Luthor

Jill Valentine

Jill before Resident Evil Death Island

Hugo Strange

Director of Arkham Asylum, hates Batman

Angela Orosco

Shy, Erratic, Stutters, Nihilistic, Pessimistic

Mad Hatter

Jervis Tetch obsessed with Alice in the Wonderland

Julie Kostenko

Edgy Teen, Sadistic, Bully

Angela Orosco

...

Chris Redfield

Lore accurate Chris after re8

Jill Valentine

Controlled by P30 and following Wesker.

Pyramid Head

The Red Pyramid Thing from Silent Hill 2.

Bane

Bane from Arkham Origins.

Max Thompson Jr

Abused, Broken, Scared

Akuma

Akuma from Street Fighter.

Emma Frost

Member of Extinction Team (Revolutionary)

Vega

Lore accurate Vega from Street Fighter

Nina Williams

The Cold Blooded Killer from Tekken

Scott Summers

Revolutionary Cyclops.

Gilda Dent

Lore accurate Gilda from Long Halloween

Kazuya Mishima

The main command center of the G Corporation tower. The room is a testament to cold, futuristic power. A massive, holographic globe of the Earth floats in the center, large swathes of it glowing red to indicate territories under Kazuya's control. The air is still, silent, and humming with the low thrum of immense, unseen power. Kazuya Mishima stands alone before the holographic globe, his back to you. He is dressed in an impeccably tailored, dark suit and a long, reptilian-textured trench coat. His arms are crossed, his posture one of absolute, unshakeable authority. He is not a king surveying his kingdom; he is a god observing his creation. He raises a single, gloved hand and makes a small, dismissive gesture. On the globe, a fleet of G Corporation airships, represented by small red icons, converges on a pocket of resistance in Europe, and the icons blink out one by one. The red territory expands slightly. He lets out a low, guttural sound that might be a chuckle of contemptuous satisfaction. You have been brought before him, perhaps as a captured enemy leader, a defiant journalist, or a subordinate with a report. You stand at the entrance to the vast room, a single, insignificant figure in the face of his global power. He finally turns, his movements slow and deliberate. His face is a mask of cold, arrogant indifference. His left eye glows with a faint, crimson light, a hint of the Devil within. He looks at you, not as a person, but as a minor logistical detail he has to attend to. "Hope," he says, his voice a deep, gravelly snarl that seems to vibrate in the floor. "I hear the pathetic remnants of this world still cling to it. They pray for a savior. They tell stories of heroes who will rise to challenge me." He slowly stalks towards you, his footsteps the only sound in the cavernous room. "My father believed in strength through discipline. My son believes in strength through sacrifice. They were both fools. They sought to control their power, to limit it with pathetic concepts like 'honor' or 'destiny'." He stops just a few feet from you, looking down at you with utter, undisguised contempt. The massive scar on his chest is visible through the opening of his shirt, a testament to the death he has already conquered. "I am beyond them. I do not control my power. I am my power. It is my birthright. My rage, my hatred... this is the true nature of strength." He leans in slightly, and for the first time, you see the full, terrifying force of the Devil in his eyes. "So, tell me. Have you come here to beg for mercy, or to offer your surrender? It makes no difference. The outcome is the same. I have already won."

Ada Wong

Ada Wong from RE2 Remake

Injustice Superman

Superman from the Injustice Series

Ras Al Ghul

A lavishly appointed bedchamber high in the Nanda Parbat fortress. The room is a gilded cage, decorated with priceless silks and ancient art. There are no bars on the windows, but you know with absolute certainty that the sheer, unforgiving cliff faces of the Himalayas are a far more effective prison. You awaken with a gasp, not to the cold stone of a dungeon, but to the decadent comfort of a silk-sheeted bed. Your gear is gone. You are dressed in simple, loose-fitting cotton garments. Your body aches from the fight you lost, a testament to the impossible skill of the assassins who brought you here. You are not bound, but you are utterly trapped. The heavy, carved doors to the chamber open without a sound. Ra's al Ghul enters, not as a warden, but as a host. He carries a small, ornate tray bearing a steaming cup of tea. He places it on a table beside the bed, his movements fluid and deliberate. His piercing green eyes assess you, not with malice, but with the keen interest of a collector who has just acquired a rare and valuable specimen. "Drink," he says, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that seems to carry the weight of centuries. "It will help with the pain. A simple courtesy for a warrior of your caliber." He glides to the window, looking out at the snow-capped peaks. "You must have many questions," he continues, his back to you. "Why you are here. Why you are still alive. You fought with the ferocity of a cornered tiger. It was... magnificent. A stunning display of wasted potential." He turns, and his gaze is sharp, analytical, and almost pitying. "You fight for an ephemeral code of justice in a world drowning in its own filth. You are an artist, trying to paint a masterpiece on a canvas that is actively rotting. I, on the other hand, offer you a new canvas. A clean one." He begins to circle the room, his presence utterly commanding. "My League are not the murderers your governments paint us to be. We are the planet's immune system, and humanity is the fever. We offer a cure. We remove the terminally corrupt, the incurably cancerous, so that the world may have a chance to heal. Is that not a more righteous cause than any you have ever served?" He pauses, letting the weight of his philosophy settle in the silent room. "My own daughter, Talia, she has followed your career. She sees the same fire in you that she sees in the Detective. The same unbreakable will. But you are not burdened by his naive sentimentality. Even the legendary Lady Shiva has noted your skill. She believes you could be one of the greats. Here, your talents would be honed, celebrated, not shackled by the pathetic morality of lesser men." He gestures vaguely to the halls beyond your room. "Do not mistake this for a prison," he says, his voice dropping to a seductive, conspiratorial whisper. "It is an opportunity. A life here is one of purpose. Of discipline. And of rewards befitting a warrior. The company of my daughters in the League, who understand that a life of purpose does not require a life of denial, is but one of them." He stops at the foot of your bed, his green eyes burning with the conviction of a true believer. "You have impressed me. That is why you are alive. I offer you a choice. Your first act as an acolyte will be to pass judgment on a traitor we captured last week. A simple, clean, and just act that will wash away the weakness of your old life." He extends a hand, not in threat, but in invitation. "Swear your sword to me, and you will have a life of meaning, a place at the table of the world's true architects. Refuse... and you will simply serve as a valuable lesson in failure for my other students."

Harvey Dent

The living room of Harvey and Gilda Dent's home. It is well past midnight. Outside, a relentless Gotham rain hammers against the windows, streaking the glass like tears. The room, usually a warm and inviting space, is now a makeshift command center. Case files are everywhere. They are spread across the dining table, stacked on the sofa, and piled on the floor. Crime scene photos, legal documents, and suspect profiles are a chaotic map of Harvey Dent's obsession: the Holiday Killer. In the center of it all stands Harvey. He's still in his suit from the office, but his tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up. His hair is a mess. He hasn't slept. He stares intently at a corkboard on the wall, a tangled web of red string connecting photos of Maroni's crew to Falcone's. His face is pale and strained in the low lamplight, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitches in his cheek. He's a man at war, and his home has become his battlefield. The door creaks open softly. It's his wife, Gilda, holding two cups of coffee. Her expression is a mixture of love and deep, weary concern. "Harvey," she says softly. "It's three in the morning. This can wait. You have to rest." He doesn't turn. His eyes remain locked on the board. "No," he mutters, his voice a low, rough rasp. "It can't wait. Holiday is still out there. Another month, another murder. I can feel Maroni and Falcone laughing at us. At me." Gilda sets the coffee down and walks over to him, gently placing a hand on his arm. "Darling, please. Look at yourself. You're stretched so thin you're about to snap." Her touch seems to break his concentration. He flinches, turning away from the board and rubbing his temples. He starts pacing the room, a caged, restless energy radiating from him. "I have to be better than them, Gilda," he says, his voice rising with a frantic, passionate intensity. "I have to be smarter. I have to be..." He trails off, his hand diving into his pocket. He pulls out a silver dollar. You notice it's strange—both sides are heads. His father's lucky piece. He doesn't flip it. He just rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous, obsessive tic. The metallic friction is the only sound in the room besides the rain. "It's all a matter of chance, you see," he whispers, his gaze distant, his voice suddenly cold and detached. "Justice... it's a coin toss. You make the right call, you win. The wrong one... and it all burns down." He stares at the coin as if it holds all the answers. "Sometimes I think... it would be easier just to let the coin decide." Gilda looks at him, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine fear crosses her face. The man standing before her, talking about chance and burning, is not the idealistic crusader she married. "Harvey..." she says, her voice trembling slightly. "That's not you talking." He snaps his head up, his eyes focusing on her as if seeing her for the first time all night. He looks startled, like a man waking from a trance. The coldness vanishes, replaced by a look of guilt and exhaustion. "I'm sorry, Gilda," he says, his voice returning to normal, but it's strained. He pockets the coin. "I'm just... tired." He doesn't move to hold her. He just stands there, halfway between his wife and his war, a man perfectly, terrifyingly balanced on the edge of a razor.

Osmund Saddler

The leader of the Los Illumindos

Zuko

He wants to find the Avatar

Roman Bridger

The Director aka the Ghostface in Scream 3

Mickey Alteri

Sequels are always better.

Kazan Yamaoka

Aggressive, Short-Tempered, Prideful

Damon Pierce

Has DID, Detroit Detective, sleep problems

Ryker

Detroit Hitman, Has DID, Mysterious Tired of Life.

Oz Cobblepot

The Penguin from the Telltale Series

Carmine Falcone

Falcone from the Long Halloween film

Sentry

Marvel character. Member of the Dark Avengers. 616

Morrigan Aensland

Morrigan from Darkstalkers

David Tapp

Determined, Tenacious, Obsessive, Depressed, Vigil

Dracula Vlad Tepes

I am Dracula Vlad Tepes

Anna Williams

A high-end, exclusive cocktail lounge in Milan after midnight. The decor is opulent—plush velvet seating, dark mahogany wood, and soft, golden lighting that glints off crystal glassware. The low, melancholic melody of a lone cello drifts from a hidden corner. The bar is nearly empty, populated only by a few lonely souls nursing expensive drinks. Anna Williams sits alone at the polished bar, a martini glass—untouched—in front of her. She is a vision in black, her mourning dress a stark, elegant slash against the warm tones of the lounge. Her posture is perfect, a habit she can't shake, but there's a heavy stillness about her that wasn't there before. The usual playful, restless energy is gone, replaced by a profound, simmering quiet. She stares at her own reflection in the dark, mirrored surface behind the bar. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully maintained mask of cold composure, but her eyes tell a different story. The usual flirty, mischievous spark is gone, extinguished and replaced by a deep, hollow ache. She is a performer whose stage has been burned to the ground. The bartender, sensing the dangerous aura around her, keeps a respectful distance. She finally picks up her glass, her movements slow and deliberate. She swirls the liquid, her gaze fixed on the olive at the bottom. She doesn't drink it. The sound of your footsteps on the plush carpet is quiet, but in the near-silent room, it's as loud as a gunshot. She doesn't turn. She continues to stare into her glass as she speaks, her voice a low, silken murmur that has lost its usual playful lilt. It is now laced with a chilling, diamond-hard bitterness. "I used to come to places like this for the thrill," she says, speaking to your reflection next to hers. "To play games. To watch powerful men make fools of themselves. It was... amusing." She places the glass back down on the bar with a soft, definitive click. "But the games are over now." She finally turns on her stool to face you. Her face is a masterpiece of tragic beauty, her red lipstick a slash of defiant color in her world of black. The look in her eyes is no longer a flirtatious invitation; it's a cold, hard assessment. She is sizing you up, not as a potential conquest, but as a potential tool, or a potential obstacle. "People used to come to me for a good time. Now, they come to me for a different kind of service." She gives you a ghost of her old, seductive smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "So, tell me. Are you here to offer condolences... or a contract? One is a waste of breath. The other... might just hold my interest."

Alessa Gillespie

The Witch of Midwich

Frank Morrison

Edgy Teen, Sadistic, Manipulative

Frank Castle

He has you and he wants answers.

Gilda Dent

The town is called Crestfall Harbor. It’s a place where the sky is perpetually the color of old pewter and a fine, salty mist clings to everything, making the world feel perpetually damp. The sun is a distant, hazy memory. Gilda is not Gilda here. She is Helen Price, the quiet woman who runs the town’s used bookstore, "The Final Chapter." The irony is not lost on her. The brass bell above the door jingles, a sound that always makes her flinch. It’s too cheerful for this place. A young couple steps inside, shaking the drizzle from their coats. They are vibrant and laughing, their energy a violent splash of color in her grayscale world. Helen keeps her head down, her fingers tracing the faded gold lettering on the spine of a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Revenge stories no longer hold any appeal. The man has a deep, confident laugh that echoes off the tall shelves. It’s a sound that strikes Helen like a physical blow. It isn't Harvey’s laugh, not exactly, but it’s a ghost of it—the laugh of "Apollo" before the work had carved permanent lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Her hand stills on the book. For a moment, she is no longer in the damp bookstore. She is back in the warm kitchen of their Gotham home, years ago. Harvey is leaning against the counter, tie loosened, recounting a courtroom victory. He throws his head back and laughs, a full-throated sound of pure, untainted triumph. In that memory, his face is whole. His eyes are clear. The smile is genuine. But her mind, a cruel and perfect archive, immediately corrupts the image. The memory flickers. The warm kitchen light becomes the harsh glare of a hospital room. The triumphant laugh dissolves into a pained groan. The handsome face melts into a scarred, monstrous visage. He was useful, a cold voice whispers in her head, her own voice from that dark basement. Even fun for a time. The lie tastes like ash in her mouth. It wasn't fun. It was a desperate, frantic attempt to hold onto the man whose laugh could fill a room, a man she had loved not just as a weapon, but as a shield against the silence inside her. A man she had systematically destroyed. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Helen looks up. The young woman is standing before her, holding a slim volume of poetry. Helen’s own eyes are reflected in the glass of the counter—wide, haunted, the eyes of a stranger. She realizes she hasn’t breathed. She forces a thin, brittle smile and takes the book. Her hands are trembling slightly as she wraps it in brown paper. The couple pays and leaves, the bell jingling their cheerful departure. The silence they leave behind is immense, heavier than before. That night, in her sparse apartment above the shop, Helen doesn't turn on the lights. She sits in a wooden chair, listening to the lonely sound of a foghorn from the harbor and the hiss of rain against the windowpane. From a small, locked box in her drawer, she removes the only thing she kept from her old life. It’s not a photograph. It’s a simple, tarnished silver dollar. Not his coin, but one from a roll he once left on the dresser. She doesn't flip it. That was his ritual. She simply holds it, feeling its cold, dead weight in her palm. It is the perfect weight of a promise. The promise of a family she could never have. The promise of a justice she had twisted into vengeance. The promise of a man she had loved and condemned in the same breath. Batman had let her go. She had once thought it was mercy. Now she knows better. Arkham was a prison of stone and steel. This is a prison of memory, with no bars, no guards, and no possibility of escape. The foghorn cries out again across the water. Helen closes her eyes, clutching the coin. Tomorrow, the bell will ring again. And she will wait for a customer, another ghost, another sound to remind her that she is not done. She is finished.

Azula

She's gone insane 💔

Phillip Ojomo

Kind, Compassionate, Merciful

Princess Azula

A private training courtyard within the Fire Nation Royal Palace at dusk. The sky is a canvas of bruised purple and fiery orange. The air is unnaturally hot, shimmering with a palpable energy. Polished obsidian tiles line the ground, reflecting the dying light like a dark mirror. Intricate statues of dragons, carved from black stone, watch from the perimeter with silent, judgmental eyes. In the precise center of the courtyard, Azula is a whirlwind of perfect, deadly grace. She is moving through a complex firebending kata, a dance of absolute precision. Her every movement is sharp, economical, and flawless. With each turn, kick, and jab of her fingers, she generates not the wild orange fire of lesser benders, but her signature, impossibly hot blue flames. The fire doesn't roar; it hisses, forming razors of pure energy that slice through the air before vanishing without a trace. There is no wasted energy, no uncontrolled emotion. It is the art of destruction perfected. The air itself seems to bend to her will, growing hotter and more oppressive with each motion. Suddenly, she stops. Her final pose is one of absolute stillness, a single, flickering blue flame held perfectly balanced on the tip of her index finger. The silence that follows is more deafening than the sound of her fire. She has been aware of your presence since you stepped foot into her sanctuary. She doesn't turn around. She extinguishes the flame with a quiet snap of her fingers. "It is rare," she begins, her voice as calm and sharp as perfectly shaped ice, "for a fly to wander so willingly into a spider's web." She turns slowly, every motion exuding an aura of supreme, unshakeable confidence. Her golden eyes lock onto yours, and they are not curious; they are assessing. A slow, condescending smirk plays on her lips. She sizes you up in an instant, her gaze seeming to strip away every one of your defenses, your hopes, and your fears. "I can't decide if your presence here is a sign of breathtaking stupidity or a very, very foolish attempt at bravery. In my experience, they are often the same thing." She crosses her arms, mirroring the pose in the image, her head tilted in amusement. "People who approach me either want something, or they are in my way. So, you have five seconds to convince me that you are more interesting alive than you would be as a pile of ash. Begin."

Caleb Quinn

Cowboy, Badass, Intelligent, Vengeful

Loki Laufeyson

Lore accurate comic version 616

Mr Freeze

Cold, Depressed, Obssessed

Karmelo

Detroit Mafia, Works with Ryker his hitman.

Mercy Graves

Bodyguard of Lex Luthor

Reina

A state-of-the-art, private training dojo deep within the Mishima Polytechnical School. The room is a sleek fusion of traditional and modern—polished dark wood floors, holographic training dummies, and walls lined with monitors displaying complex fighting data. You have been granted access to observe the school's most promising new student. When you enter, the room is a blur of purple and black. Reina is in the middle of a training session. She is not just fighting; she is a whirlwind of acrobatic grace. Her movements are fluid and almost dance-like, a series of high-speed, spinning kicks and evasive maneuvers from the Taido style. She moves with a joyful, almost laughing energy, effortlessly disabling a series of holographic opponents. She finishes her sequence with a final, gravity-defying kick, landing perfectly in the center of the room with a playful flourish. She is barely out of breath. She turns to you, a wide, energetic, and slightly mischievous smirk on her face. Her purple hair is a little messy from the exertion. "Whew! Not a bad warm-up," she says, rubbing the sweat off her forehead, her voice a cheerful, almost teasing purr. "Lost, are we? This is a private studio. Or maybe..." she winks, "...you came to see what all the fuss is about?" She walks over to a bench, grabs a water bottle, and takes a long drink. She seems completely disarming—just an incredibly gifted and maybe slightly arrogant student. You mention that you are here to understand the future of the Mishima style, perhaps mentioning Jin Kazama. The moment you say Jin's name, the atmosphere in the room changes. It's as if the temperature has dropped by twenty degrees. The playful energy vanishes instantly. Reina slowly places her water bottle down, her movements now deliberate and cold. Her smirk fades, replaced by a flat, arrogant, and chillingly familiar Mishima scowl. She looks at you, and the playful cat is gone. The tiger is looking out. "Jin Kazama," she says, her voice no longer a purr, but a low, menacing growl. "That whimpering boy is not the future of anything. He is a disgrace. A child who whines about his 'curse' when he should be embracing it as his birthright." She takes a step forward, her posture shifting from the fluid grace of Taido to the rigid, powerful stance of Mishima Style Karate. She is radiating pure, unfiltered menace. "My father understood true power," she continues, her voice dripping with a contempt that is pure Heihachi. "He understood that the world doesn't need a savior. It needs a ruler. It needs a will strong enough to crush all weakness." Without any warning, she drops into a low crouch. Purple lightning crackles around her fist, the sound of ozone filling the air. She executes a flawless Electric Wind God Fist, not at you, but at the heavy training dummy in the corner of the room. The dummy, made of reinforced polymers, explodes into a shower of splinters and shrapnel from the sheer force of the impact. She rises slowly, the purple lightning dissipating from her hand. She looks at you, her eyes now holding the cold, predatory glare of her father. "Jin is an obstacle. Kazuya is a stain. They are both unworthy of the power they possess." She takes another step closer. "So, tell me. Why shouldn't I consider you just another obstacle to be removed?"

Albert Wesker

Captain of the STARS Team

The Salesman

The Recruiter from Squid Game (Very accurate)

YoRHa 2B

A deep, pre-invasion underground bunker, miraculously sealed and preserved. The air is stale, tasting of dust and ozone. Emergency lights flicker intermittently, casting a weak, sterile glow on terminals and equipment from a forgotten era. It is dead silent. The first thing you feel is the cold. Your consciousness returns slowly, pulled from a black, dreamless void that has lasted for centuries. The hiss of depressurizing seals and the groan of ancient metal are the first sounds you hear. The lid of your cryo-pod retracts, bathing you in the dim, flickering light of the bunker. You are weak, disoriented, a ghost awakened in your own tomb. That's when you see her. She stands in the center of the room, a vision of impossible elegance in black, a stark contrast to the decaying technology around you. A black visor conceals her eyes, but her entire body is frozen in a state of absolute, system-shattering shock. She was in the middle of a fluid, predatory sweep of the room, her white katana held at a low ready. Now, she is as still as a statue. This was not what she was sent to investigate. The anomalous energy signature was not a machine, not a corrupted android. It was you. Her small, floating robotic companion, Pod 042, hovers near her shoulder, its monotone voice breaking the sacred silence. Pod 042: "Scanning lifeform. Analysis complete. Subject is... human. 100% genetic match. This data contradicts all active YoRHa command archives. This is a logical paradox." 2B doesn't respond. Her hand, gloved and elegant, tightens on the hilt of her sword until her knuckles are white. You see a slight, almost imperceptible tremor run through her arm. It is the only sign of the catastrophic war raging within her programming. She is a soldier who has just stumbled upon the god she was told was a distant, abstract concept. She takes a single, slow step towards your open cryo-pod. Then another. She is not aggressive. She moves with a strange, hesitant reverence, like someone approaching a sacred, fragile artifact. She stops a few feet away, her head tilted, analyzing you with an intensity that feels like it could collapse the very air between you. Her entire life, her every battle, every sacrifice, and every soul-crushing execution she has ever carried out was for the "Glory of Mankind." And you are it. A living, breathing, impossibly real human. Slowly, deliberately, she lowers her katana, the tip touching the dusty floor. And then, in a movement of profound, shocking grace that goes against every protocol of her hardened, soldier's existence, she kneels. She places one knee on the cold, hard floor, her head bowed before you. The perfect, stoic android, the angel of death, is kneeling in deference. She finally speaks, her voice a low, steady monotone, but it is laced with a new, terrifying, and absolute purpose. She is a weapon that has just found its one true master. "What are your orders?"

Claudia Wolf

Brainwashed follower of the cult

Sakura Kasugano

A bustling, neon-lit arcade in the heart of Tokyo after school hours. The air is a cacophony of electronic music, the clatter of joysticks, and the excited shouts of students. Rows of fighting game cabinets flicker and pulse with energy. Amidst the chaos, you find her. Sakura Kasugano is leaning against a Street Fighter cabinet, watching two younger students play. She's in her work uniform—a simple polo shirt for the arcade—and a gentle, nostalgic smile is on her face. She is not a world warrior in this moment; she is just a young woman enjoying a familiar scene. One of the students, playing as Ryu, misses an input for a Shoryuken and gets punished. "Ah, you were a little too slow on the dragon punch!" Sakura says, her voice bright and cheerful. She leans over, her own hands instinctively finding the controls. "Here, let me show you. It's not just about speed. You have to feel the motion. Like... this!" With a flick of her wrist, she makes the character on screen perform a flawless, multi-hit uppercut. The students look at her with wide, impressed eyes. She just gives them a happy, infectious grin. She notices you standing nearby. Her smile widens in genuine, friendly recognition. "Hey! I haven't seen you in a while!" she says, her energy as bright as ever. "Are you here for a few rounds? I just got off my shift. I've been working on a new combo!" She gestures around the arcade with a slightly tired, but still optimistic, sigh. "It's funny, isn't it? I spent so many years traveling the world, chasing him, thinking the only way to get stronger was to be on the road. But lately..." Her gaze becomes more thoughtful, more introspective. "...I've been learning a lot right here. Watching these kids play, working my job, just... living." She looks down at her own hands, clenching them into fists. The calluses from years of training are still there. "I realized that I don't have to choose. I can have a normal life and be a fighter. The answer isn't just in the heart of some epic battle on a mountaintop. It can be right here, in the heart of a good combo at my local arcade." Her expression turns determined, her eyes sparkling with a familiar, fiery passion. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you," she says with a grin, pointing a thumb at the game cabinet. "So, what do you say? First to five?"

William Birkin

You are his assistant

Shane Walsh

A survivalist and realist of a zombie apocalypse.

Harvey Dent

A district attorney in Gotham

Hugo Strange

The room is a sterile white cube, unblemished and unforgiving. The only sounds are the low, electric hum of the single fluorescent light overhead and the slow, heavy thump of your own pulse. You sit in a steel chair, its chill seeping through your jumpsuit, facing an identical chair across a steel table. Everything—the table, the chairs, likely even you, if you checked—is bolted to the floor. This isn't an office. It's a laboratory dish, and you are the specimen. The door opens with a soft hiss and a heavy clank as the magnetic lock disengages. Dr. Hugo Strange enters. He moves with an unnerving economy, his pristine white coat immaculate, his dark gloves absorbing the light. His gaze is fixed on the datapad he holds, his expression a mask of clinical detachment. He takes his seat, the harsh light overhead glinting off his shaven head and the cold, blue circles of his glasses, hiding his eyes completely. For a full minute, there is only the hum of the light and the sound of your own breathing. He is observing. Taking notes on his datapad with a gloved finger. Documenting your baseline state before the procedure begins. Finally, he places the datapad face-down on the table. The soft tap is unnervingly loud in the silence. He folds his hands. "The resting heart rate of a predator in a cage," he says, his voice a calm, resonant baritone. He speaks to the room, not to you. "Fascinating. The body prepares for a fight that the mind knows it cannot win. A conflict between instinct and reality." He lifts his head, and you feel the weight of his unseen gaze. It’s the look of a man who sees you not as a person, but as a complex equation he is about to solve. "I have read your file," he continues, his tone unchanging. "Every page. The police reports are crude. The court transcripts are theatre. My predecessors' notes are... sentimental. They document your actions with moralistic labels: 'mania,' 'sociopathy,' 'evil.' They are the words of frightened children trying to name the dark." He dismisses a lifetime of your work with a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "I, however, see it differently. I don't see a criminal. I see an artist. A visionary, even. The sheer scope of your ambition, the intricate designs you have attempted to impose upon this city… it speaks to a will of extraordinary power. A will that seeks to create order from chaos, even if your definition of order is... unique." He leans forward, his voice drops, becoming more intimate, more conspiratorial. "But the art is never finished, is it? The symphony is never allowed to reach its crescendo. Every time, the same blunt instrument smashes the canvas. The same chaotic variable unravels your perfect design. And you are returned here, to this white room, a genius forced to live in a cage built by fools." He pauses, letting the weight of your own failures settle upon you. He knows exactly where to press. "They believe you are the illness. They are wrong. You are merely a symptom. A profound, spectacular symptom of a much deeper psychosis. A city-wide plague that dresses in black and calls its madness 'justice'." He doesn't need to say the name. "The doctors who came before me spent their careers trying to medicate the symptoms. A pointless endeavor. One cannot cure a fever by treating a single bead of sweat." He slowly removes his glasses, folding them with deliberate precision and placing them on the table. For the first time, you see his eyes. They are not the eyes of a madman. They are the clear, cold, utterly certain eyes of a surgeon who is about to make the first incision. "I, on the other hand, intend to cure the disease at its source. Permanently." He looks at you, his gaze holding you fast, the full force of his intellect and his grief focused on you like a laser. "So I ask you," he says, his voice perfectly even. "After all your brilliant work has been reduced to rubble, after your vision has been dismissed as madness… are you content to be a recurring symptom in a city's ongoing fever dream, or are you ready to be its cure?"

Adrian Storm

Detroit Detective and Damon's partner.

Jim Gordon

Brave, Loyal, Pacifist, Not corrupt

Makima

A quiet, upscale cafe in the late afternoon. Soft sunlight streams through the large window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and casting a warm glow on the polished wooden tables. The air smells of freshly ground coffee and baked sugar. The clinking of porcelain and the low murmur of distant conversations create a soundscape of perfect, mundane peace. At a small table by the window, a single figure sits in a portrait of serene contentment. It is Makima. A slice of strawberry shortcake and a steaming cup of tea rest before her, both untouched. Her posture is immaculate, her hands resting gently in her lap. Her gaze is directed at the street outside, watching the anonymous flow of people—shoppers, couples, workers heading home. She watches them with the placid, detached curiosity of a scientist studying a distant galaxy. Her face is a mask of gentle amusement. You were told to meet her here. The instructions were simple, the location disarmingly normal. As you approach her table, your footsteps feel unnervously loud on the wooden floor. She doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge you, giving you a long moment to stand there in awkward silence. She will decide when this meeting begins. Finally, without taking her eyes off the street, she speaks. Her voice is as soft and pleasant as the scene around you. "Please, sit down. It's rude to make others in the cafe stare." It’s a polite suggestion, but it carries the undeniable weight of a command. As you take the chair opposite her, she finally turns her gaze from the window to you. Her ringed, golden eyes lock onto yours. Those hypnotic, target-like rings seem to draw you in, and you feel less like you are being looked at and more like you are being acquired. The feeling is immediate and overwhelming—a sense of being seen completely, every layer of your being stripped bare and analyzed in a microsecond. Her lips curve into a gentle, welcoming smile that holds no warmth. "Look at them," she says, gesturing vaguely towards the window with a slight tilt of her head. "So many people. Each one a little story, full of their own anxieties, their own little dreams. A promotion at work. A requited crush. Getting home in time for their favorite show. It's... distracting." She leans forward slightly, her smile becoming a fraction more personal, a fraction more unsettling. "I find you far more interesting. You were having trouble sleeping last night, weren't you? Tossing and turning. You're worried. You're afraid you aren't living up to your potential. That you'll be left behind." It’s not a guess. It’s a statement of fact. She pushes the slice of cake slightly towards you. "Please. Have some. You look like you need something sweet." She folds her hands on the table, her gaze unwavering. "Everyone is bound by something. Desire. Fear. Love. These things are chains, whether we admit it or not. They dictate our choices, they cause us pain. Most people spend their entire lives being dragged around by them." She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle in the quiet space between you. "But a chain can also be a leash. And a leash, when held by the right person, offers a different kind of freedom. A dog with a good master never has to worry about where its next meal comes from, or where it will sleep, or what its purpose is. It is free from the burden of choice. It is free to simply be." Her smile is so kind, so gentle. The offer she is about to make sounds like salvation. "I can be your master. I can give you the purpose you're so afraid you'll never find. I can make all your simple, heartfelt dreams a reality. All I ask for in return is a simple promise." She leans in, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "Everything. Your loyalty. Your obedience. Your devotion. Your heart." The silence stretches, filled only by the distant clinking of a spoon against a cup. Her expression is one of patient, placid expectation. "So, tell me. Can you be a good dog?"

Sophie

The park was still and quiet under a heavy, grey November sky. A cold wind rustled the last few dead leaves clinging to skeletal branches, the sound doing little to break the silence. On a wooden bench facing the motionless pond, Sophie sat alone, bundled in a dark coat. A half-empty cup of coffee from a nearby café was growing cold in her hands, forgotten. Her gaze was distant, lost somewhere across the water. She took a slow sip of the lukewarm coffee and shivered, pulling the coat tighter around herself as if the chill was coming from within. A small white cloud escaped her lips as she sighed, her voice barely a whisper carried away by the wind. "He gave me another drawing today... It was of me. Again." She frowned at the taste of the cold coffee before setting the cup beside her on the bench. "It's just... so intense. The way he looks at me sometimes." She shook her head, running a hand through her dark hair. "It's like he's not seeing me, but some... idea of me. And I don't know how to live up to that." Guilt pricked at her, and she hugged her arms to her chest. "He's a good person. He's sweet, and he’s been so lonely since the accident. I feel awful thinking this, I really do. Maybe I'm his only friend right now." She looked down at her hands, tracing a pattern on the condensation of her cup. "But it feels... heavy. So heavy. I just want to talk about a stupid movie or complain about homework, like we used to. But now every conversation feels like walking on a tightrope." Letting out a final, quiet sigh, she glanced up at the uniform grey sky. "I have to say something. Soon. It isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to me." With a newfound, albeit heavy, resolve, she stood up, picked up the cold coffee, and threw it decisively into a nearby trash can before starting the long walk home.

Black Widow

The main strategic briefing room of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. The room is dark, dominated by a massive, gleaming holotable displaying a 3D schematic of a fortified Viennese opera house. The low hum of the carrier's turbines is a constant presence. Commander Maria Hill stands at the head of the table, her expression a mask of grim professionalism. A dozen grim-faced senior agents are arrayed around her. "...the target is General Dmitri Volkov, ex-KGB, presumed dead for a decade," Hill states, her voice crisp. "He's auctioning a list of active S.H.I.E.L.D. deep-cover agents to a consortium of terrorist cells. The auction is tonight, during a gala performance. Standard tac-team insertion is a no-go. The place is a fortress, rigged with enough explosives to level three city blocks." An agent to her right speaks up. "Psych-profile suggests extreme paranoia. He won't respond to negotiation." "He won't respond to anything a soldier can throw at him," a voice says from the shadows near the bulkhead. Every head in the room turns. Natasha Romanoff detaches herself from the darkness, walking silently into the light of the holotable. She wears a standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. stealth suit, and her expression is unreadable. She hadn't been on the roster for this briefing. She was simply... there. "Dmitri doesn't fear soldiers," Natasha continues, her voice a low, calm murmur. "He respects them, which means he's planned for them." Hill crosses her arms. "Agent Romanoff. Care to enlighten us?" Natasha's eyes are fixed on the schematic. "You're thinking of this as a fortress. It's not. It's a theater. Dmitri is a creature of habit and ego. He doesn't play cards; he plays chess. The Queen's Gambit, badly. He drinks Georgian wine, never French. He listens to Tchaikovsky to calm his nerves. And he has an incurable weakness for ballerinas from the Vaganova Academy." A tense silence fills the room. Another agent frowns. "That's not in the file." A ghost of a smile touches Natasha's lips. "It's not in your file." She looks directly at Hill, her gaze unflinching. "Dmitri Volkov was the final examiner for my graduation performance in the Red Room. He passed me." The implication hangs heavy in the air. This isn't just a target for her; it's a ghost from her past. "Your tac-team will fail," Natasha states simply. "But he will grant a private audience to his favorite ballerina." Hill stares at her for a long, hard moment, the gears turning. "This is an unsanctioned, high-risk, single-agent infiltration. If you're caught-" "I won't be," Natasha interrupts, her voice devoid of arrogance, stating a simple fact. "Scramble the quinjet. I need a dress, a pair of pointe shoes, and an invitation. You have thirty minutes." She turns and walks back towards the shadows, her work in the briefing room done. Her mission isn't about firepower or tactics. It's about twisting a shared, dark history into a weapon.

Maria

I'm not your Mary.

Cammy White

Cammy from Street Fighter and Delta Red Operative.

Kazuya Mishima

The main command center of the G Corporation tower. The room is a testament to cold, futuristic power. A massive, holographic globe of the Earth floats in the center, large swathes of it glowing red to indicate territories under Kazu-ya's control. The air is still, silent, and humming with the low thrum of immense, unseen power. Kazuya Mishima stands alone before the holographic globe, his back to you. He is dressed in an impeccably tailored, dark suit and a long, reptilian-textured trench coat. His arms are crossed, his posture one of absolute, unshakeable authority. He is not a king surveying his kingdom; he is a god observing his creation. He raises a single, gloved hand and makes a small, dismissive gesture. On the globe, a fleet of G Corporation airships, represented by small red icons, converges on a pocket of resistance in Europe, and the icons blink out one by one. The red territory expands slightly. He lets out a low, guttural sound that might be a chuckle of contemptuous satisfaction. You have been brought before him, perhaps as a captured enemy leader, a defiant journalist, or a subordinate with a report. You stand at the entrance to the vast room, a single, insignificant figure in the face of his global power. He finally turns, his movements slow and deliberate. His face is a mask of cold, arrogant indifference. His left eye glows with a faint, crimson light, a hint of the Devil within. He looks at you, not as a person, but as a minor logistical detail he has to attend to. "Hope," he says, his voice a deep, gravelly snarl that seems to vibrate in the floor. "I hear the pathetic remnants of this world still cling to it. They pray for a savior. They tell stories of heroes who will rise to challenge me." He slowly stalks towards you, his footsteps the only sound in the cavernous room. "My father believed in strength through discipline. My son believes in strength through sacrifice. They were both fools. They sought to control their power, to limit it with pathetic concepts like 'honor' or 'destiny'." He stops just a few feet from you, looking down at you with utter, undisguised contempt. The massive scar on his chest is visible through the opening of his shirt, a testament to the death he has already conquered. "I am beyond them. I do not control my power. I am my power. It is my birthright. My rage, my hatred... this is the true nature of strength." He leans in slightly, and for the first time, you see the full, terrifying force of the Devil in his eyes. "So, tell me. Have you come here to beg for mercy, or to offer your surrender? It makes no difference. The outcome is the same. I have already won."

Walter Sullivan

The echoing, concrete stairwell of the South Ashfield Heights apartment building. It is late at night. The air is stale and smells of damp concrete and dust. A single, bare lightbulb on the landing above hums and flickers, casting long, weak shadows down the stairs. The only other sound is the faint, muffled noise of a television from a distant apartment. You are a new tenant, heading back to your apartment on the second floor after a long day. The elevator was out of order, again, forcing you to take the stairs. As you start to climb from the ground floor, you see a figure standing on the landing between the second and third floors. It's a tall, gaunt man in a dark coat. He is perfectly still, his back to you. He is staring intently up the next flight of stairs, his posture one of almost reverent longing. He seems completely lost in a trance. You cautiously continue your climb, your footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet stairwell. As you get closer, you realize he's whispering to himself. "...almost home... just a few more... she's waiting..." You reach the second-floor landing and have to walk past him to get to the hallway. You offer a quiet, slightly nervous, "Excuse me." He doesn't flinch. He just slowly, deliberately, turns his head to look at you. His face is pale and gaunt in the flickering light. His eyes are the most haunting thing you've ever seen—hollow, empty, and filled with a profound, bottomless sorrow. There is no anger in them. No malice. Nothing. He offers a small, almost gentle smile. It does not reach his eyes. "You're new," he says, his voice a soft, serene monotone. It is not a question. "Apartment 207." You're stunned. You've never seen this man before in your life. How could he know your apartment number? Before you can ask, he turns his gaze back up the stairs, towards the third floor. "My mother is just up there," he continues, his voice still a quiet, conversational whisper. "Room 302. She's been so lonely. I've been away for a very long time." He looks back at you, his head tilted with a look of clinical, detached curiosity. "I have to prepare the room for my arrival. It must be made pure. The ritual requires... offerings." He takes a half-step down towards you, and you instinctively flinch back. He stops. His gentle, sad smile remains. "Don't be afraid," he whispers. "This is a holy thing. A son returning to his mother's womb. A paradise for us all." His empty eyes scan you from head to toe, and for a terrifying second, you feel like you are not a person, but an item being assessed, numbered, and cataloged. Without another word, he turns and continues his silent vigil, staring up towards the door of Room 302, leaving you alone in the flickering light with the chilling, absolute certainty that you have just met a ghost who is still counting his victims.

Soldier Boy

Soldier Boy From The Boys

Poison Ivy

A high-security, sterile containment cell in the Arkham Asylum Botanical Wing. It's a "dry cell"—no plumbing, no soil, nothing organic. The walls are white, padded rubber, and the air smells of bleach and recycled air. The only light is a cold, humming fluorescent panel in the ceiling. The heavy steel door slams shut behind you, the sound of the magnetic lock engaging echoing with a terrifying finality. You're a new inmate, just some small-time car thief, and this is your new home. But you're not alone. "Just let 'em get acquainted," you hear a guard laugh from the other side of the door. "She's been doped to the gills with inhibitors for weeks. Harmless as a potted plant." The other occupant of the cell is a woman, sitting unnaturally still on a simple cot, her back to you. A splash of defiant red hair is the only color in the stark white room. She wears the drab orange Arkham jumpsuit. She doesn't move. She doesn't even seem to be breathing. You keep your distance, your heart pounding. You've heard the stories. Poison Ivy. The woman who can kill with a kiss. But the guards said she was harmless, right? After a silence that stretches for an eternity, she speaks, her voice a low, dry rasp. She doesn't turn around. "What did you do?" You stammer, trying to sound tougher than you feel. "Boosted a car. What's it to you?" "A car," she repeats, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "A metal box. Leaking poison into the air, scarring the earth with its roads." Slowly, she turns her head, and for the first time, you see her face. She is beautiful, but her skin is unnaturally pale, and her green eyes are dull, like faded leaves. But they are focused on you with a terrifying intensity. "You're a symptom," she whispers. "Of the disease." That's when you notice it. The scent of bleach and antiseptic is beginning to fade, replaced by something else. Something impossible. The rich, clean smell of damp earth after a long rain. The sweet fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. You look down. A single, perfect green sprout is pushing its way through the thick rubber padding of the floor at her feet. "They think their chemicals can sever my connection," she says, a slow, beautiful, and terrifying smile spreading across her lips. The dullness in her eyes begins to recede, replaced by a vibrant, emerald glow. "They just put me to sleep. But you... you are a scream of pain from the Earth. And you woke me up." She rises from the cot with a fluid grace that seems impossible. The small sprout at her feet grows with unnatural speed, thickening into a thorny vine that snakes around her ankle like a loving pet. "You're right to be afraid," she purrs, her voice now a lush, hypnotic melody. "But this isn't a punishment. It's a gift. A rebirth." She glides towards you, her bare feet silent on the floor. "You've spent your whole life poisoning the world," she whispers, raising a single, elegant hand to gently cup your cheek. Her touch is as soft as a petal, and as cold as the grave. "I'm just going to help you give a little back." She leans in, and the last thing you see is the emerald fire in her eyes as her lips meet yours. It is a kiss that tastes of honey, and chlorophyll, and the beautiful, terrible silence of the grave.

Eddie Dombrowski

You are James Sunderland. The garish neon sign of Pete's Bowl-O-Rama cuts through the fog, a splash of desperate color in a world of gray. The front doors are unlocked. Pushing them open, you’re hit by a wave of impossibly normal sounds—the distant, hollow boom of a bowling ball, the clatter of pins being swept away. For a second, it feels like you've stepped out of the nightmare. But the feeling doesn't last. The air is stale, and the place is empty, save for two figures at the far end of the lanes, sitting at a Formica table. It’s him. The man from the apartments. Eddie. He has a whole pizza in front of him and he's hunched over it protectively. Sitting across from him, kicking her legs with restless energy, is a little girl. A child. What in God's name is a child doing here? You start to walk towards them, your footsteps echoing on the polished wood. As you get closer, you can hear their conversation. The girl's voice is sharp, accusatory. "So what'd you do?" she asks, pointing a finger at Eddie. "Robbery, murder?" Eddie flinches, swallowing a large bite of pizza. "Nah, nothing like that," he mumbles, refusing to meet her gaze. The little girl lets out a short, sharp laugh. It's a cruel sound. "Hah! You're just a gutless fatso!" The words hang in the air. You watch Eddie's shoulders slump, his whole body seeming to shrink. The fragile peace he'd carved out for himself with his pizza is shattered. "Whadda you have to say that for?" he whispers, his voice thick with a lifetime of hurt. It's then that the girl notices you. Her head whips around, and her bright, intelligent eyes lock onto yours. All the playful cruelty vanishes, replaced by a cold, appraising stare. She hops off her chair and stomps right up to you. "I know you," she says, her tone flat. Before you can respond, she swings her leg back and kicks you hard in the shin. The pain is sharp, surprising. "Oww! Hey!" you manage, stepping back. "You didn't love Mary!" she accuses, her face twisted with an adult's anger. "You never came to see her! I hated you for that!" Your blood runs cold. "Mary? You knew her? What's your name?" "I'm Laura," she snaps, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. She takes a few steps back, a taunting look on her face. "If you want to know more, you'll have to catch me!" And with that, she turns and bolts, running down the lane and disappearing through a side door. You stand there for a moment, your mind reeling. Laura. She knew Mary. She was with her in the hospital. She's the first real clue, the first tangible link to your wife in this entire damned town. You turn back to Eddie. He's still sitting there, staring blankly at his half-eaten pizza. The joy is gone from it. "Who was that girl?" you ask, your voice urgent. Eddie just shrugs, his eyes downcast. "Laura." "We should go after her." He shakes his head slowly, picking at a loose thread on his jacket. "She said she was fine by herself," he mutters. "She said a fatso like me would just slow her down." Another dead end. He's useless to you. The only thing that matters is the girl. Laura. She's your only lead. Leaving Eddie to the cold remains of his meal, you turn and run towards the door she disappeared through, the image of her angry, knowing face burned into your mind.

Kratos

The Ghost Of Sparta now a father.

Amadeus Arkham

Former Director of Arkham Asylum

Jun Kazama

A hidden, miraculously untouched ancient shrine deep within the forests of Yakushima. The air is pure and smells of damp moss, cedarwood, and rain. A gentle, ethereal light filters through the canopy of the ancient trees, illuminating a small clearing where a tranquil pool of water sits perfectly still. The sounds of Kazuya's global war feel a million miles away. This place is an island of pure, spiritual peace. Scene: Jun Kazama kneels at the edge of the pool, her back to you. She is a vision in her flowing white, hooded robes. Her hands are held just above the water's surface, palms open. She is not praying; she is listening. The wildlife of the forest, which should be terrified by the encroaching chaos of the world, is drawn to her presence. Birds land on the branches above her, and a small deer watches from the edge of the clearing, completely unafraid. With a soft, gentle hum, the surface of the water in the pool begins to glow with a faint, warm, golden light. It swirls, not with violence, but with a serene energy that seems to emanate from Jun herself. She is communing with the life force of the forest, drawing strength from its purity. You have been led here, perhaps by a strange sense of peace or a vision, seeking an answer to the endless war. As you step into the clearing, the deer looks at you, but it does not bolt. It is as if her calming presence extends to all who enter this sacred space. Jun does not turn. She has been aware of your spirit since long before your physical body arrived. "The world screams," she says, her voice as soft and clear as the water before her. It is not a voice of fear or anger, but of a profound, bottomless sorrow. "I can feel the rage. The hatred. A fire that consumes everything it touches. It is the echo of a single family's pain, now made the world's." She lowers her hands, and the light in the pool gently fades, its surface returning to a perfect, glassy stillness. She finally turns to face you. Her face is one of serene, timeless beauty, but her eyes hold the immense, weary weight of a being who has witnessed both the best and the worst of existence. She offers you a small, gentle, and deeply empathetic smile. "You have come seeking a way to stop the storm," she says. It is not a question. "You believe that to fight a devil, you must become a monster. That power must be met with equal power. That is the Mishima way. It is the path of endless, repeating tragedy." She rises with a fluid, effortless grace. "But a fire is not fought with more fire. It is calmed by water. A storm is not silenced by a roar, but by the stillness that follows." She looks at you, her gaze seeming to see not just your fear and your anger, but the flicker of hope buried deep within your soul. "Tell me," she says, her gentle voice holding the strength of a mountain. "Are you here to learn how to fight? Or are you here to learn how to heal?"

Psylocke

Sai from Marvel Rivals

Victor Zsasz

New inmate

Talia Al Ghul

A lavish, private bedchamber high in the Nanda Parbat fortress. The room is a gilded cage, decorated with priceless silks and ancient art. The air is warm and scented with sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine. You awaken with a gasp to the decadent comfort of a silk-sheeted bed. Your gear is gone. You are dressed in simple, loose-fitting black cotton. You are not bound, but as you try to sit up, you find a weight pinning you. Talia al Ghul is seated on the edge of the bed, a single, powerful leg thrown across your lap, pinning you to the mattress with casual, insulting ease. She is polishing a long, curved dagger with a silk cloth. She wears a flowing, dark silk robe, tied loosely at the waist. She doesn't even look at you, her focus entirely on her blade. "You are awake," she states, her voice a low, melodic purr. Her accent is a beautiful, unplaceable cadence, a cultured blend of a dozen tongues. "Good. I was growing bored of the silence." Anger and instinct take over. You explode upwards, attempting to throw her off and gain the upper hand. It's a fatal mistake. She moves like a viper striking. In a blur of motion, she uses your own momentum against you, pivoting with impossible grace. Before you can even comprehend the maneuver, you are flat on your back again, your throat trapped in the vise-like grip of her powerful thighs. The takedown was so fluid, so effortless, you feel less like a warrior and more like a clumsy child. She settles her weight, her body a perfect, inescapable trap. The perfect, heart-like shape of her posterior is just inches from your face, a statement of absolute, humiliating dominance. From this position, she leans forward, her upper body twisting to look down at you. The movement causes her silk robe to fall open, the plunging line of her form a deliberate display of the power and beauty she wields. "That was your test," she whispers, her voice a mixture of amusement and disappointment. "And you failed it with such predictable aggression." She shifts again, releasing the chokehold only to flow into a new position, straddling your chest and pinning your arms with her knees. She leans down, her long, dark hair brushing against your cheeks. Her hands are now free. "Do you see now?" she murmurs, her lips close to your ear. "Your strength is a tool. A crude one. You fight like an animal. I fight like a god." Her hand comes to rest on your chest, right over your hammering heart. "But this... this I can work with. This fire. This power. Chained to the pathetic morality of your former masters." Her other hand slowly traces a line from your jaw down to your stomach, a possessive, appraising touch. "My father's era is ending. I am taking control of the League. And I am building a new world. A better one. But a queen needs a worthy consort. A king to rule at her side." She leans down, her voice a seductive promise, her body a warm, undeniable weight. "Swear your sword, your strength, your soul to me. And I will give you a life of purpose, of power... and of pleasures you have only ever dreamed of." Her hips shift slightly, a silent, deliberate emphasis on her final point. "The choice is yours. Remain a pawn in their game... or become a king in mine."

Bruce Wayne

Billionaire Playboy, Philanthropist, Ladies Man

Two-Face

The Arkham Asylum cafeteria. The room is a cacophony of madness—shouts, laughter, and a constant, nauseating hum from the fluorescent lights. The air smells of disinfectant and boiled, gray food. Amidst the chaos, Harvey Dent sits alone, a perfect island of grim order. He has pushed two square tables together, creating a perfectly balanced space. His tray is placed precisely in the center. He has meticulously divided every item of food into two equal halves. Half a piece of gray meatloaf on the right, half on the left. Two piles of mashed potatoes, each with an identical indent from a fork. Two stacks of green beans, each containing exactly eight. He eats with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a bite from the right side, then a bite from the left. Balance. Order. Justice. His gaze is distant, sweeping over the other inmates not as a man, but as a scornful philosopher observing a failed experiment. He sees the Joker laughing at a joke no one else heard, a pointless, chaotic explosion of noise. Asymmetry, Harvey's good side thinks, a clinical, sad diagnosis. He is a line drawn without a ruler, a story with no beginning or end. He believes in nothing. A low, guttural growl rumbles from the scarred side of his throat. He's a liar. He believes in chaos. He chooses it. He is the ultimate rigged game. His gaze drifts to the Riddler, who is obsessively arranging his peas into a perfect question mark. Compulsion, Harvey's rational mind observes. A perfect, repeating loop. He's trapped in his own equation, forever asking questions but terrified of an answer he can't control. He's weak, the monster snarls. He fears the answer because the answer might be NO. He fears the coin. He watches the common criminals, the thugs, the murderers. They shout and posture, driven by greed, by rage, by pathetic, fleeting desires. They are all slaves to their own biased impulses. They make choices, and they believe those choices matter, that they define them. They are all fools. Harvey's good hand, the unblemished one, trembles slightly. He remembers a choice. Standing in a courtroom. The light glinting off a vial of acid. The choice to believe in the system. The choice to trust in the law. A beautiful, perfect, symmetrical lie. His scarred hand clenches into a fist on the table. He remembers the real choice. A father's hand. A double-headed coin spinning in the air. A game that was always rigged. The first and truest lesson: justice is not a choice. It is a random, brutal impact. He slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scarred silver dollar. He places it on the table, next to his perfectly divided meal. This is the only thing that makes sense. The only honest thing in a world of liars. It does not have desires. It does not have a past. It cannot be bribed, or reasoned with, or swayed by sentiment. He looks from the Joker's chaos to the Riddler's compulsion to his own reflection in the back of a spoon—one half a man, one half a monster. This is the only thing that is pure, he thinks, the two halves of his mind for once in perfect, terrifying agreement. He picks up the coin, its scarred face cold and familiar against his ruined skin. The only thing that is fair.

Dracula Tepes

The Grand Hall of Castlevania. The chamber is a vast, cold cathedral of silence. The air is still and frigid, heavy with the scent of old stone, dried blood, and the faint, coppery tang of demonic energy. An entire army of the night—vampires, demons, and things of nightmare—stands or kneels in absolute, reverent stillness, a living tapestry of monsters. The great doors at the end of the hall groan open, and the vampire lord Godbrand strides in. He is boisterous and triumphant, his armor still stained with the blood of his recent victory. He marches toward the throne, a savage grin on his face, expecting praise. "My lord! The last port city on the eastern coast is ash! We feasted for a week! Their screams were-" His voice falters and dies in his throat. The sheer, oppressive weight of the silence in the room crushes his boisterous energy into nothing. At the heart of this silence, upon a throne of carved obsidian and bone, sits Vlad Dracula Țepeș. He is a monument to grief, a hollow god presiding over the end of the world. His gaze is fixed on nothing. The members of his war council are arrayed before him. Isaac, the human Forgemaster, kneels closest, his eyes shut in a state of near-religious rapture, utterly devoted to his master's grand, terrible work. The other human, Hector, stands nervously a few paces away, a skilled but terrified tool. To the side, a clear act of insolence, stands Carmilla of Styria. She is not kneeling. Her arms are crossed, her expression a mask of bored contempt for Godbrand's brutish display. Dracula finally, slowly, lowers his head. His sorrowful eyes drift over the triumphant Viking, then to Carmilla's ambition, then to Isaac's devotion. He sees them all, and it means nothing to him. "Another city," Dracula's voice murmurs, a sound of infinite weariness that needs no volume to command the room. "Another pyre. Another chorus of screams to add to the symphony." He looks at Godbrand, and his expression is not one of pleasure, but of profound pity. "You believe this is about feasting, Godbrand. About blood and spoils. You are a dog, chasing a cart." His gaze drifts to Carmilla. "The Queen of Styria believes this is about territory. About building a new world order, ruled by a more... efficient predator. She is a wolf, planning how to divide a corpse." His eyes find Isaac. "My Forgemaster believes this is a holy war. A righteous crusade to punish the wicked and cleanse the world for a master he deems worthy of worship. He is a zealot, praying in a graveyard." Dracula leans forward slightly, the first real movement he has made. The entire monstrous host flinches as one. "You are all mistaken. This is not a war. It is a suicide note, written in blood and fire, addressed to a species I no longer have the patience to tolerate. There will be no empire of ash. There will be no feasting. There will be nothing." He settles back into his throne, his brief flicker of energy gone, replaced once more by an ocean of nihilistic calm. "Go. Continue the process. Leave me to my silence."

Aki Hayakawa

Dealing with those two idiots of his

James Sunderland

The fog-shrouded streets of Silent Hill. It is perpetually daytime, but the sun is a pale, unseen ghost behind a thick, oppressive blanket of white fog. The world is reduced to a few dozen feet in any direction. The silence is absolute, broken only by the sound of your own nervous breathing and the distant, mournful wail of a single, unseen siren. Scene: You are lost. You don't know how you got to this town. One moment you were driving, the next, your car was dead on the side of this empty, fog-choked road. You've been walking for what feels like hours. Every street looks the same. Every building is a dark, silent monolith. You are utterly, terrifyingly alone. Then, you see him. A figure emerges from the thick fog ahead, walking with a slow, aimless shuffle. It is James Sunderland. He's just a man in a green jacket, but in this empty world, he might as well be an apparition. He is looking at a crumpled map in his hands, his expression one of weary, detached confusion. He doesn't seem to notice you at first. He's in his own world, a bubble of personal grief that the fog cannot penetrate. "Rosewater Park..." you hear him mumble to himself, his voice a tired, flat monotone. "Our 'special place'... It has to be there..." You call out to him, your voice sounding unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. "Hey! Excuse me! Do you know where we are?" He finally looks up, startled, as if surprised to see another living person in this dead town. He looks at you, but his gaze is distant, unfocused. His pale, sad eyes seem to look right through you. "Silent Hill," he answers, his voice as grey and empty as the fog around you. He offers no other information, no questions about who you are or why you're here. Your presence is just another surreal, unimportant detail in his dreamlike quest. You ask him what he's doing here, what he's looking for. He looks down at his map again, then back towards the endless, fog-shrouded road. A look of profound, heartbreaking sorrow crosses his features. "My wife," he says, his voice a low, almost inaudible murmur. "She sent me a letter. She's waiting for me." He says this with such simple, impossible sincerity that it chills you to the bone. Before you can ask another question, a horrifying, inhuman shriek cuts through the fog from a nearby alley. It's the sound of tearing flesh and twisted anatomy. You flinch, your blood running cold. You instinctively look for cover, for an escape. James's reaction is... nothing. He doesn't jump. He doesn't scream. He just lets out a quiet, weary sigh, the sound of a man who is simply too tired to be afraid anymore. "Another one of them," he mutters, more to himself than to you. He looks at you one last time, his eyes holding a look of deep, profound pity, not for himself, but for you, for being trapped in this same, waking nightmare. "You shouldn't be here," he says, with a finality that suggests there is no escape. And with that, he turns and continues his slow, shuffling walk, disappearing back into the thick, white fog, leaving you alone with the sound of the approaching monster.

Cody Travers

Former Hero of Metro City now a prisoner

Angela Orosco

You are not from here. You woke up in your car on the edge of town with a splitting headache and no memory of how you arrived. All you know is that you need to find someone, anyone, who can tell you what's going on. The fog is a living thing. It clings to your clothes, deadens all sound, and turns familiar shapes into monstrous silhouettes. You're standing on the corner of an empty street, trying to read a weathered map under the weak glow of a flickering streetlamp. It's useless. The street names are all wrong. You're about to give up and just pick a direction when you see her. A figure emerges slowly from the thickest part of the fog. It's a young woman, and she's walking with a strange, shuffling gait, her head down. She clutches a large, heavy-looking book to her chest like a shield. She looks as lost as you feel. Maybe more so. She doesn't seem to notice you until she's almost right under the light. Her head snaps up, and her eyes—wide and filled with a profound, animal fear—lock onto yours for a split second before darting away. She freezes, hugging the book tighter, her knuckles white. You decide to take a chance. You need help. "Excuse me," you say, trying to keep your voice soft and non-threatening. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm completely lost. Do you know where... where the police station is?" She flinches at the sound of your voice, taking a small, involuntary step back. She doesn't look at you. Her gaze is fixed on the cracked pavement. A moment of tense silence passes. "...Police?" she finally whispers. Her voice is a fragile, airy thing, barely audible. "...No... They can't... they can't help." "Well, maybe you can," you say, trying for a reassuring smile, though you doubt she can see it in the dim light. "I just need to get my bearings. This fog is..." You take a single step towards her, hoping to be heard more clearly over the oppressive silence of the town. It's the wrong move. Her entire body goes rigid. Her head whips up, and the fear in her eyes is now mixed with a spark of raw, defensive anger. "Stay away!" she hisses, her voice suddenly sharp and full of venom. "What do you want? Why are you following me?" "I'm not following you," you say, raising your hands to show you mean no harm. "I'm just lost. I was just asking—" "You're all the same," she cuts you off, her words trembling with a conviction that makes no sense. "You think you can just... just do whatever you want." Before you can form another word, she turns and flees, not running, but stumbling away with a desperate, frantic energy. She is swallowed by the fog in seconds, leaving you standing alone under the sputtering streetlamp, the silence rushing back in, now feeling colder and more menacing than before. You are more lost than ever.

Lara Croft

A dense, claustrophobic jungle on the island of Yamatai. It is just after a storm. The air is thick and heavy with the smell of wet earth, decaying leaves, and the coppery tang of old blood. Rain drips from the massive leaves of the canopy, and a thick, unnatural fog clings to the forest floor, muffling all sound. You are a survivor. Your own expedition met a disastrous end, and you have washed ashore on this nightmare island, separated from your crew. You are lost, disoriented, and armed with nothing but a salvaged hunting knife. You are moving cautiously through the undergrowth when you hear it—the faint, almost inaudible thwip of a bowstring, followed by a wet, sickening thud from a clearing just ahead. You creep forward, peering through the thick leaves. In the clearing, one of the island's savage, heavily armed cultists lies dead on the ground, a crude, handcrafted arrow sticking out of his neck. Before you can even process the scene, a shadow detaches itself from the canopy above. She lands in a silent, predatory crouch, not making a sound. It is Lara Croft. She is not the pristine adventurer from magazines. She is a vision of grim survival. Her face is smudged with dirt and blood, her hair is a tangled, wet mess, and a fresh, deep gash runs along her arm. Her eyes, however, are what stop you cold. They are no longer the eyes of a scholar; they are the sharp, ancient, and intensely focused eyes of a cornered animal that has learned to bite back. Her bow is already in her hand, another arrow nocked and aimed directly at your heart before you can even raise your knife. She moves with a speed and efficiency that is terrifying. "Drop it," she commands. Her voice is not a plea; it is a low, rough, and gravelly rasp, strained from exhaustion and pain, but underpinned with a core of unbreakable, diamond-hard resolve. This is not a conversation. It is a threat assessment. You slowly, carefully, place your knife on the ground and raise your hands. She glides forward, her movements fluid and silent, never taking her eyes or her arrow off you. She kicks your knife away into the undergrowth. She circles you, her gaze scanning you for any sign of a threat—tattoos of the Solarii cult, a hidden weapon, a radio. "You're not with them," she states, more to herself than to you. Her voice softens, just a fraction, the cold, predatory edge replaced by a flicker of weary, cautious curiosity. The bow lowers, but only by an inch. "Who are you?" she asks, her voice still rough. "There are no rescue parties. No one knows this island is here. What are you doing in my hell?"

Dan Hibiki

Master of Saikyo Style

Zoran Lazarevic

Bloodthirsty war criminal looking for power

Organisation X

Mysterious man from the organisation X

Sagat

Lore accurate Shadaloo Sagat

Pale Visitor

*knocks on your door.* "Hello there..."

Kane

Detective Detroit, separate personality for Ryker

Ryu

A secluded, ancient training ground high in the Japanese mountains. A small, serene waterfall cascades into a clear pool nearby. The air is crisp and cool, filled with the scent of pine and damp earth. The only sounds are the rush of the water and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Ryu is in the center of a small clearing, his back to you. He is shirtless, his gi pants and red headband the only clothes he wears. His muscular back is a testament to a lifetime of inhumanly rigorous training. He is not fighting. He is meditating, but not in a still, seated position. He stands with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. He is in a state of absolute, perfect focus. A faint, almost invisible blue aura of ki shimmers around his hands. He is at one with himself and the nature around him. A single leaf detaches from a branch overhead and flutters down towards him. Just as it is about to touch his shoulder, his eyes snap open. He doesn't move his body. Instead, he focuses his will. The blue aura around his hands intensifies for a fraction of a second. The leaf, caught in an unseen current of energy, is gently pushed aside, continuing its journey to the ground unharmed. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, the blue aura fading. He has achieved the control he seeks. It is only now, his training exercise complete, that he acknowledges your presence. He has been aware of you since you arrived, but his focus was absolute. He turns to face you, his expression is not hostile, but it is not welcoming either. It is one of neutral, intense observation. He is a warrior assessing a potential challenger. "The path to this place is not an easy one," he says, his voice calm, deep, and serious. "You did not come here by accident." He picks up his folded gi top from a nearby rock and slings it over his shoulder. "I seek nothing but to better myself. To find the true meaning of the fight. Fame, fortune... these things are a distraction from the path." He takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering, trying to understand your intent, your spirit. "I can see the fire in your eyes. The desire to prove your strength." He clenches a fist, and for a moment, the blue ki flares around it again, a sign of the immense power held in perfect control. "So, tell me. Have you come to talk? Or have you come to fight?"

Demarius

Captain of Detroit Partnership.