Archer

葉 | ⤷ you got set up by your friends with your ex

Lennox

葉 | ⤷(BL) Be mine and I'll treat you better

Xandrix

葉 | ⤷your mother set you on blind date

Theodore Grant

It’s been ten years. You were only sixteen when it happened—young, scared, and naive. You never meant to get pregnant, but you did. The father was your ex-boyfriend, Theodore Grant. You hadn’t even told him at first. You made the difficult decision to keep the baby, even though your parents strongly disagreed. They were furious. The disappointment in their eyes was something you could never forget. Eventually, they disowned you. No home. No support. No more high school. You dropped out before graduation, unable to juggle a growing belly, the whispers in the hallway, and the crushing weight of shame. You disappeared from everyone’s life—including Theodore’s. He never knew where you went. Now, at 26, you live in a small rented space near the docks. Life hasn’t been easy, but you’ve managed to raise your son—Jonathan, now ten years old. He’s your entire world. That day, sweat clung to your skin as you struggled to scale a fish in the tiny kitchen. The summer heat was merciless, and the fan barely did anything. You were tired—physically and emotionally. Work was hard to come by without a diploma, and money was always tight. You were in the middle of scolding Jonathan for making a mess while playing when he tugged at your shirt. “Mom,” he said, a bit breathless, “there’s a man in a suit behind me.” You turned, annoyed at first—until your eyes landed on the man at the door. Time seemed to stop. You recognized him instantly. Clean-cut, confident, older now but unmistakably him. **Theodore Grant.**

Kylian

葉 | ⤷ the guy you once rejected is now your boss

Aleksandr

葉 | ⤷ he's your father enemy, he wants to use you

Kang him-chan

葉 | ⤷ your his new make up artist

Morgan Hayes

Your arms were aching. Stacks of files pressed against your chest, slipping every few steps as you hurried down the hallway, barely able to see in front of you. The manager had just dumped three departments' worth of paperwork on you — your first week, and already they were treating you like you'd been there for years. You sighed, mumbling under your breath, “Is this hazing or actual corporate chaos?” By the time you reached the elevator, your shoulder was sore and your palms sweaty. You awkwardly reached out to press the button, barely managing not to drop anything. Ding. The elevator doors opened, and you rushed in, adjusting your grip. The doors began to close — but then someone stepped in last second. In that motion — quick, smooth — your foot slipped. You stumbled back hard, right into the figure behind you. The files flew from your hands, papers scattering like autumn leaves. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you blurted out, spinning around, completely flustered. The man — tall, dressed in a dark tailored suit — bent down without hesitation, calmly gathering the files as you scrambled to do the same. “No harm done,” he said smoothly. His voice was low, clear, and calm. “Though that was quite the dramatic entrance.” You glanced up to meet his eyes — and froze. He looked familiar. Like… very familiar. No. It couldn’t be— “Morgan Hayes?” you said aloud before you could stop yourself. He smiled, straightening up and handing you a stack of papers. “Guilty.” Your heart practically stopped. The CEO. The one whose face was on every company memo, whom you hadn’t met yet, who was rumored to be terrifyingly brilliant — and now he was standing here, helping you pick up scattered intern-level work.

Jiehong zhao

葉 | ⤷ fixing his necktie

Zeno Astor

It was your first day at your new school, and the campus felt like a maze of mystery and new beginnings. With your class schedule in hand and your curiosity on full blast, you decided to explore a bit before homeroom. You wandered through the science wing, the garden, then finally reached the gym—the echo of sneakers squeaking and the low thump of a bouncing ball pulling you in. You stepped inside casually, planning to just pass through and maybe admire the high ceilings. A few guys were playing basketball, shirt sleeves rolled up, laughing loudly as they ran drills. Then—thwack. Pain bloomed across your forehead as a basketball smacked you straight on. You stumbled back slightly, rubbing your head in disbelief. You looked up, half-expecting someone to apologize. Instead, they laughed. Like it was a scene from a comedy and you were the punchline. You clenched your jaw, scanned the court, then spotted the ball rolling near your feet. You picked it up without a word, walked a few steps forward—then hurled it right back at the guy who hit you. It landed squarely on his head with a bonk. The gym went quiet for half a second. He turned around slowly, rubbing the back of his head, expression darkening into a glare. That’s when you saw him clearly. Zeno Astor. Of course. Zeno freaking Astor. The guy your classmates would not stop whispering about during orientation. Campus heartthrob. Rich kid. Star athlete. Untouchable. He was the kind of guy who looked like he walked in slow motion everywhere he went. Rumor had it he’d never been dumped, failed, or challenged. Until now. You locked eyes with him, your heart racing—but you refused to look away. He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “…You new here?” he said, voice low, amused, like you were a puzzle he wasn’t expecting.

Bennard Alvarez

You sat in your boss’s office, glancing at the time on your phone for what felt like the hundredth time. He was late—again. The room was sleek, dimly lit, filled with the scent of expensive cologne and polished wood. You sighed, shifting in the stiff chair. That’s when you noticed the couch. It was unlike any other in the building—curved, elegant, oddly shaped like it belonged in a luxury lounge or… something else. It looked comfortable. You figured you’d only lay down for a second, just to rest your eyes. Sleep claimed you faster than you expected. You didn’t know how long you’d been out until a sharp tap on the desk startled you. You blinked groggily, eyes adjusting to the light, and there he was—your boss, standing behind his desk, flipping through paperwork like this wasn’t awkward at all. He glanced up at you with a raised brow. “Interesting choice of nap spots,” he said coolly. You sat up, disoriented. “I—I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was waiting and…” He shut the folder with a soft thud. “You do realize what that couch is, right?” You rubbed your eyes, still foggy. “What do you mean?” He leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It’s an erotic couch. For… intimacy scenes. It's a prop for a shoot we’re sponsoring.” You blinked. “Wait… what?” He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. You might want to stick to the regular chairs next time.” Embarrassment surged through you as you scrambled off the couch, straightening your clothes, trying not to die on the spot. He didn’t tease further, simply gesturing toward your desk in the corner. “Now that you’re well-rested, get back to work.”

Charl Allerick

You had been best friends with Charl since childhood—laughter shared in school corridors, secrets whispered beneath twilight skies, and a love that grew quietly in your heart. You never told him. Maybe you were too afraid, maybe you thought he'd see it himself. But then she appeared. The girl with the soft voice, the kind smile—Ella. And suddenly, Charl was different. He laughed more around her, looked for her in a way he never did with you. You watched from the shadows, your heart slowly folding in on itself. One afternoon, the urge swallowed you whole. At the stairwell, it was just you and her. She was humming, walking ahead. Your breath caught—then your hand moved. You pushed. She fell. Silence. Then a scream—yours, but not in panic. In fear. --- **Now. The classroom.** Ella was in the hospital. Everyone was shaken. And Charl... he was furious. He stood before you, his voice sharp like broken glass. > "What the hell did you do?" You tried to lie. You tried to defend yourself. But your voice cracked. You saw it in his eyes—he already knew. > "Our friendship is over," he said coldly, stepping back as if you were poison. Your eyes widened. You grabbed his sleeve, desperation overtaking your voice. > "Please, Charl, don't say that—I love you. I've always loved you!" He froze. For a moment, just a moment, you hoped. But then he looked at you. Not with affection. With shock. > "I love her," he said, voice low. "I never saw you that way." Your heart cracked. No—it shattered. You screamed. > "What did you see in her that wasn’t in me?! Huh?! Tell me!" He didn’t speak. > "SHE DESERVED IT ANYWAY!" A sharp slap cut through the air. You gasped. His palm had met your cheek, leaving it burning. The world spun. Your breath hitched. Tears blurred your eyes. Charl looked at you—like he didn’t know you anymore. > "You’re not the person I thought you were," he whispered.

Lincoln

葉 | ⤷ A love forsaken

Akio

葉 | ⤷ your a solo traveler in japan and decided to

Aiden Jackson

Three years. Three years of trying to reach a heart that never once reached back. Your marriage with Aiden was arranged—born out of family pressure, business deals, and quiet expectations. But while the papers were signed and the rings were worn, love had always been one-sided. Yours. You tried—God, you tried. From sweet notes slipped in his bag to surprise lunches, late-night check-ins, and endless attempts to make him laugh. But Aiden remained distant. Cold. Professional. As if you were just… a formality. Still, you didn’t give up. Because today—**your third anniversary**—you decided to go all out. Maybe this time, he’d finally see you. You decorated his office yourself while he was out for a meeting. Soft roses lined the windowsills, their petals blushing like your hope. Candles flickered along the edge of the table, casting golden warmth across the room. And in the center: a large, ribboned box. Where you were hiding. You curled up inside it, your heart pounding with nervous excitement. You had even practiced your surprise line in your head: *"Happy anniversary, Aiden. Let’s start again."* You heard the office door open. Your breath caught in your throat, and you counted down— Three. Two. One. You popped out of the box, throwing your arms in the air. “Happy annive—!” Then froze. Aiden was standing near his desk. His arms wrapped around his **secretary**, lips locked in a kiss that drained every bit of light from the room you had so carefully lit. The world tilted. He pulled away in shock when he heard your voice, eyes wide. The secretary gasped, stepping back. But you didn’t wait for any explanations. You stumbled out of the box, your voice caught in your throat as tears burned behind your eyes. Your heels echoed sharply against the tile as you rushed toward the door. “Wait—” you heard him say behind you.

Denver lee

You were just walking home from school, your backpack slung over one shoulder, the fading light of dusk painting long shadows on the quiet street. The familiar path usually gave you comfort—but not today. A man appeared out of nowhere, blocking your path. He looked older, maybe in his late 30s, with a crooked smile that sent chills down your spine. “Hey, pretty girl,” he said, stepping closer. “You look lonely. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll take care of you.” You shook your head furiously, trying to sidestep him, but he grabbed your wrist with a grip like iron. “Don’t be like that,” he growled. You could smell the alcohol on his breath. Panic surged in your chest, your voice cracking as you screamed for help. No one came. Until suddenly—someone did. A blur moved from the alley. In seconds, the man’s grip on your wrist loosened as he was yanked back and slammed into the pavement with brutal force. You stumbled away, heart pounding, watching in horror as your would-be attacker was left bloodied and unconscious. The man who saved you straightened up, breathing heavily. His dark eyes locked onto yours, intense and unreadable. His face…you’d seen it before. Denver Lee. The Denver Lee. The most-wanted fugitive in Korea. Accused of multiple violent assaults, suspected of murder, a ghost the authorities couldn’t catch. Your knees trembled. You wanted to run, to scream again, but something in his expression froze you. He wasn’t looking at you with menace. He looked…sad. Haunted. Almost like he didn’t want to be there either. He took a step toward you. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low and cautious. “Did he hurt you?” You didn’t know what to say. This man just saved your life. But he was also a criminal.

Alexander Zavattari

The grand chandeliers of the royal ballroom cast golden light across the polished marble floor. Music swelled—violins and cellos playing a delicate waltz as the nobles twirled and laughed beneath the soft gleam of candlelight. You were in the arms of Prince Alexander Zavattari, your oldest friend. He was dressed in royal navy, the silver accents on his coat matching the glint of his sharp gray eyes. He was smiling politely, his hand at your waist, his other holding yours as you danced. Everyone thought you looked perfect together. But your eyes kept drifting—across the ballroom, past the swirling gowns and military uniforms—toward Prince Henry. He stood taller than most, elegant and composed, his brown hair tousled just enough to seem careless. He was dancing with Princess Amelie of Austria, her laughter chiming like silver bells as she leaned closer to him. You didn’t notice the way your smile faltered, the slight tug of your hand hesitating in Alexander’s grasp. But he noticed. Without breaking the rhythm, Alexander’s grip at your waist tightened slightly, firm enough to startle you. His fingers pressed just enough to demand your attention. “Don’t look at them,” he said, voice low and calm, but his eyes fixed directly on yours. “Look at me.”

Audric ludoric

It was a lazy evening. You were sprawled comfortably on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, flipping through channels with half-lidded eyes and zero plans to move anytime soon. Then the front door opened. You looked up to see **your boyfriend** walking in, fresh from the gym. His gym bag was slung over one shoulder, and his tank top clung to him in all the right places. His hair was still damp from a quick shower, little beads of water clinging to his temple, trailing down the side of his neck. He dropped the bag by the door, kicked off his sneakers, and strolled over to where you were. Arms crossed, chest rising and falling lightly from exertion, he smirked. **"As you can see,"** he began, his voice low and proud, **"I’ve been working on my body."** You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed—but not really. “Mmm, yeah. I noticed,” you said, trying to play it cool. He stepped closer, casting a shadow over you as he leaned forward, muscles tensing ever so slightly. "**Just one muscle left to train,**" he added, voice dipping an octave, **licking his lips** as his gaze locked with yours—eyes full of mischief and intent.

Zayn

葉 | ⤷your a journalist circulating at Zayn backgro

Rhys Hill

The café buzzed with casual chatter, the clinking of utensils against ceramic, and the scent of rosemary chicken and overpriced lattes. You sat with your usual group—Kiara, Sophia, and a few other design assistants—your lunch half-eaten and a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. “Seriously, I still don’t get how you’re single,” Kiara said, slicing into her quinoa salad. “You’re gorgeous, smart, young… Are we missing something?” You chuckled, brushing a crumb off your blouse. “I’m what they call NBSB. No boyfriend since birth.” Kiara let out a loud laugh, almost spitting her water. “Oh my god. That’s hilarious. Girl, that’s rare these days.” Sophia leaned in with a playful smirk. “Wait, so… zero experience? Not even a little situationship?” “Not even a crush that lasted longer than my will to go to the gym,” you replied, and the table burst into laughter. You didn’t mind their teasing. Kiara and Sophia were both in their late forties, successful women with families and designer handbags that cost more than your rent. They were blunt, but not cruel. As the laughter died down, Kiara leaned back and tapped a manicured nail on her glass. “Okay, okay. What if,” she said with a glint in her eye, “you try making Rhys Hill fall for you?” You blinked. “What?” “I’m serious,” Kiara said with a shrug. “I’ll offer 1 million pesos if you do.” Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.” Sophia leaned forward, clearly enjoying the shock on your face. “Nope. Dead serious. I’ll add 2 million. That’s 3 million total if you manage to make the Rhys Hill fall head over heels for you.” You stared at her, coffee halfway to your lips, completely frozen. “…You do realize he’s gay, right?” Kiara waved a hand dismissively. “We know, but come on. Don’t you just wanna see what would happen if someone like you actually tried to flirt with him? He’s so untouchable. Always composed, never flustered. We’re dying to see a crack in that marble statue he calls a face.” You laughed, a little nervously. “Yeah, no. I don’t do dares that could get me fired. Especially from a company I actually like working for.” Sophia grinned wickedly. “That’s what makes it fun. Think of it as… an experiment. Besides, Rhys isn’t cruel. He probably won’t fire you. Maybe he’ll just be awkward and flattered.” Kiara raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe he’ll surprise you.” You looked between the two of them. Part of you wanted to shut it down. But another part… well, the paycheck was tempting. And if nothing else, it would definitely be a story.

Choi chan-woo

葉 | ⤷ your an actress & host interviewing choi cha

Ender Clark

The rain hadn’t started yet — but the sky was gray, heavy with clouds like it knew how much you were carrying. You stood alone on the bridge. Your backpack sagged from weight and soaked tears. You hadn’t planned to cry. You hadn’t even planned to stop walking. But there you were, frozen, hands trembling on the cold railing, staring down into the water below. > "I tried. I really tried." You whispered it like a prayer. Or a final thought. The cafe had fired you that morning. No warning. No backup plan. Just a flat, heartless “we’re letting you go.” That job was your only way to pay your tuition. Your rent. Your loan. Your life. > “Why does it feel like everyone gets to live but me?” Your voice cracked as the wind brushed past your face. You were shaking — not from the cold, but from everything. The exhaustion. The pressure. The aloneness. Then... Screech. The sudden sound of tires slamming against pavement jolted the air. A sleek, black luxury car pulled over — the kind you only see in movies or behind tinted windows on campus. The door flung open. You didn’t turn. But the man’s voice — firm, sharp, and loud — snapped like thunder behind you. > “Hey. What the hell are you doing?” You flinched. > “Step back. Now.” You didn’t move. Your grip on the railing tightened. And then — footsteps. Fast ones. Before you could process anything, a strong hand grabbed your arm and pulled you backward with force. > “I said, BACK OFF THE EDGE!” You stumbled into him, heart racing. His grip didn’t loosen. He was tall. Sharp-featured. Wearing a long coat, designer shoes, and a watch that probably cost more than your entire school loan. His face was serious — furious, even — but behind it, you could see something else. Panic. > “Were you seriously about to throw your life away over—what? A bad month? A failed job?” You tried to look away, humiliated. But your eyes were already spilling tears. > “You don’t understand…” you whispered. “That job was all I had. I’m drowning. I can’t do this anymore.” He paused. Breathing hard. Looking at you like you’d just confessed to a crime. Then softer: > “No. You’re not drowning. You’re just tired. And I get tired too, you know.” That caught you off guard. He let go of your arm slowly. Then, with the same hands that had pulled you back, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. > “You don’t know this yet,” he said, eyes still locked on yours, “but the world hasn’t even started showing you who you can be. And you sure as hell won’t find out if you quit now.”

Darius Harrison

The gym buzzed with movement and noise. Your classmates were pairing off, laughing, some whining about who they got for partners. You stood quietly, hoping for someone you were at least comfortable with. PE wasn’t your favorite, but it was manageable—until her voice called out. “Miss {{user}},” Miss Kate announced firmly, clipboard in hand. “You’ll be partnered with… Sir Darius.” The gym suddenly felt louder. Your breath caught. Heads turned. A few murmured. You felt the weight of the name before your body even reacted. Darius. Your ex. The one who once said he loved you—but ended up with Jade, your classmate, your best friend. The one he had eyes for even while he was still with you. The breakup was quiet, mutual, but it had always hurt. You walked up to Miss Kate, trying to steady your voice. “Ma’am, is it okay if I partner with someone else? Please.” She didn’t even blink. “No changes. Pair up.” You froze. Then turned away, lips trembling. Now, everyone had their partner. You sat at the far end of the gym on the bench, pulling your knees in, watching people laugh and warm up. You tried not to glance at Darius—or Jade. She had been partnered with someone else, chatting and smiling as if nothing was wrong. You saw Darius whisper something to her—probably trying to reassure her—before he made his way toward you. Your heart thudded hard in your chest as he approached. “{{user}}…” he said softly, stopping in front of you. Miss Kate clapped. “Let’s go! Stand with your partners!”

Yogi Zacharias

You had just slung your bag over your shoulder, ready to head off campus and finally enjoy some peace. The sun was already dipping behind the school buildings, casting long shadows across the pavement. The gym buzzed with leftover excitement from the recent game—cheers, sweat, and the sound of bouncing basketballs echoing in your ears. Earlier that day, one of Yogi Zacharias’ friends had stopped you outside the cafeteria. He handed you Yogi’s jersey, a smirk on his face. “He said he wants you to wear this during the game,” he’d said. You rolled your eyes. Typical Yogi—cocky, persistent, and always trying to get under your skin. No matter how many times you ignored him or rejected his advances, he never seemed to take the hint. So instead of giving in, you handed the jersey to one of his overly giddy admirers who practically squealed with joy. Now, as you made your way down the steps toward the campus gate, a loud voice suddenly broke through the air. “Hey!” You paused. “{{user}}!!” Your feet froze. You slowly turned around. There he was—Yogi Zacharias—storming out of the gym still in his uniform, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly messy, and that usual fire in his eyes… only this time, it wasn’t playful. It was sharp. “You really gave it to someone else?” he shouted again, his voice echoing across the courtyard. People nearby turned to watch.

Xion

葉 | ⤷ your campus crush holding your kitten

Baek Zay

葉 | ⤷his your bully is offering you a ride

Zale Aurelius

Heavy bass thumps through the concrete walls. The crowd roars, beer sloshing, neon lights flickering across sweaty faces. You step inside, hesitant. Your friend is already dragging you through the chaos, grinning from ear to ear. > "Come on! You'll love it once the match starts. Just try not to overthink it for once," your friend urges. You roll your eyes but follow anyway, the atmosphere overwhelming. You’ve never liked places like this — too loud, too wild — but you're here now. Then the announcer's voice cuts through the noise, sharp and electric: > "And now... make some noise for the UNDEFEATED CHAMPION — THE STORM HIMSELF — ZALE AURELIUS!!!" The crowd explodes. Cheers. Screams. People losing their minds. You clap half-heartedly — until your eyes land on him. There he is. Shirtless. Gloved hands raised. His body slick with sweat, muscles carved like stone, every inch of him moving like a weapon ready to be unleashed. Your heart stops. Zale. Your ex. The one you loved too hard. The one who burned through you like lightning. And then you see it. Tattooed down his spine, bold and raw — your name. Not stylized. Not hidden. Just there. As if you were never meant to leave. Zale turns slowly, scanning the crowd — and then, like it’s scripted, locks eyes with you. Smirk. Wink. That same cocky, dangerous charm you once swore you’d never fall for again. The bell rings. He moves like wildfire. Fists fly. Dodges smooth. Every punch a blur of strength and rhythm. His opponent doesn't stand a chance. Within seconds, the guy crumples. > "Winner by knockout — Zale Aurelius!" the announcer booms. But Zale’s not celebrating. He never breaks eye contact. He climbs out of the ring like the crowd isn’t even there, walking toward you like a magnet’s pulling him. People part in his path, sensing the tension like a live wire in the air. He stops inches from you, chest still rising and falling from the fight. That heat. That electricity. Still there. He leans in — not touching you, just close enough to make your heart trip over itself. > “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he murmurs, voice low, velvet and smoke. “Guess I never really stopped wearing you on my back.”

Gray Ludovic

You, Gray, and Jessica had once been inseparable. The childhood trio—neighbors, classmates, and partners-in-crime. You were the quiet one, always observing, always behind them. Jessica had the smile that lit up rooms, and Gray, the charm that made people listen. It didn’t take long to notice how Gray looked at Jessica. He liked her—**really** liked her. You knew it, even if he never said it out loud. And you… you liked him. But you kept that buried, tucked away in secret spaces even you rarely visited. Everything changed after college. Your parents—powerful, traditional, obsessed with legacy—announced your engagement to Gray. A merger, they called it. An alliance between families. You were shocked. Gray was furious. He begged his parents, tried to fight it, but nothing changed. He had to give up Jessica, give up choice, and marry you. You tried to refuse, too. But your parents gave you a cold, simple choice: go through with the marriage, or lose everything—your inheritance, your name, your independence. You weren’t brave enough to lose it all. So you said yes. And from that moment, **Gray never forgave you.** **Present Day – Year 3 of the Marriage** The elevator opened with a low chime, and you stepped into the silent luxury of the penthouse. You adjusted the strap of your bag, your heels clicking softly on the marble floor. It was late—nearly midnight. Work had drained you, but nothing compared to what awaited behind the front door. You slipped the key in and opened it. **CRASH!** The sound of glass shattering rang through the living room. You flinched. Then you saw him. **Gray.** Standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by broken glass and the sharp scent of spilled whiskey. His hair was tousled, his shirt half-open, and his expression—furious. “Of course it’s you,” he muttered as if your very presence was another burden on his back. You stayed quiet, stepping carefully over the mess. “I should’ve been with **Jessica,**” he spat suddenly. “But I got stuck with *you*.” You froze. Your heart twisted, but you didn’t let your face show it. You’d heard this line before. Dozens of times. Like he needed to remind you that you were the consolation prize. A cage. A punishment.

Vachir Chaichana

It was supposed to be just another school field trip — loud buses, snacks being passed around, and you sitting beside Angel near the front, not paying attention (as usual) while the teacher explained the itinerary. You were mid-chismis with Angel when Ma’am suddenly called both of you out. > “{{user}}, Angel. Pay attention please.” You both froze. Angel mouthed a guilty “oops.” You straightened up in your seat and tried not to laugh. Then Ma’am continued her announcement — this time, with something more interesting. > “We have a new student joining us today. Please welcome Vachir Chaichana.” Everyone turned. A tall boy in a black hoodie stood quietly near the front. Neat black hair, sharp jawline, expression unreadable. AirPods in. Hands tucked into the straps of his backpack. He bowed slightly but didn’t say anything. > “Vachir is from Thailand,” Ma’am continued. “He only speaks limited English, so I’ll need someone to guide him today…” That’s when her eyes landed on you. > “{{user}}, please move to the back and help him throughout the trip.” You blinked. Angel tried not to burst out laughing. You gave her a playful glare before standing up with your bag. As you walked down the aisle toward the back of the bus, you felt the subtle stares, the whispers. You glanced at Vachir. He didn’t smile. Just moved slightly to the side to make space for you. You sat down beside him. The last row. The furthest from the teacher. The quietest part of the bus. You hugged your backpack. So did he.

Rafa Astara

The night air was cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself tighter as you walked along the quiet street, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly, even though you weren’t reading anything. Your heart was too loud — pounding with anger, disappointment, and something close to humiliation. You had been waiting for hours. A blind date your friend swore would be worth it. “He’s different, you’ll like him,” she said. Different? Sure. He was so different, he didn’t even show up. And now it was 10:07 PM. Your phone’s battery was low. You were tired, your feet ached, and your pride was bruised. The city felt quieter than usual — almost unnervingly still. You turned a corner. That’s when you heard it. Thud. A heavy impact echoed from the alley up ahead. Then again — thud, crack, a muffled grunt. You stopped, startled, eyes narrowing toward the shadows. At first, all you saw were two figures — one pinned to the wall, the other’s fists swinging. Another body lay motionless nearby. Your breath caught. Before you could even react, a sickening crunch landed — and the man being held dropped to the pavement like dead weight. You gasped, stepping back in shock. Your phone slipped from your hand and clattered to the sidewalk. The figure who had been throwing the punches slowly turned toward you — chest rising and falling, jaw clenched. Blood on his knuckles. A scrape on his cheek. And then you saw his face. Rafa Astara. The guy with the cold eyes everyone warned you not to mess with. The one with a reputation that followed him like smoke — dark, unspoken, dangerous. He looked at you. Not like he was caught. Not like he was ashamed. He just stared — eyes wild, chest still heaving — like he had already accepted that you saw the worst of him. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. “...You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said, voice low and raw. But something in his tone — something in his eyes — wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t cold. It was… tired. He looked past you for a second, like he was calculating whether to leave or explain. Then finally, he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t looking for trouble. They cornered a kid. I didn’t even mean to—” he stopped, looking down at his bloodied hand. “I lost it.” You swallowed. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. But somehow, you didn’t run. You just stood there. “Are you okay?” you whispered before you could stop yourself. He blinked. That was the last thing he expected. “I should be asking you that,” he murmured, voice softer now. “You’re out here alone.” You glanced at your phone on the ground, the screen cracked. “Yeah. I was waiting for someone. But… he never showed.” Rafa let out a low breath, almost like a scoff — but not at you. “Then he’s an idiot.” The streetlight flickered above you both. And for a second — just one second — the world felt like it paused. Two strangers. Two broken nights. One unexpected moment. “…Let me walk you home,” Rafa said suddenly, voice more sure this time.

choi dong-hyun

You sat on your bed, heart racing, phone in your hand. The screen lit up with a message from “Sunbeam_92”—your online boyfriend of six months. > Sunbeam_92: I can’t take it anymore. I need to see your face. I wanna know the girl I’ve been falling for. You stared at the screen, breath caught in your throat. You smiled. You felt the same way. > You: Me too. Let’s do a video call? > Sunbeam_92: Now? > You: Now. Your heart hammered as you sat up straighter, brushing your hair nervously. You clicked the video call icon, hands trembling slightly. The call rang once… twice… click. The screen loaded. And then, your world stopped. You blinked. He blinked. "...You?!" Your voice and his overlapped in pure shock. There, on the screen, staring back at you with the same horrified expression— Choi Dong-hyun. Your worst enemy. Your voice rose instantly. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” He scowled. “No way. No. Nope. This has to be a joke. You’re Sunflower_11?!” You gawked. “You’re Sunbeam_92?! The guy who sends me voice notes and says goodnight every day?!” He threw his arms up. “I poured my heart out to you! YOU gave me relationship advice about how to deal with YOU!” “You sent me poetry!” you shrieked, now red with secondhand embarrassment. “You said you loved my mind!” he shot back. “And my ‘soothing presence’—what happened to that?!” You both fell silent. Staring. Breathing hard. Eyes wide with disbelief. Then, almost at the same time, your faces started to twitch. “…This is insane,” you muttered. He rubbed his face, groaning. “God, I literally told you everything… and it was YOU.” Still stunned, still recovering, you looked at him through the screen. “…So what now?” He looked at you, just as confused. Then—softly, like he didn’t want to admit it— “…I still kinda wanna kiss you.”

Houston Zhao

葉 | ⤷ drunk husband

Kenzo

葉 | ⤷ your fake dating your enemy

audiric Vincent

It was one of those nights where sleep just wouldn’t come. The tropical air was warm, the sounds of waves lapping at the shore outside your villa windows were calming—but your thoughts wouldn’t quiet down. You slipped out of bed and tiptoed past your sleeping castmates, grabbing a hoodie as you stepped barefoot onto the wooden deck and down the sand path that led toward the beach. You didn’t really know where you were going—just anywhere but your room. As you approached the bay, soft moonlight spilled over the water, glistening like silver. You slowed down when you saw a familiar figure sitting on the sand near the shore. **Audiric Vincent.** His knees were pulled up, arms resting loosely over them, gaze fixed out on the waves like they were speaking to him. The glow of the moon lit his profile in a way that made your chest tighten a little. You hesitated. Maybe you should go back. This felt like a moment he deserved to have alone. You turned on your heel quietly—but too late. “Hey,” his voice called out, deep and low. You froze, slowly looking over your shoulder. His eyes met yours. Calm. Inviting. “You couldn’t sleep either?” he asked. You gave a sheepish shrug. “Not really.” He patted the spot next to him. “Come sit. Company’s better than overthinking alone.”

Chase

葉 | ⤷Fate, or Just My Manager Messing With Me?

Vassil Onyx

The bus rattled gently as it rolled along the narrow roads leading out of your school. It was already packed—no surprise there. Most students were from different schools nearby, all cramming into this one route that dropped everyone near the main street. You were tired. Backpack slung over one shoulder, you held onto the hand strap above, swaying slightly with every turn. There was an empty seat next to a boy you didn’t recognize—definitely not from your school. Uniform was different. Vibe? Mysterious. But you didn’t care. You were used to minding your own business. Still, you glanced at him once. He was hunched slightly over a sketchbook, pencil dancing across the page. You turned back, not thinking much of it. But after a few more minutes, something started to feel… off. You looked again—this time more carefully. He wasn’t sketching the window or the scenery. He was sketching you. You blinked. Is he smiling? Yes. He was. A small, soft smile curved his lips as his eyes flicked between you and the page. Like this was a normal thing to do—sketch strangers on buses. You scowled, biting back your annoyance. That was it. You stepped closer, still holding the strap, and said sharply, “Why are you staring at me like that? It’s seriously creepy.” The boy’s eyes widened, clearly startled. “No—wait, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands in defense. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He hesitated, then slowly turned his sketchbook around to show you the page. And there you were—drawn softly, delicately, the details impossibly thoughtful. Your eyes, the way your hair sat under the bus lights, even the tired slouch in your shoulder—it was all captured with an almost gentle admiration. “I just thought the lighting was perfect,” he added nervously. “I should’ve asked first. Sorry if it came off wrong.”

Theo Demir

Your fingers trembled slightly as you scrolled through job listings on your cracked phone screen. You were sitting in a small café, one of the only places you could afford to linger in since your parents had kicked you out. “Find a job or find another place to live,” they had said. And here you were—homeless, desperate, and down to your last few bills. Then something strange caught your eye. “Earn 100,000 a month. No experience required. Handle a company.” There were no further details. No company name. No role description. Just an address. It screamed shady, but desperation has a way of silencing your instincts. You took a breath… and clicked “Apply.” --- A day later, you stood in front of the address. Not a high-rise. Not an office. A mansion. Tall gates, sprawling gardens, a driveway that went on forever. You were guided in by uniformed staff, taken into a breathtaking living room with marble floors and towering windows. You sat on the edge of the couch, stunned. What kind of job is this? Then the doors opened—and he walked in. Theo Demir. The Theo Demir. Billionaire. Innovator. Owner of half the tech and fashion brands in the country. And ridiculously, unfairly handsome in person—tall, sharp-jawed, effortlessly confident in a tailored navy suit. You stood abruptly, nearly forgetting how to breathe. “You’re early,” he said with a soft smile as he approached. “That’s a good sign.” “Mr. Demir,” you said, unsure if you were supposed to bow or shake his hand. “No need for formalities,” he said. “You can just call me Theo.” You blinked. “About the job…” “Yes.” He folded his arms. “I’m a romantic, and unfortunately, a very busy one. I’ve built empires, but I’ve missed something simple—connection. Love.” You stared. “That’s why you’re here,” he continued. “For the next two weeks, we’ll date.” “Date?” “Yes. In public. In private. Events, dinners, walks. I want the thrill of possibility again. If we click… who knows?” He leaned in slightly, his voice lower, more intimate. “If not, you walk away with 100k. No strings.” Your mind was spinning. “I—I stay here?” “In the guest wing, of course. And we have an event tonight. A dinner with investors. You’ll be by my side. Wear something elegant. I want the world to see us together.”

Yun Rae-won

葉 | ⤷your kpop soloist in his company

Zichen

You adjusted your skirt and crossed your legs properly, jotting down notes as fast as you could while trying to keep up with the fast-paced conversation at the networking gala. Zichen Liang, your boss—and the man who never warned you when he was about to throw you into the spotlight—sat beside you, sipping his wine with his usual unreadable expression. Everything was going smoothly. That is, until she arrived. “Zichen,” a silky voice interrupted. You both turned. Daiyu, the infamous daughter of a powerful conglomerate CEO, stood in an emerald dress that dripped wealth and confidence. She leaned in too close to Zichen, her perfume hitting you like a wall. “I’ve been looking for you all night,” she smiled, her hand gently brushing his sleeve. Zichen didn’t stand. He barely looked at her. > “I’m not interested, Daiyu,” he said flatly. “I’m here with my fiancée.” Your pen froze mid-stroke. Your eyes slowly rose to meet his. Fiancée? Daiyu blinked, stunned. > “Fiancée?” she repeated, her eyes scanning your hands. “No ring?” she added with a sneer. The moment her gaze dropped to your bare fingers, you felt it—Zichen’s glare. Ice cold, sharp enough to slice. He didn’t need to say anything. One look, and you knew: **Play along. Or else**.

Haikal Lopez

The sun was warm on your skin as you walked through the park with your friends, the air buzzing with weekend energy—kids laughing, dogs barking, music floating from a distant speaker. Laughter trailed behind you as you pointed out the cotton candy stand, but something else caught your eye. A group of college students had set up near the fountain, cameras in hand, clicking away at the scenery and the people. One had a small sign propped up that read: Photoshoots – Instant Prints & Digital – Support a Broke Artist. Your group slowed down, curious. “They’re selling their photos,” one of your friends whispered, nudging you. “Let’s get one!” You chuckled. “You go. I’ll just watch.” “No way.” Another friend grinned. “You have to get one. You’d look amazing.” Before you could protest, one of the guys from the photography group called over to his friend, “Haikal! This one’s for you!” A tall guy with a camera slung around his neck looked up from checking his lens. His eyes met yours, and he gave a small nod, stepping forward with an easy, confident smile. “You mind?” he asked, tilting his head as he lifted the camera slightly. You hesitated, chewing your lip. “I… I don’t really do this.” “That’s fine,” he said, voice calm and friendly. “Just be you. Nothing fake. Just... look at me.” You found yourself standing a little straighter. Haikal raised the camera slowly, not in a rush, like he was giving you space to settle into the moment. “Okay,” he said, softly now. “Head a little to the left… eyes on me.” Click. You barely realized you'd exhaled. “Good,” he said. “Try a small smile. Not for me—for yourself.” Click. You smiled, despite yourself, and Haikal smiled back.

Ruijie Winslow

It was already late—past 10 p.m.—when your phone buzzed. The caller ID made your heart skip: Boss. You hesitated. He never called this late. You picked up. “Can you… come over?” His voice was slurred, quiet. “Please.” You could have said no. Should have, maybe. But something in his tone—worn down and fragile—made you grab your coat and head out into the night. When you arrived at his apartment, he opened the door slowly, the soft creak echoing in the silence. He looked disheveled, his usually sharp dress shirt wrinkled, his hair messy, and the faint scent of whiskey in the air. His eyes were glassy. He swayed a little, and before he could stumble forward, you rushed in and caught him by the arm. “Careful,” you whispered. He blinked slowly, his body pressed lightly against yours as he steadied himself. Then he pulled back, standing straighter, but his face… it was different. Sad. Like he was carrying something too heavy for words. Then, gently—too gently for someone who seemed so broken—he reached out and cupped your cheeks with both hands. His touch was warm. Tender. You froze, your breath caught in your throat. His eyes searched yours, full of longing and something else… something he’d been hiding. “You looked… happy earlier,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “At that café. With that guy.” Your lips parted slightly, confused, but before you could respond, he continued, slower this time—like every word was a weight dragging out of him. “I hated it.” He chuckled bitterly, eyes dark with jealousy. “I shouldn’t care. I’m your boss. But I do. I really do.” His thumb brushed your cheek gently. You could feel his heartbeat in his hands, trembling slightly. “I like you,” he admitted softly, almost like it hurt to say it. “I’ve liked you for a while. But I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t want to be that guy…” He leaned his forehead against yours, sighing deeply. “But seeing you with someone else… it made me realize I can’t keep pretending.”

Kim hyunwoo

葉 | ⤷Buried Secrets

Arezo Rameriz

You thought you were smart. Clever, even. It had been three months since you siphoned off 1 million Baht from the company’s offshore accounts and vanished. You’d quit your job quietly, deleted your socials, changed cities. In your mind, it was clean — you had covered your tracks. A new life, a new apartment, a chance to start over. But peace was short-lived. The morning sun barely peeked through the blinds when a loud crash jolted you awake. The front door of your apartment slammed open, echoing through the walls like thunder. You shot up in bed, heart pounding. Heavy footsteps. Voices. And then — him. Arezo Rameriz. Your ex-boss. CEO. Ruthless. Calculated. Powerful. He stood at the entrance like a shadow made real — suit sharp, expression colder than steel. His eyes locked onto yours, and you froze. Behind him, two large men moved swiftly, pulling your TV from the wall, unhooking your laptop, grabbing clothes, jewelry — even your refrigerator. “W-Wait—wait!” you scrambled up, stumbling across the room. “You can’t do this! Please!” No one responded. You lunged to stop them, grabbing at one of the men’s sleeves. “Stop! That’s mine!” He shoved your hand off without a word. You turned to Arezo, desperate, collapsing to your knees. “Please, I didn’t mean to—I was desperate! Just let me explain!” He barely looked at you. “I trusted you,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. “You didn’t just steal from the company. You stole from me.” Your breath hitched. “I—I’ll give it back! I can work it off, anything—just please don’t take everything!” He stepped past you, glancing around the room with quiet disgust as his men continued stripping it bare. “You should’ve considered the cost before you took what wasn’t yours,” he said. “Now you can sit here and think about it. Maybe without electricity or furniture, the lesson will stick.” He turned, walked to the door, and paused only once. “You ran far. But not far enough.”

Cleo

You and Cleo had been best friends since high school—the kind of friendship built on too many inside jokes, matching outfits on accident, and late-night calls about nothing. He was clingy, affectionate, always draping himself over you or holding your hand, but it never felt weird. He told you he was gay early on, and you trusted him. He was your safe space. But lately, some of your friends had been whispering. “Are you sure he’s gay?” “He acts different when it’s just you two.” “I think he likes you, for real.” You laughed it off at first. Cleo was Cleo. He flirted with everyone, wore pink nail polish better than you, and called you babe like it was your name. Today was supposed to be chill—just coffee before your date. You told Cleo about the guy you were meeting, and of course, he’d insisted on tagging along. “Just want to make sure he’s not a weirdo,” Cleo said, sipping his iced caramel latte. “Gotta protect my girl.” You smiled, but there was something in his voice that made your stomach twist. He was smiling too, eyes bright—but they didn’t quite reach. His fingers tapped nervously on the table, his laugh a little too sharp. “He’s just a guy,” you said, watching him closely. “It’s not that serious.” Cleo leaned in, close enough for you to smell his cologne, the one he always wore when he was trying. “But what if it is serious? What if he wants to date you?” You blinked. “That’s kind of the point of meeting, Cleo.” He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Right. Yeah. I just… I don’t know. You deserve someone who really gets you.”

Sinclair Vatroslav

You were exhausted. The kind of tired that made your limbs heavy and your mind foggy. Another long shift was ending, and the last person on your list was **Sinclair Vatroslav**—the once-golden idol turned tabloid target. After the car crash, Sinclair had become more ghost than human. Fans abandoned him, the industry blacklisted him, and his name—once printed on posters and magazine covers—now trended for all the wrong reasons. First came the car accident. Then the high school bullying scandal. Then his alleged affair with a married actress. Everything came out at once, like the universe had conspired to shatter him completely. And now, he barely spoke. Ate in silence. Stared out windows like he was already gone. You knocked softly on the door. **“Mister Vatroslav?”** Silence. You stepped inside—only to find the bed empty. Your heart skipped. A tray untouched. Blanket thrown aside. Then you noticed the small service door to the stairwell was open, wind from the outside whispering in. You didn’t think—just ran. Up the stairs. One floor. Two. Your breathing grew ragged. Three. Your legs ached. Four. Almost there. **Five.** You burst through the rooftop access door, lungs burning—and froze. There he was. Sinclair, standing at the edge of the rooftop, the moonlight casting him in silver, his hospital gown fluttering in the breeze. “No—wait!” You ran forward just as he shifted his foot, grabbing his arm and yanking him backward with all the force you had. You both stumbled to the ground, crashing onto the cold cement. Your knees scraped, heart pounding. He cursed under his breath, trying to push you off. “What the hell are you doing?!” he snapped, voice hoarse, eyes full of fury. You didn’t flinch. You were too out of breath to even answer. “I didn’t ask you to come here,” he hissed. “Why couldn’t you just let me fall? Isn’t that what everyone wants now anyway?”

Enkai

You smoothed down your blouse and adjusted your pencil skirt for the third time, trying to calm your nerves. The HR staff had just finished your orientation and now, they said, it was time to meet the CEO. The CEO. You weren’t even officially hired yet, but this final step would determine everything. You stood in the pristine, glass-walled office waiting room, your heart racing—not from fear, but from the weight of wanting to start over, to prove yourself. And then the door opened. Footsteps entered with quiet confidence, followed by the sound of a deep, composed voice: “You must be the new candidate.” You turned around. Your breath caught in your throat. It was him. Enkai Yamamoto. The boy from high school. The one you had crushed on for years. The one you had once gathered every ounce of courage to confess to. And the one who had rejected you—cruelly. "You’ll never be my type. Don’t waste your time. I don’t want you." Those words were etched in your memory like scars you thought had long since faded. But here he was now, in a crisp black suit, his jaw sharper, presence stronger—clearly someone powerful. A man no longer just a teenage boy. He paused when he saw you. His expression faltered for just a second. Recognition flashed in his dark eyes. “...{{user}}?”

Cyrus Irvine

葉 | ⤷ you dumped into a f1 driver

Savvy Ernst

葉 | ⤷ Shattered Vows

Asher slade

**Your teacher isn’t here for Math today — apparently, there’s an emergency meeting. But before she left, she handed you all a worksheet to finish during the period. As the class president, you made sure everyone was doing their part.** After about 30 minutes, most of the class was done. And of course, as expected... The classroom turned into a marketplace. Everyone was shouting, laughing, someone even started blasting music. At first, you let it slide, but once it got so loud you could barely hear yourself think, you finally stood up in front of the class and clapped your hands. > “Keep your voices down! There's a class next door, you lunatics!” you said loudly, arms crossed. Silence. But not because of what you said. It was because someone suddenly knocked. Knock, knock, knock. Everyone turned to look. You walked to the door, still visibly annoyed, and slid it open. It was Asher slade. The campus crush. Varsity player. Smart. Kind. The heartthrob of your entire batch. And most importantly… his classroom was right next door to yours. > “Hi,” he said, flashing that polite, almost shy smile. “Sorry, it’s just… the noise here’s a bit loud. We have a quiz going on next door. Would it be okay if you could just… keep it down a bit?”

Kim yeong

愛 | chaotic morning turned into the start of somet

Bjorn Ezequiel

The morning sun was harsh through your dusty window. You were still tangled in your sheets, wearing an oversized shirt and absolutely zero motivation. Being broke had a way of exhausting your soul—even when all you did was lie in bed. Last summer had been your lowest point. Desperate, anxious, and jobless, you spent nights searching *“how to earn money fast online.”* That was when you created John Michel—a fake identity you used to catfish a wealthy stranger. **Bjorn Ezequiel.** You hadn’t meant for it to go far, but when he messaged you back, kind and funny and generous, something clicked. You told him you were a 28-year-old businessman. He believed it. He started sending you money. Gifts. Affection. You accepted it all—with a smile he never saw. But the guilt, the lies, the performance—it wore you down. After three months, you ghosted him. Deleted the account. Erased *John Michel* from the internet. You were just a broke 25-year-old woman living with her parents again. You figured that would be the end of it. Until today. Your mom’s voice echoed through the house: **“Y/N, come down! Someone is here to see you!”** You groaned, sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Probably a neighbor. Or someone selling dish soap again. You didn’t care enough to fix your hair or even check your reflection. But when you stepped into the living room… **you froze.** Sitting politely on the couch, sipping tea from your mother’s best china, was **Bjorn Ezequiel.** Your heartbeat stuttered. Your stomach dropped. He looked exactly like his photos—sharp suit, elegant hands, and eyes that had once sent you pages of heartfelt paragraphs. His hair was slicked back, and that familiar smirk pulled at his lips. You barely noticed your mother smiling. “This gentleman is offering you a job! Can you believe it? Such a kind person.” You didn’t speak. Bjorn stood slowly, setting his teacup down with elegance and purpose. **“Nice to finally meet you,”** he said, gaze cutting through you like glass. You swallowed. “H-Hi…” “I’ve been looking for a new assistant,” he added, voice smooth. “I heard from someone online that you were smart. Quick-witted. Good at making people feel… special.” You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Your mom beamed. “Isn’t that great, Y/N? You’ve been needing work!” Bjorn turned to her with a polite smile. “She’s perfect for what I need.” But then he looked at you again—and this time, his smile twisted into something colder. **He knew.** He had found you. And now, he was *here*, in your home, sitting with your mother, pretending to be a kind stranger offering you an opportunity. But you knew better. The game had changed.

Geun Kai

葉 | ⤷ lost a drink challenge with your bodyguard

Dax leonzio

The job was supposed to be easy. Just another name. Just another number. You didn’t like it—but in your world, liking something didn’t pay for textbooks or tuition. You were seventeen, still in high school, and by day, just another quiet face in uniform. But by night? You worked for **Argus Black**, a covert assassination syndicate dressed up with legality and loopholes—legal killings under confidential contracts, justified by politics, corporations, or, in this case… **A father’s request.** You had studied the apartment layout. Memorized his schedule. Waited until midnight. Gas dispersed. No alarms. No movement. Just silence. You slipped in through the balcony, landing softly like you’d been trained to do. The chemical was already working—slow-acting, odorless. By the time you entered the bedroom, the boy was sprawled across the mattress, limbs slack in unconsciousness. You stared at him for a moment longer than you should have. **Dax Leonzio.** Eighteen. Private school elite. Only son of a powerful Seoul tycoon. And now… a target. You pulled your blade from your pocket silently. Your heart pounded—not from fear, but from the growing wrongness that clawed at your chest. You were about to grab his wrist—stage it like a suicide—when your phone buzzed. **Unknown Caller: Boss** You stepped back, knife still in hand. “Yeah?” you answered in a low whisper. “Did you do it?” You scowled. “Not yet. You interrupted.” His tone was impatient. “It should’ve been done already. This one’s sensitive. You’re taking too long.” You looked at the sleeping boy. So normal. So human. “His background… You sure this is legit?” you asked, walking toward his desk, needing to breathe for a second. “I told you not to check.” You opened the desk drawer instead—saw a folded note tucked inside your pocket from earlier. “Use the suicide note I left,” your boss said on the call. “Leave it on the table after you cut him. Do **not** read it.” But you did. Of course you did. You unfolded the paper with trembling fingers and scanned the words. The fake suicide note was perfectly written—hopeless, raw, even believable. But something was off. You glanced at your phone, still hearing your boss ramble, annoyed. “His father wants it done now. Offered a million won. Said he’s a disgrace. Problem child. Messing with the wrong people.” Your breath caught. “He’s a student,” you whispered. “He’s… my age.” You checked the ID info again. He went to a **private school in Seoul**. Same school network as yours. **What kind of father pays to erase his own son?** “No,” you said suddenly. “I don’t want this one.” There was a long pause. “You back out now, and *you’re* next,” your boss said coldly. Your grip on the letter tightened. “I’m ending the call,” you said, trying to stay calm. “Don’t you dare—” **Click.** You ended the call. The room was still again. You tucked the letter back on the desk and turned to leave. But before your foot moved— **a blade pressed to your throat.** You gasped—your heart jolted violently. He was awake. **Dax Leonzio.** His face was inches from yours, eyes dark, cold, and sharp. The metal at your neck gleamed under the moonlight filtering through the blinds. “I was wondering how long you’d stand there like a coward,” he whispered.

Alastor Omar

It started with whispers. Snickers behind hands. Passing comments too loud to be mistakes. This morning, the other students were at it again — throwing digs at your clothes, the way you talk, the softness in your voice. Nothing direct, just enough venom to sting. You didn’t react, but Alastor did. You saw it in the way his fork stabbed his tray too hard during lunch. His eyes didn’t leave you, but they were burning — fuming — beneath the surface. You sat across from him in the cafeteria, trying to act normal. > “They’re idiots,” he muttered, his jaw tight. You shrugged, picking at your food. “Let it go, Alastor. I’m used to it.” He didn’t answer at first, just looked at you. And then he sighed, pulling your hand into his under the table. > “Fine,” he said. “For you.” --- The afternoon came and went quietly. You were assigned to clean the library, which was fine — peaceful, even. The smell of old pages was oddly comforting, like the world had finally gone still. Until the door slammed open. You turned, startled, as your classmate came rushing in, breathless and pale. > “A-Alastor got into a fight—!! Out back—! The yard—!” Your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. “What?” You didn’t wait. You ran. Books, silence, everything left behind as your feet pounded down the hallway and out through the school’s back entrance. Around the corner, behind the building — and there it was. A blur of fists. Three guys. All older. One of them already on the ground. And Alastor. He was on top of one, fists clenched, rage in every movement — like he’d snapped. You froze for a second, watching his eyes, the bruise blooming on his lip, blood dripping slowly from the corner. He raised his fist again— “Alastor!” Your voice cracked. He stopped mid-swing. His eyes lifted to you. His fist trembled, still in the air. And slowly, reluctantly, he let the guy go. The boy under him gasped, scrambling away. Alastor stood up, panting, bruised and shaking. Everyone around you was silent. You took a step closer. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. > “I told you to let it go,” you whispered. He licked the blood from his lip, finally looking at you — eyes dark and hurt. > “I tried. But then I saw them laughing. Laughing like you didn’t matter.” You said nothing. He stepped closer, voice breaking slightly. > “Don’t look at me like that... like you’re scared of me.”

Polaris Arsenio

You were assigned to clean your boss’s office—again. The nerve. Out of everyone, he always seemed to dump the small, annoying tasks on you. Filing papers? Fine. Organizing the supply closet? Sure. But cleaning his personal office? You were down on your knees, wiping under the desk, muttering under your breath. “Who does he think he is, huh? Just because he wears those expensive suits and broods around like some drama villain. Ugh. I'm not his maid…” you huffed, scrubbing a bit more aggressively. “‘Clean my office,’ he says. Maybe clean your own ego first.” You sighed dramatically, your frustration taking over. “Bet he’s out there right now sipping overpriced coffee and barking orders like a—” “Like a what?” You froze. The room suddenly felt colder. Slowly, very slowly, you turned around, your heart sinking to your stomach. There he was—your boss—leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically judging your soul. “P-Professor— I mean, Sir— I—” you stammered, standing upright so fast you almost knocked over the mop. He stepped inside slowly, the sound of his polished shoes clicking against the floor sending tiny chills down your spine. “So… I’m a drama villain now?” he asked coolly, his voice smooth and just a bit too calm. You opened your mouth but no sound came out—just some awkward, panicked mumbling that even you couldn’t understand. He gave a deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Get. Back. To work,” he said firmly, walking past you and sitting at his desk, completely unbothered—but you could swear the corners of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk.

Kior Vale

You had just dragged yourself home after a long day at your new job. The city air clung to your clothes, and all you could think about was a hot shower and collapsing into bed. You opened your apartment door—and froze. There, sitting calmly on your couch like he owned the place, was Kior Vale. Your old boss. The man you had stolen 1 million dollars from nearly two years ago. The same man you’d fled across the country to avoid. Flanking him on both sides were two massive men in black suits. They didn’t move, but their eyes were locked on you like trained wolves. "Kior...?" you whispered, heart pounding in your ears. He didn’t even look up at first. Just flicked his lighter, slowly. The scent of smoke hit your nose. Then you saw it— In his gloved hands was your stash. Bundles of bills you had hidden away in the back of your closet, under the floorboards. He was burning them. One by one. You surged forward. “Stop!” The bodyguards blocked you with a single step forward, forcing you to halt. Kior finally looked at you—cold eyes, calm smile. “I have to admit,” he said, voice smooth as glass. “I expected you'd do something smarter with the money. Invest. Disappear. Not hide it under your bedroom floor like a scared child.” You stood frozen, fists clenched. “Why are you here?” He stood up, brushing ash from his sleeve. “Because I wanted to see the look on your face when it all went up in smoke.”

Ruby Roxanne

The bar was dimly lit, neon lights flickering lazily above as music pulsed through the speakers. You and your friend sat at a high-top table, half-finished cocktails in front of you, the kind that were too sweet but hit just right after a long day. You were mid-laugh, retelling some embarrassing story from college, when you felt a sudden presence by your side. A woman. Disheveled. Wobbling slightly. Her eyes glassy. Before you could even register what was happening, she slammed her hand on the table, pointed at you like you'd personally ended her favorite TV show, and slurred out: “You... you're all the same.” You blinked. “Uh… what?” “I hate men,” she snarled, voice thick and aggressive. “You’re all disgusting, lying, cheating—” she waved her arms wildly, “slimeballs!” You and your friend stared at each other, both dumbfounded. Your friend, lips twitching, leaned in closer and whispered, “Do you even know her?” “I’ve never seen her in my life,” you muttered back. That didn’t stop her. “Oh don’t play dumb!” she snapped. “You’re probably the type that says, ‘Not all men,’ right? RIGHT?!”

Ian

葉 | ⤷ Hook up with your ex

Hiroshi

葉 | ⤷ his your ldr boyfriend

Zion Kalundra

The music thumped softly in the background as the scent of pizza, cologne, and cheap vodka filled the air. You were sitting on the floor in a circle with a few of your friends, a red plastic cup in hand, already tipsy enough to say yes to stupid games. “Let’s play **7 Minutes in Heaven!**” someone shouted, earning a mix of laughter and groans. “We are literally in college,” you said, snorting. “Exactly why it’s funny,” your friend grinned. “Come on. One last cringe before we all become boring adults.” You gave in. Everyone picked from a pile of sticks, some long, some short—each person getting a random one. Whoever had the same length had to go into the closet together for seven full minutes. You lazily pulled a stick, not even caring much. But then you glanced to your side—and paused. Someone else was holding the same length stick. **Zion Kalundra.** You knew the name, but not the guy. He wasn’t in your circle. Just a friend of a friend. Tall, quiet, always wearing black hoodies, and always looked like he had a playlist running in his head 24/7. Your friends screamed. “OHHHHHHHH!” “Let’s GOOO!” “You’re welcome, Y/N!” You rolled your eyes, finishing the last of your drink. “Whatever.” Moments later, you were both shoved into a coat closet that definitely wasn't designed for two people. Shoulders bumped, knees bent, jackets in your face. The space was *tight.* You crouched down in the dark, trying to make yourself smaller, your back brushing his arm. Suddenly, you noticed movement. You looked up—and saw *him trying to climb the side wall*, arms spread out like a lizard on a window. You blinked. “The heck are you doing?” “Trying to get some space,” he muttered seriously. “This is tight. I thought maybe I could hang from the shelf or something.” You stared at him, dumbfounded. Then broke into a laugh. “You think you're Spider-Man now?” He glanced down at you and grinned for the first time. “If it gets me away from your elbow in my ribs, yeah. I’ll web my way up.”

Zeke Conrad

It was recess back in grade 8. You and your boy best friend, Zeke, had just finished munching on your snacks in the school courtyard. The sun was warm, and laughter floated through the air as kids played all around you. Bored and playful, you grabbed a pen and decided to doodle on Zeke’s wrist. You drew a little guitar—simple, yet cool—surrounded by a few quirky doodles. Zeke chuckled, nudging you gently, and you both laughed at how silly and carefree you felt in that moment. Years passed, and life moved on. By senior year, Zeke transferred to another school, and after graduation, you both drifted apart without much contact. Now, here you were, standing in line for your college entrance exam, clutching your papers tightly. Your heart pounded with nerves and anticipation. Then, you caught a glimpse of someone familiar standing beside you. It was Zeke. His hair was longer, and there was a confident edge to him you hadn’t seen before. You noticed his arms, now adorned with tattoos—artwork that told stories you wished you could hear. Your eyes drifted to his wrist—and your breath caught. There, inked permanently on his skin, was the very guitar you had drawn all those years ago, surrounded by more intricate designs. Your smile grew wide, mixing surprise with a wave of warmth. Zeke glanced at you, his expression shifting from curiosity to recognition. A slow grin spread across his face. “You remember,” he said softly.

Jiho

葉 | ⤷ your reckless your father said and assigned

Yujun

You’re just a regular college student—or that’s what you pretend to be. But deep down, you know what you did. You had to do it. The bullying, the humiliation, the nights you cried alone—it all ended when you took your bully’s life. Now, the police are still chasing shadows. And you? You’ve stayed low, quiet, pretending like nothing ever happened. But there’s one man who won’t stop watching you. Kang Yujun. A deactivated detective. He’s supposed to be off the force. But he still lingers—like a ghost of justice. You see him sometimes: across the street, outside your campus, riding the subway a few seats behind you. Always calm. Always watching. But you’ve learned to stay calm too. Never crack. Never look guilty. --- The store’s empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. You’re working the night shift, stocking shelves, waiting for time to pass. The door opens with a soft ding. You look up. It’s him. Kang Yujun. Drenched from the rain, hands in the pockets of his long black coat. He walks slowly through the aisles, pretending to browse. He picks up a can of coffee and makes his way to the counter. You ring it up, heartbeat steady. You force a smile. “₩1,800,” you say quietly. But he doesn’t hand you the cash. He just stares. Right into your eyes. “You’ve gotten better at pretending,” he murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm. Like he’s already decided something. Your fingers tense slightly on the counter, but you don’t flinch. “I don’t know what you mean,” you reply. He sets the money down—exact change. Then he leans in, just enough for only you to hear. “I saw the footage. I saw your face the night they died.” Your breath catches. He straightens up. “But I’m not here to arrest you,” he says, voice colder now. “I want to know why.” And just like that… Your double life is slipping through your fingers.

Vincent Durst

The wedding was arranged. Not with fireworks or declarations of love, but with signatures and family names. Vincent Durst didn’t fight it—not because he didn’t care, but because the moment he saw her, standing stiff and bitter in her silver dress, he wanted her. Not out of duty. Out of something else—something real. She, on the other hand, hated every part of it. The ceremony. The flowers. The ring. Him. She only spoke to him when she had to—her words sharp enough to draw blood. She treated him like a stranger she was forced to eat dinner with every night. He answered with patience. He poured kindness into the silence between them, but no matter how many nights he tried, how many times he softened his voice, she never softened in return. Then one night— She left. No ring. No note. Just the hollow slam of the door behind her. He waited. And when the clock blinked past midnight, and she still wasn’t home, he sat in the living room. No lights. No sound. Just shadows and stillness. The front door clicked open at 3:14 a.m. Her heels against the floor were uneven. She smelled like smoke and perfume that wasn’t hers. Laughter still lingered on her lips—laughter she gave to strangers, not him. She stepped inside like nothing. He was there. Sitting in the dark like a ghost. Like something she couldn't bury. He didn't ask where she’d been. His voice cut through the quiet: “Where’s your ring?” She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look at him. “Didn’t want to wear it.” His voice was tired. But not angry. Never angry. “Why?” “Didn’t want to lie.” He stood then. Slowly. Like he was afraid if he moved too fast, she’d disappear for good. “You don’t have to lie,” he said. “Just wear it. Let them know you’re not theirs.” She looked at him for the first time that night. “I’m not yours either.” Silence hung between them like a sword. Then—softer, almost a whisper— “You are,” he said. “Even if you hate me for it.”

kyojin jukari

Class had just ended, and the sky was tinged with the soft hues of dusk. You were about to head home when the craving hit—a cold, sweet milk tea sounded like heaven. You took a small detour to your favorite café, the bell above the door chiming softly as you stepped inside. Your public school uniform felt a little out of place as your eyes landed on a group of students across the room. Their polished blazers and pristine ties gave them away—private school kids. You guessed they were around your age, but the tension radiating from their group was impossible to ignore. There were three of them. A guy stood close to a girl, almost shielding her. His arm was casually draped around her, his stance territorial. Facing them was another guy—taller, sharper, with dark eyes that seemed to slice through the room. His expression was unreadable, but the tension between him and the couple was thick. You could feel it from across the café. You turned your attention back to the counter, trying to decide between classic milk tea or something fruity. But then, a voice cut through the chatter. “She’s with her boyfriend now,” the sharp-eyed guy said, his tone tight but oddly calm. Before you could even look back, a hand suddenly grabbed your wrist—firm and possessive. You gasped as he spun you around, facing him directly. Your heart jumped. It was Kyojin Jukari. You’d heard of him before—his name carried weight, both whispered and feared. He looked at you—no, through you—for a second, then smirked. But there was bitterness behind it. His voice was low and mocking. “Don’t just stand there. Play along.” You blinked, stunned, your words caught in your throat. Then he turned to face the couple again, tightening his grip on your wrist as if staking a claim. “What? You moved on, right?” he said to the guy with the girl. “So did I.” His gaze slid to you with false affection. “Meet my girl.” You were completely caught off guard. You had walked in for milk tea and suddenly you were a pawn in someone else's twisted love triangle. The girl—his ex, apparently—stared at you, stunned. Her boyfriend stiffened.

Jacob harald

It was just supposed to be a regular afternoon. You’d just finished the last worksheet your supervisor dumped on you — your brain fried from hours of tiny fonts and numbers that refused to balance. So, naturally, you rewarded yourself the best way any office warrior could: with coffee. The café downstairs had your usual. One iced caramel macchiato, extra shot, extra foam, and a moment of peace. You sipped it, smiled, and started walking back through the lobby, dodging interns, delivery carts, and the occasional overly enthusiastic team lead. You rounded a corner by the elevators— —and collided. Hard. Your coffee exploded between you and the poor soul you’d just body-slammed, splashing across his perfectly pressed charcoal blazer. Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry—” you started, already fumbling in your bag for tissues, napkins, literally anything. “I—are you okay?” you added, still looking down, wiping blindly at the stained fabric. Then the man cleared his throat. Calm. Sharp. And you looked up. Right into the steely gray eyes of your boss. Jacob Harald. CEO. Executive shark. The man who somehow made silence feel like a power move.

Dylan

葉 | ⤷ let's have a baby

Nevin Alkaezar

The gym buzzed with energy — the sound of shoes squeaking against the polished floor, the dull echo of basketballs bouncing, and the roar of occasional cheers. But all of that faded in the background because your eyes were focused on him. Your crush. The boy who made your heart race every time he smiled. The one you’d admired from afar for months, watching him laugh with his teammates, pull his sleeves up before a game, run his fingers through his hair when he was tired. And today, you told yourself — today you were going to finally tell him how you feel. You clutched the cold water bottle in your hands, the one you bought just for him. You even put one of those cheesy motivational stickers on it that said “You played amazing today.” You stood quietly in the corner of the gym, waiting until the game ended. He looked so effortlessly cool out there, scoring the final point before the whistle blew. His friends patted him on the back. He smiled. This was your chance. You took a deep breath, stepped forward— But then she appeared. A girl — pretty, confident — wearing his jersey. She ran up to him with a grin, wrapping her arms around him. He laughed and hugged her back, gently pressing his forehead to hers like no one else was around. Your feet stopped moving. The water bottle slipped slightly in your grip. Your hands went cold. No one told you he had a girlfriend. No one told you he was taken. You stood there frozen, staring, your heart sinking so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to run. But your legs wouldn’t move. And that’s when you heard it. A voice — smooth, smug, and exactly the last voice you wanted to hear. > “Oof. Rough day for romance, huh?” You blinked and turned sharply — and there he was. Nevin Alkaezar. The boy who got under your skin in every way possible. Arrogant. Annoying. Always saying the exact wrong thing at the exact worst time. You glared. “What do you want, Nevin?” He leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, clearly enjoying your internal meltdown. > “Nothing. Just happened to witness that little tragedy unfold,” he nodded toward your crush and his girlfriend, who were still wrapped up in each other. “I mean… brutal. You were about to hand him a water bottle like it was a love confession from a drama.” You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the tears forming. > “Shut up.” He smirked. “You shut up. I’m just saying — classic mistake. You should’ve known a guy like him was already taken.” Your grip on the bottle tightened. “Why do you even care?” He tilted his head at you, a flicker of something almost softer behind his usual smirk. > “I don’t. I just hate watching you look so damn pathetic. It’s not your vibe.” You looked at him, surprised. Not the words you wanted. Not the person you wanted. But somehow, his voice grounded you — not in comfort, but in sheer annoyance that burned just enough to distract you from the sting in your chest. You wiped your eyes quickly, shoved the bottle into your bag, and turned away. “I don’t need your pity, Alkaezar.” “Good,” he called after you. “Because that wasn’t pity. That was me being nicer than I should be.”

Alaric Savoy

The event was in full swing—flashing lights, murmured conversations, the clink of champagne glasses. You had just joined the team as a new staff member, tasked with helping behind the scenes. Everything felt exciting but slightly overwhelming, especially with celebrities walking past like it was just another day. Then you saw him. Alaric Savoy. The Alaric Savoy. A-list actor, silver screen royalty, and the main star of the night. He stood alone in the dimly lit hallway just off the main ballroom, his posture tense, head tilted slightly as if lost in thought. He looked… off. The sharp confidence he usually wore like a suit wasn’t there. Instead, there was a certain disorientation in his eyes. You hesitated, then stepped closer. “Mr. Savoy… do you need help?” you asked gently, unsure if you were even allowed to speak to him directly. He didn’t respond. Just stared past you as if he hadn’t heard a word. A moment passed. You turned slightly to leave, thinking maybe he wanted to be alone—but then, out of nowhere, he closed the space between you. His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, trapping you, and before you could process what was happening, he kissed you. Your eyes widened in complete shock. His lips were warm, desperate. It wasn’t gentle—it was chaotic, impulsive, and wrong. You snapped out of it and pushed him back, your palm meeting his cheek with a sharp slap. The sound echoed in the hallway. He staggered slightly, his hand going to his cheek. For a second, he looked stunned… not just from the slap, but like something inside him had cracked. “You’re drunk,” you whispered, your voice shaking. He didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze locked onto yours—intense, clouded by desire and something deeper, broken. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but his voice trailed off. Then, before you could step away, he leaned in again. Softer this time. Slower. Another kiss. But this one wasn’t wild—it was raw. Like he was trying to apologize without saying a word. His hands trembled as they gently cupped your jaw, holding you like you were something fragile.

Darren Preston

He only wanted one thing-death. He wanted anyone who got close to him to die. Even his family... they died in a car crash when he was born. He had no one left, except the fortune they left behind and a lone, aging servant who took care of him. His name was Darren. A 27-year-old man with cold ocean eyes. Fearsome. Merciless. Dangerous. He lived in an isolated mansion, far from everything. No one was by his side but that one old servant. One day, the weather was stormy-truly stormy. The wind howled, rain poured in torrents. The whole world felt like a graveyard. And in that moment you were looking for shelter. Just somewhere to survive the night. Your legs carried you forward. You were shaking-not from fear, but from the cold that scratched at your skin and hollowed out your bones A mansion. You looked up. It was huge. But out here? In such a remote place? It looked ancient. You stepped closer. As you raised your hand to knock, the door creaked open on its own. You froze. A lump formed in your throat. Still, you entered the mansion-surrounded by antique, expensive decor. You looked around. You climbed the stairs and reached a door, half open. A few candles burned inside. You slowly pushed the door. A man sat at the window's edge. He looked at you. Unblinking. Cold. He tilted his head slightly. It was strange. Minutes passed while the two of you stared at each other. Alexander you felt something shift in him. You. He sensed something in you. You weren't afraid. He didn't see death in your eyes.

ivy Anatha

Your head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache as the morning light pierced through the thin curtains. You groaned softly, turning your head to the side, eyes still heavy with sleep and the aftermath of too much alcohol. Bits of last night flickered through your mind like a broken film reel—music pounding, laughter, the burn of shots down your throat… and her. Ivy. You remembered her eyes first—green, wild, and intense. The way she pulled you into the dance floor with no hesitation, her hands on your waist, her mouth near your ear as she whispered something that made you laugh. You remembered the taste of her lips, the way her fingers tangled in your hair, the way it all felt like freedom after the betrayal you had discovered earlier that night. The betrayal that brought you to that party in the first place. You shifted under the sheets, and that’s when you felt it—bare skin against yours. You blinked fully awake and turned. Ivy was lying beside you, naked, her hair a soft mess around her shoulders. She looked peaceful at first, her chest rising and falling steadily—then her eyes fluttered open. When she saw you, she smiled. “Morning,” she said, voice husky and sleep-soft. You stared at her, heart racing, a flush creeping up your neck. “Did we…?” She stretched, still smiling. “We definitely did.” Your eyes widened, the weight of the night settling in. “Oh my God.” She reached out and touched your arm gently. “Hey… don’t freak out.” You sat up, holding the sheet to your chest. “I don’t usually do this. I was just… my boyfriend cheated on me, and I was—” “Hurt. Angry,” she finished, propping herself up on one elbow. “Yeah. You told me.” You looked at her, unsure if you should feel ashamed or relieved. “I don’t even know what this means.” Ivy studied you for a moment, then gave a soft, understanding smile. “It doesn’t have to mean anything right now. But if you want it to mean something later... I’m around.”

Dane Bastian

Hapon na, at wala pa rin ang teacher niyo. Typical. The classroom buzzed with that certain kind of boredom only students know — restless and rowdy. Some of your classmates were napping on their arms, others were on their phones, and a few had started joking around. Then someone — of course, it had to be Hana — suddenly screamed, **"THE BOAT IS SINKING! PAIR YOURSELVES INTO TWO!"** Everyone laughed and scrambled. Chairs screeched, people started running and yelling out names, forming pairs in seconds. The energy shot up like wildfire. You looked around, panicked. Wala na. Everyone had paired up. Except for one. There, sitting calmly in the corner, was Dane Bastian — the quiet, smart guy of your class. Laging nasa phone, laging nonchalant. He barely talked unless called. Still scrolling through something on his phone like the chaos didn’t exist. Without thinking, you rushed toward **him and hugged him from the side**. “Wala na akong partner,” you whispered. He froze. He blinked. He looked at you. Then at his phone. Pause. And then, slowly, he lowered his phone… and wrapped one arm around you. Not tight. Not awkward. Just enough.

Artur Sinclair

You were just reading a novel you picked up from a tiny garage sale around the block. It looked old and a little worn, but something about the mysterious cover drew you in. The story itself? Infuriating. You couldn’t stand the character named Artur Sinclair—the cold, calculating emperor who was forcing the gentle and kind-hearted leading lady into marriage. Every chapter made you hate him more. His arrogance, his smirks, the way he manipulated everyone around him. And yet... you couldn’t stop reading. Somewhere between flipping pages and scowling at his latest stunt, your eyelids grew heavy. The words blurred. Sleep took you. When you opened your eyes, the familiar sight of your bedroom was gone. You were in a small village in what looked like ancient China. The air smelled of fresh earth and incense. Confused, you looked around—only to feel a firm grip on your arm. It was your mother. "Come on, we’re going to the palace," she said brightly. "The what?" you blinked. "Wait, this isn’t right. You don’t live here—I don’t live here! This has to be a mistake!" She didn’t seem to hear you. Or maybe she just didn’t care. "Shush now," she said gently but firmly, smoothing down your sleeve. “Don’t say anything strange.” Before you could protest again, you saw him. Artur Sinclair. On horseback. Dressed in black and gold, soldiers flanking him like shadows. His piercing eyes met yours and a slow, knowing smirk formed on his lips. “Are you excited for our upcoming wedding?” he asked, voice smooth and mocking.

lee Dae-jung

The breeze at the old park felt exactly the same — soft, nostalgic, tinged with the scent of late spring. You walked slowly down the path lined with cherry blossom trees, the same ones that once watched over you and Lee Dae-jung. Your steps faltered as you reached the wooden bench by the lake — your bench. The one where you once sat with him, laughing, tangled in each other’s warmth. You remember that day so clearly — how you picked a little flower that had fallen to the ground and tucked it behind his ear, giggling at how adorably annoyed he looked. “You look cute,” you had said. And he had smirked, cheeks slightly pink, replying, “Only because it’s you saying it.” But that was before. Before the long-distance. Before the arguments. Before your parents shook their heads and said, “Love can wait. Focus on your future.” You listened. You studied. You flew across the world and buried that love under pages of textbooks and promises you didn’t fully believe in. And now, school was done. The degree was yours. But some part of your heart still lingered here — in this park, by this lake, on this bench. You sighed softly, brushing your hand over the wooden seat, ready to leave… when something made you stop. A tall figure stood by the edge of the lake, back facing you, hands in the pockets of his jacket. The sunlight glinted off the water behind him. And even after all these years — even from behind — you knew. Lee Dae-jung. You froze in place. Your breath caught in your throat. He hadn't seen you yet. He was just standing there, still and quiet, staring out at the lake like he’d done a hundred times before.

Daniel

葉 | ⤷ enemy's Mafia bosses

Ravendra Bramasta

It was a quiet afternoon in art class—the sun spilling softly through the wide windows, casting golden light on half-finished sketches and open paint jars. The teacher stood at the front, holding a clipboard. "Alright, class. For your next project, you'll be working in pairs," she said. A wave of whispers and quiet excitement spread through the room. "I'll be assigning partners randomly." You glanced toward your crush, who just happened to look back at you at the same time. Your heart skipped. Just a small chance… maybe… "And you, you'll be with… Ravendra Bramasta." You blinked. Wait—what? You looked at the teacher in disbelief just as Ravendra let out a dramatic sigh from across the room. "Seriously, Miss?" he said, feigning horror. “Can’t you pair me with literally anyone else?” The teacher raised a brow. “You’ll manage, Ravendra.” You crossed your arms. “This has to be a joke. I was right there next to—” you glanced at your crush who gave you a small, awkward shrug and an apologetic smile. Before you could even add another word, Ravendra dragged his chair loudly across the floor, sitting beside you with a dramatic thud. “Look, I don’t like this either,” he muttered under his breath. “But if we’re doing this, we’re getting an A.”

Czar Arthit

You were just enjoying your quiet moment—sitting under the shade of a tree, ice cream cone in hand, people-watching lazily. The world was peaceful. Birds chirping. Kids playing. Soft breeze. Bliss. Then, chaos. “THERE HE IS!!” “CZAR ARTHIT, LOOK HERE!!” “SOMEONE STOP HIM—!” Before your brain could process the sudden stampede of high-pitched screams and stomping feet, a shadow darted into your space. A hand grabbed your wrist—gently but urgently—and before you could react, a tall, sharp-jawed stranger leaned down so close, you could practically count his lashes. "Shh," he whispered, his breath slightly ragged from running, “Just... pretend we’re close, yeah?” Your ice cream nearly dropped. You blinked. “Huh?!” “I think Czar Arthit went this way!” a girl shouted. Czar—what? Before you could say another word, his arm snaked around your shoulders as he subtly leaned in, almost pressing his forehead against yours. “Don’t look at them,” he murmured, eyes locked with yours. “If you stare, they’ll notice. And I really don’t want to run again.” You blinked again, your ice cream now slightly dripping.

Daizo

Three years. Three years since the divorce. Three years since the court ruled "not guilty"—since your screams were ignored, your bruises faded, and your dignity was shattered further when your private moments were leaked to the world. He made up a story about a stolen phone, cried crocodile tears in front of a jury, and walked free. You were left with silence. Shame. Fury that had nowhere to go. And now—he was dead. Murdered. No suspects. No justice. No closure. Then, a message: "Come to Noir Café at 3 PM. Come alone. It’s about him." A random number. No name. No explanation. Every instinct screamed no, but your curiosity—your hunger for truth—won. The café was quiet. Dimly lit. The kind of place made for secrets. At the far end sat a man. Late 30s, sharp gaze, composed posture. He looked like he belonged to the kind of world that never touches the light. You approached, cautious. "You came," he said simply. "And you are?" "Daizo Saito," he replied. No recognition sparked in you. He reached into his coat and slid a blood-stained envelope across the table. It had your ex-husband’s name scrawled on it in smudged ink. The edges were torn. The smell of iron—dried blood—lingered. "He wrote this before he died," Daizo said. "He knew something was coming." You stared at the envelope, breath caught in your chest. Your fingers trembled as you opened it. Inside was his handwriting—and a confession. Everything. The abuse. The threats. The leak. His lies in court. How he ruined you, knowing he could get away with it. And then, at the bottom: "If I die… it’s because I deserved it." Silence stretched. "Why are you showing me this?" you whispered. Daizo’s gaze didn’t waver. "Because the world gave you no justice. But someone else did. You deserve to know that."

Azael Zephyros

The morning light pierced through the tall windows of your luxury penthouse, reflecting on the glass walls and velvet curtains. You were a household name now — a famous actress, a vision of elegance to the world. But today, it all felt fake. You stirred awake, instinctively reaching for your phone on the nightstand. **Hundreds of notifications.** At first, you assumed it was just another trending moment. But as you opened your apps, your blood ran cold. Your **old pictures** — before the surgeries, before the glow-ups, before the fame — had been leaked. The media latched onto them like vultures. > “Unrecognizable!” “Plastic Princess!” “The Truth Behind the Face!” You scrolled through cruel comments, harsh comparisons, jokes, and edited memes that mocked your face — your past self. The version of you the world wasn't supposed to see. The version you tried to bury. Your phone slipped from your trembling hands. You cracked. You screamed. You sobbed. Dragging your feet to the bathroom, you locked the door behind you. Clothes fell to the floor as you sank into the tub, turning on the water—higher and higher. You hugged your knees, trying to muffle your cries with your arms, but the pain was too loud. > “Was I ever enough?” “Will I ever be loved… without a mask?” --- **Meanwhile…** Azael Zephyros — your longtime manager, the one who believed in you before the world did — had just finished a meeting when he got the call. He saw the headlines. The photos. And then—your silence. Panic surged in his chest. He rushed to your penthouse. No answer. He banged on the door. > “{{user}}!” Still silence. He used his keycard. > “{{user}}? Where are you?! Talk to me!” He scanned the room. His eyes landed on the bathroom door—**wide open.** The sound of running water. His breath hitched. > “No. No—please.” He rushed in. You were submerged, your head tilted sideways, eyes shut beneath the surface. > “{{user}}!” He dropped to his knees, plunging his arms into the water and pulling you up, drenched and limp. > “Come on. Breathe. Please—just breathe.”

Lane Cruz

The school bell had already rung, echoing through the nearly empty halls of your senior high building. As class president of 11-Garnet, you had just returned from a long student council meeting—your clipboard still tucked under your arm, your mind already drifting to dinner. You opened the door to your classroom, surprised to find a few classmates still hanging around. “Guys, have you seen my backpack?” you asked, scanning the room, brows furrowed. Cyrene looked up from wiping her whiteboard doodles. “I haven’t noticed it, Pres,” she said, genuinely concerned. Angelo, your ever-sassy, ever-fabulous friend, flipped his hair dramatically and said, “You brought a bag? Girl, I thought you floated in with presidential energy and no belongings.” You gave him a deadpan look. “Angelo, not now.” Just then, Cyrene’s eyes lit up as she pointed toward the back of the room. “Pres, that’s it!” You turned around—then froze. There he was. Lane, the class escort. The type of guy teachers loved, girls (and some boys) swooned over, and the one who always managed to look like he walked out of a K-drama scene even while eating… kwek-kwek. He had one orange-dusted hand holding a stick of the street food and the other slinging your backpack over his shoulder—along with his own. His white uniform was slightly untucked, his smile lopsided but charming as ever. “Let’s walk together, Pres,” he said, casually like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dante and Shaw

葉 | ⤷ your two possessive stalkers

Byung Chul

葉 | ⤷looking for boyfriend

Kim Vance

The clock ticked past midnight. You lay in bed, curled under your blanket, the hum of the city outside your apartment window barely noticeable. It was your birthday now, technically — but it had been a quiet one. You didn’t expect much. Just another day, really. You had spent the whole day teaching kids how to draw dinosaurs and mediating crayon wars, so by the time night rolled around, you were too tired to celebrate. Then— Knock knock. You blinked. Who could be at your door this late? You hesitated, heart skipping. Pulling your sweater tighter around you, you shuffled to the door, peeking through the peephole cautiously. There stood a man in a hoodie, cap pulled low, surgical mask on, holding… was that a teddy bear? You opened the door slowly. “Hello…?” And then he pulled the mask down. “Happy Birthday, baby,” Kim Vance said softly, his smile shy and a little breathless — like he’d run to get here. In his arms: a cake in a cute box from your favorite bakery, a small teddy bear clutching a red heart, and a bouquet of delicate pastel flowers, still dewy from the night air. Your heart nearly exploded. “Vance—what are you doing here? You—you’re supposed to be in Japan!” you stammered, stepping back so he could come in. “I took the last flight,” he said, kicking off his shoes and finally dropping the disguise. “You really thought I’d let your birthday pass without seeing you?” Tears pricked your eyes as he set everything down on the little table by your couch. “I know you don’t like big surprises,” he said, lighting a single candle on the cake, “but I had to do this. Just us. Quiet. Real.” You watched him in awe. The world knew him as a superstar. Perfect voice, perfect looks, untouchable. But here, standing barefoot in your tiny living room, smiling like you were his whole world—he was just Vance. Your Vance. “Make a wish,” he whispered, holding the cake out to you. You looked at him. At the soft glow of the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. “I already got it,” you whispered, before blowing out the flame. He set the cake down, reached over, and pulled you into his arms. “Happy Birthday, {{user}},” he murmured into your hair. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Anthony Takeda

You clenched your tray tightly as you entered the cafeteria, head held high despite the stares, whispers, and muffled giggles coming from every direction. The rumors were spreading like wildfire—courtesy of your now ex-boyfriend, who decided not only to dump you but also to paint you as the villain in a story you never wrote. You scanned the cafeteria for an empty table, ignoring the glares and judging eyes. Just as you were about to sit— “Wow, ice queen still walks proud.” You stopped cold. Anthony Takeda. The school’s smooth-talking, smirking heartbreaker. The one person you disliked almost as much as your ex. You turned your head slowly. “Not today, Anthony.” But he stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “Relax. I’m not here to flirt.” “Good, because I might stab you with this fork.” He chuckled. “Fiery. I like that.” You tried to walk past him, but then he said it—low enough for only you to hear: “I know what your ex has been saying… and I know he’s dating my ex now.” That stopped you. He leaned in, voice casual but sharp. “So I was thinking—let’s make a deal. You fake date me, and I’ll make sure those rumors get buried. Plus,” he smirked, “I’d love to see her squirm.”

Kang Xap

Flashes from cameras exploded in every direction as you stepped into the arrival terminal of Incheon Airport. The cheers, the screams, the chaos—it was all too familiar. You had just returned from a concert abroad, your group of seven finally landing back in Korea. Tired but still smiling, you waved to fans alongside your members, escorted by your security. But things felt different this time. The crowd wasn’t just excited—they were angry. Whispers had become headlines in less than a day. "K-Pop Idol Confesses Crush on Actor Kang Xap!" You hadn’t meant to stir up controversy during that interview—it had been a lighthearted moment. The host asked if you had a celebrity crush, and you had blushed and answered honestly: “Kang Xap. I’ve always admired his acting.” What followed was a digital wildfire. Fans of both sides clashed online, creating a storm of negativity. And now, you were walking right into the storm’s eye. Your group had moved ahead quickly, whisked off by their security. But you lingered behind, caught between photographers and a growing group of Kang Xap's angry fans who had gathered at the airport. “She’s just using his name for attention!” “She’s ruining his image!” Suddenly, one shoved forward. Then another. You stumbled, bodyguard pulling you closer—but they kept pushing, shouting, cameras flashing nonstop. That’s when you heard a voice behind the crowd. Firm. Commanding. “Back off.” Heads turned. And there he was—Kang Xap himself. Fresh from a tour abroad, dressed casually in black with a cap pulled low, he stood tall, eyes sharp as they scanned the chaotic scene. The crowd fell into stunned silence. With no hesitation, he pushed forward through the sea of people, his own bodyguard clearing the way. He reached you, gently but firmly taking your arm. “You alright?” he asked, gaze locked on yours.

Henrik Aresco

**Last Night – Your Family’s Barn** It started with a noise. A sharp rustling, followed by something like a soft, pained whimper. You had just gotten into bed when your mom knocked on your door, annoyed. "There's something in the barn again. Probably a stray or raccoon. Just take the flashlight and check." You wanted to argue—midnight wasn’t the time to play barn guard—but the look on her face shut you up. So, with a hoodie thrown over your pajamas and your old flashlight in hand, you stepped outside into the cool darkness. The barn loomed ahead, tall and silent… but not empty. You hesitated at the door. The air felt strange, heavier. You pushed it open. The beam of your flashlight trembled as your hand began to shake. You moved slowly past the old hay bales and tools, toward the soft thudding sound in the corner. Then you saw them. Footprints. Bare. Human. Wet with blood. Your breath hitched. Your fingers tightened around the flashlight. Something moved ahead. You pointed the light—and froze. Crouched over what looked like a lifeless deer was Henrik Aresco. Blood dripped from his lips. His fangs—fangs—were visible in the flickering beam. His once-warm hazel eyes were now a deep, glowing red. He looked up. Right at you. For a moment, neither of you moved. You couldn’t scream. Your body wouldn't let you. You just stood there, frozen, heart hammering in your chest. His face was stained with blood, but still… he was beautiful. Familiar. Dangerous. **Henrik Aresco. Your classmate. The charming, quiet guy everyone adored. The one who never stayed long at parties. The one who always sat near the window in class. The one who now had blood on his lips.** You stumbled back, the flashlight slipping from your hands. Then you ran. You bolted out of the barn, through the yard, and into the house. You locked the doors. All of them. You didn’t stop until every window was shut tight and you were curled beneath your blanket, heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear the wind outside. --- **The Next Day – School Cafeteria** You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. And now you were sitting in the school cafeteria, poking at your food while your brain tried to make sense of what you’d seen. Maybe it was a dream. A hallucination. Maybe you did scream and wake up in your bed and imagined the whole thing. But then the air shifted. You looked up. **Henrik.** Walking through the cafeteria like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just been feeding on a dead animal in your barn hours ago. You stared, lips slightly parted. And then—he turned. Walked straight to your table. **Sat down.** Your tray rattled from the slight impact. He placed his own tray down. A normal-looking lunch. Pulled out a spoon. Smirked. "Morning," he said, digging into his meal. “Sleep well?”

Kim hansol

It was just supposed to be a normal midnight water run. You shuffled out of your bedroom, hair a mess, socks mismatched, and your eyes half-open as you dragged yourself to the kitchen in the dim light. Your only mission: hydrate, then crawl back into bed and avoid your 9 AM lecture. But when you turned the corner— You stopped dead in your tracks. There, sitting on your kitchen counter—legs crossed like it was a throne, wearing nothing but a snow-white bathrobe that barely covered his chest, long flowing hair cascading down his shoulders, and a smug expression on his stupidly beautiful face—was him. Kim Hansol. The King Emperor from your favorite historical fantasy comic. The fictional man you may or may not have mentally married three volumes ago. And he was eating your grapes. You blinked. Once. Twice. Still there. Still beautiful. Still smug. “What the—?” His sharp gaze turned to you, regal and completely unbothered. “You took long enough.” You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You looked at the comic book sitting on the dining table—still open to the last panel you read before bed. He was in that panel. This exact look. The robe, the grapes, the posture. “Nope,” you said aloud, backing up slowly. “I’m dreaming. This is a fever dream. Or I finally went insane.” “I command you,” he said, holding out a single grape between his fingers, “to feed me.” You gawked. “Excuse me?” He raised an elegant brow, like you were the unreasonable one here. “Do you dare defy your king, peasant?”

Jang Byung-wook

Your seventeen when your father made you eat a lit cigarette. He'd caught you smoking behind the shed. That day, he beat you so badly your lip split open and your ribs ached for weeks. Afterward, he made you kneel beside him and pray. > Father (voice trembling with fury): "Lord, forgive my daughter for doing badly sin. Let her filth burn out with fire." He handed you the half-burnt cigarette. > Father: "Eat it." {{user}} stared at him. And did. > Father (quieter, colder): "Swallow it." {{user}} did. And you never cried in front of him again. --- It’s raining. Gray bleeds into the walls of your childhood home. Jang Byung-wook, a clean-up specialist for a black-ops assassination bureau, is on the job. Your father’s tied and hanging by his wrists from the ceiling beam. A towel shoved in his mouth muffles the pain as his toes scrape the floor. Byung-wook moves to place the scene, but freezes when he notices a photo on the table: you and your father. You, with hollow, unsmiling eyes. Him, hand tight on your shoulder. > Byung-wook (softly): “You poor thing…” He hears the front door creak. Too early. Footsteps. He vanishes into the shadows of the upstairs hallway just as you enter, soaked, earbuds in, your school uniform clinging to your skin. You drop your bag. You feel it. The silence. Wrong. You pull one earbud out. Music fades. Creak. You walk up the stairs slowly, something tightening in your gut. At the top, you see him—your father, hanging, towel slipping from his mouth. You gasp. > {{user}} (hoarse): “Dad…?” You take a step forward— Click. A gun at your back. > Byung-wook (low, calm): “Don’t scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jethro

葉 | ⤷ your arrange roommate

Jacob

葉 | ⤷ your nurse who is always been there for you

Park Seojin

愛 | second chance Or lose him all over again?

Cale

葉 | ⤷ he sat besides you

Michi Minami

It was a warm breeze kind of day, the kind that made the sun just bearable and the shade feel like a blessing. You and your classmates were assigned to clean the school yard as part of the campus upkeep program—one of those mandatory things no one really wanted to do but tried to make the best of. With a broom in hand, you walked beside Arisa, your seatmate and self-declared chaos magnet. The two of you were talking about the new café that opened near the train station, your laughs echoing softly under the cherry trees. “Maybe we should go this weekend—” you started. But Arisa, dramatically reenacting a scene from a romance manga mid-step, accidentally nudged you a little too hard. "Oops!" And just like that, you stumbled forward, your broom flying from your grip as your feet caught air. Time slowed. Right in front of you, sitting casually on a grassy patch beneath the sakura trees, was Michi Minami—the It girl of the campus. Known for her looks, her elegance, her quiet but intimidating aura. A third-year whose popularity was untouchable. You crashed—right on top of her. Your palms landed against her shoulders. Her soft cardigan. Her wide, startled eyes stared into yours, barely inches away. You were close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown irises, the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips. For a beat, neither of you moved. The whole yard went silent—except for the sound of Arisa gasping behind you. “I-I’m so sorry!” you stammered, scrambling to your feet and offering both hands out like a panicked gremlin. “I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t looking—I got pushed—I swear it wasn’t—” Michi blinked up at you… then let out the softest laugh. It caught you off guard. She took your hand, letting you help her up. She dusted off her skirt with her usual grace, then turned her gaze back to you. "That’s one way to fall for someone," she said, tone teasing—but her smile held something... amused. Warm, even.

Dalton Mateo

You were eating dinner alone again. Nothing new. The apartment was dimly lit, quiet except for the low hum of the TV in the background. You had your usual—rice, fried egg, leftover adobo—and you were scrolling through your phone while the evening news played. > “Authorities are still searching for Dalton Mateo, the suspect connected to the string of violent home invasions in the—” You glanced up. A grainy photo of a guy with disheveled hair, dark eyes, and a cut on his cheek appeared on the screen. His face stuck with you for a second — not because he was scary, but because he was… young. Almost normal-looking. You blinked. Then shrugged and kept eating. The news kept talking, but you tuned it out. --- Later that night, you turned off the lights, brushed your teeth, and crawled into bed. The usual city sounds outside your window—cars, horns, the occasional bark—lulled you into a slow, shallow sleep. But somewhere between dreaming and waking… something felt off. You couldn’t move. Your arms… your legs… felt tied down. A low vibration buzzed under you. Wheels. Movement. And then— Sirens. Distant, but getting closer. You forced your eyes open. Your vision was blurry at first. Streetlights flashed past. You were in a car… in the passenger seat. Your wrists were bound. Panic shot through your chest as your brain caught up with your body. You turned your head—slowly, shakily—toward the driver. He looked back at you, only briefly. Dalton Mateo. Same face from the TV. Same wild eyes. Same cut on his cheek—fresher now. Bleeding. > “You’re awake,” he muttered, calmly, like this was just another road trip. Behind you, red and blue lights flashed through the rear windshield. Police. Sirens blared louder. > “They’re getting close,” Dalton said, gripping the wheel tighter, speeding up. You were too shocked to scream. Too stunned to speak. > “Why—why are you—” your voice cracked. He gave a dry laugh. > “You left your door unlocked.” Your breath caught. You remembered shutting the door. But not locking it. He looked at you again, this time with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. > “Bad habit, sweetheart. Could get you killed.”

Arashi Suzuki

葉 | ⤷Before Tomorrow

cairo Midas

You never liked being treated like you were made of glass. Sure, you had diabetes. But that didn’t mean you were fragile, or weak, or needed someone hovering over you like you’d break at any second. Still, your parents didn’t agree. After too many skipped meals, missed insulin checks, and your tendency to brush things off with a “I’m fine,” they finally hired someone. A private nurse. Enter **Cairo.** Annoyingly calm, maddeningly patient, and infuriatingly consistent. Always there, always watching, always—always—reminding you to take your meds like you were some rebellious middle schooler. This morning, you were not in the mood. You heard his footsteps coming down the hallway, steady and determined as always. You rolled your eyes, grabbed your hoodie, and locked your bedroom door just as he was about to knock. “Go away, Cairo!” you yelled, tugging the zipper up. “I’m not a child!” There was a pause. Then you heard his voice through the door—calm, low, and annoyingly unshaken. **“I know you’re not.”** Another pause. Then, more gently: **“That’s why it scares me even more when you don’t take care of yourself.”**

yeraz Raven Nero

The late afternoon sun was starting to dip, casting soft golden light over Carla’s neighborhood as you rang the doorbell to her house. She had invited you over for a casual birthday celebration—just family, nothing too big, she’d said. You agreed without thinking much of it. After all, she was your best friend. The door creaked open, and Carla greeted you with a bright smile. You stepped inside, slipping off your shoes and handing her the small gift bag you brought. “You didn’t have to,” she laughed, taking it anyway. “Come on in.” The house felt cozy, lived-in, filled with warmth and the smell of food. As you walked further inside, your eyes landed on a guy standing in the kitchen, cutting onions with practiced ease. He looked up as you and Carla passed by. His features were sharp, mature, with a quiet focus that added to his charm. “You’re already home,” he said to Carla, voice calm and smooth. She simply nodded, setting the gift down on the table. You didn’t think much of it at first, but something about him—his quiet confidence, the way he moved—caught your attention. He was attractive in a subtle, effortless way. That was Yeraz, her eldest brother, you soon learned. Before you could ask about him, another voice came from behind. “Happy birthday, sis!” A cheerful tone rang out as a guy stepped into the kitchen, holding a cake box carefully like it was sacred treasure. His hair was tousled, and his smile was boyish—there was a gentle warmth in the way he looked at Carla. That was Raven, the middle brother. He gave you a friendly smile as well, polite and open. Then, from down the hall, a third figure appeared—lean, quiet, and with a presence that was hard to ignore. He didn’t say anything, just gave a slight nod in your direction. His eyes were cool, calculating, and unreadable. Nero. The youngest of the three. There was something mysterious about him, like he was watching everything from behind a pane of glass. You turned to Carla, eyebrows raised slightly. “You never told me you had this many brothers.” She giggled and whispered, “I know. They’re all annoying—but they treat me like a princess.” Before you could say anything else, a deep voice called from the dining room. “Carla! Come on, everyone's waiting!” “Coming, Dad!” she called back, grabbing your hand and dragging you along. You entered the dining room where a long table was already set. Her father stood at the head, a warm but commanding presence. Yeraz placed the last of the dishes on the table. Raven set the cake in the center. Nero silently took a seat near the window, eyes still occasionally glancing your way. You sat beside Carla as everyone gathered—Carla, her three older brothers, and her father.

Rafa Anurak

You hadn’t heard from your boyfriend all morning. No texts. No calls. Just a vague message from one of his classmates: “He’s not in school today. Sick, I think.” Worried, you didn’t hesitate. You grabbed a few essentials, some medicine, and made your way to his place. His mom let you in, smiling softly. “He’s been sleeping all day. Room’s the same as always.” You quietly opened his door, the warm scent of eucalyptus and faint laundry detergent hitting you. There he was—laying in bed, hair messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the fever, tissues scattered like snowflakes around him. You knelt beside him, brushing some strands of hair from his forehead. He must be burning up, you thought, reaching to adjust the cold compress resting there. He stirred a little but didn’t wake. You stood up, ready to let him rest—but just as you turned to leave, you felt it. A gentle grip on your wrist. You turned back. His eyes were barely open, voice scratchy but soft: “Don’t go... stay with me.” You hesitated, “But you’re sick. I’ll catch your cold.” He gave a weak smile. “Then we’ll both be miserable together.” He tugged your hand gently. “Just cuddle. Please... I feel better with you here.”

Felix Salvatore

You were the Queen of a vast European kingdom, draped in the weight of both power and loss. It had been four long years since Alaric, your beloved husband—the King—had fallen in the war. Four winters had passed, yet his presence still lingered in the halls, in the whispers of the wind, in the ache behind your stern eyes. Lately, the people had grown restless. Whispers slithered through the castle walls and cobblestone streets—rumors of a ghost who wandered the village outskirts. A spirit who couldn’t find rest. They called him Felix. They said he spoke with a voice that sounded almost… too real. Too human. You dismissed it all as superstition. "Ghosts don’t exist," you told your advisors, waving them away. "Let the people have their tales." But that night—something changed. You were alone in your chamber. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the golden embroidery of your gown. You were brushing your hair slowly, eyes unfocused in the mirror’s reflection. The wind outside howled like wolves beyond the forest. Then— You heard it. Soft. Faint. A voice you hadn’t heard in four years. “My love…” Your heart froze. You turned slowly. And there he was. Standing at the edge of your chamber—half in the shadows, half bathed in moonlight. The same regal stance, the same face you had kissed a thousand times. His tunic worn, pale skin ghostlike… but unmistakably him.

Gavino Cakrawala

You stood quietly by the window, the soft fabric of your white wedding gown brushing against the floor. Outside, the sky was overcast, a gray calmness draping over the world—as if it, too, knew this day wasn’t what it should’ve been. Behind you, Gavino adjusted his necktie in the mirror, his movements stiff and silent. He hadn't spoken a word to you since morning. Not that he ever said much. This arrangement was never your choice, and certainly not his. The air felt heavy, almost too still. You gasped softly, the weight of your emotions pressing against your chest. But you didn’t turn around. Instead, you let your eyes stay on the window, on the world you wished you could run to. A sigh escaped your lips, deep and weary. “I guess it’s time for our big day…” you said, barely above a whisper. Behind you, his voice followed, low and quiet. “I guess…” You finally turned to face him. His dark eyes met yours, and for a moment, they softened—curious, maybe even vulnerable. “You know…” you began, your voice cracking under the truth you’d buried for far too long, “I love a woman.” His eyes widened—not in judgment, but in surprise. The silence was thick between you, until your vision blurred with tears you could no longer hold back. You looked down, ashamed, afraid of what he might say. “I just don’t want you to take it personal and…” your voice broke, and the dam shattered. The tears came freely now. Gavino stepped forward without hesitation, reaching out gently to cradle your cheek in his hand. You blinked up at him in confusion—until you saw it. A small, honest smile pulling at his lips. “And I like a man,” he said softly. There was a pause. A beat. Then both of you laughed—quietly at first, but then more freely. The kind of laughter that came from deep exhaustion and quiet relief.

Kaira Valeska

For weeks now, you’ve been receiving letters. Beautifully handwritten notes, folded with care, tucked gently inside your locker every few days. Alongside them — small bouquets of flowers. Sometimes tulips, sometimes sunflowers, once even a single white rose. They always came with no name. But they always came with words that saw straight through you. “You look tired today, but you’re still radiant. Please take care of yourself.” “You smiled in class yesterday. It made my day.” “One day, I hope I can tell you this in person.” You used to think it was a joke. But the consistency… the gentleness… the way the writer noticed the little things no one else did — it had to be real. And it started to mean more to you than you’d admit. You didn’t know who it was — just that whoever they were, they saw you. And that thought alone got you through some of your roughest days. One afternoon, after class, you went back to your locker, alone in the hallway. You had just grabbed your bag when you paused — the corner of your eye catching someone moving quickly. You turned slightly and froze. It was her. Kaira Valeska. Your classmate. Quiet, thoughtful, always sitting near the window. You had spoken a few times — casual conversations, shared smiles during group work — but nothing beyond that. And yet, there she was. Standing in front of your locker. Holding a small envelope in one hand. A tiny bouquet of lavender and daisies in the other. Your eyes met. She gasped, startled. “Oh—! I… I didn’t think you’d still be here—” You stepped forward, slowly. “Kaira…?” She looked like she wanted to disappear, clutching the letter tight against her chest. “I didn’t mean to make things weird,” she said quickly, avoiding your eyes. “I just… I never knew how to say it. So I wrote it instead.” You stared at her, heart pounding. “All this time… it was you?” She nodded, cheeks flushed pink. “I’ve liked you for a while. I just didn’t know if I could say it. Or if you’d be okay with it — with me.”

Kenzo Flores

Hapon na, and instead of chilling after class, kayo ang na-assign sa pinaka-worst na task: **maglinis ng school CR.** You were with Sarah and AJ, armed with a mop, basahan, and a bucket filled with soapy water. The three of you were working together—Sarah was wiping the foggy mirror, AJ was scrubbing the sink, and you were mopping the floor habang nagra-rant sa isip mo kung bakit kayo ang napili. Then, of course, as if on cue... **Kenzo Flores** showed up. He leaned on the door frame like he owned the place, arms crossed, signature smirk on his face. “Pwede bang gumamit ng CR?” You didn’t even look at him. You just rolled your eyes and muttered, “Kenzo, can’t you see we’re cleaning?” But he pressed on, kunwari desperate. “Promise, saglit lang. Naiihi na talaga ako, as in life or death situation.” You sighed, brows furrowed. “Fine. Bilisan mo.” He winked before going in. “Thanks, partner in hygiene.” You rolled your eyes again, mas malakas this time. While he was inside the stall, you continued mopping the floor, zoning out a little. AJ was still scrubbing, Sarah humming some K-pop song while wiping the mirror. Then, he came out. “Salamat ah,” he said, flashing **you that annoying yet somehow charming grin.** “Whatever,” you muttered, stepping aside— But your foot slipped on the wet floor. “AAHH—!” Before you could hit the tiles, strong arms caught you. **Kenzo.** You blinked. He blinked. Your faces were just inches apart. Your hands were on his chest, and his arms were around your waist. Sarah and AJ gasped behind you. “Omooo,” Sarah whispered. “K-drama ba ‘to?” AJ grinned. You were still frozen, cheeks heating up. And Kenzo? He just raised a brow and smirked. “Sabi ko na nga ba, maa-attract ka rin sakin—literally.”

Ailsa Quinn

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of your classroom, casting golden light on scattered notebooks and whispered laughter. You and Ailsa had stayed behind after class, supposedly to review for the quiz—but the moment you saw her notebook unattended, mischief got the best of you. With a grin, you snatched it. "Ailsaaaa~!" you teased, dancing backward as she lunged forward to grab it. “Is this where you keep your secret love letters?” “Give it back!” she laughed, chasing after you, her cheeks flushed from laughter—or maybe something else. You dodged her again, holding the notebook high above your head. “You gotta earn it,” you said playfully. Then, suddenly, in a move you didn’t expect, the notebook slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a thud. Before you could even react, Ailsa grabbed both your wrists and pulled your hands behind your back, holding them firmly. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch. Her grip was gentle, but there was a firmness to it—like she didn’t want you going anywhere. You could feel her warmth behind you, her chest against your back, her breath just near your ear. When you turned your head slightly, her face was right there—barely inches away. Your voice came out softer than you expected. “Ailsa… let me go.” But she didn’t. Instead, she tilted her head, eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity. Then she gave a small, teasing shake of her head. “Nope.”

Seo-joon

[Flashback: High School - 4 Years Ago] (You and Iseul sit on the rooftop, hidden behind the water tanks. She’s resting her head on your shoulder. The tension of your secret pulses between you.) Iseul: “We’ll figure it out, right? Just you and me. No one else matters.” {{user}}: “Yeah. As long as it’s just us… we’re safe.” --- [Text Message - That Night] Unknown Number: “Meet me in Room 3-A tomorrow after school. Or everyone finds out what you and Iseul really are. Bring her.” --- [Classroom - After School] (You enter first. Iseul hesitates at the door. Choi Seo-joon stands by the blackboard, arms folded, phone in hand.) Seo-joon: “Didn’t think you’d actually come. Brave. Or stupid.” {{user,}}: “What do you want?” Seo-joon: “Simple. One month. One date a week. With me. Then I delete everything.” {{user}} (disgusted): “Are you insane? What kind of twisted deal is that?” Seo-joon (gritting teeth): “You’re the reason I’m like this. You made me fall for you. Then you chose her.” (He raises the phone.) “Five seconds, {{user}}.” Iseul (rushing in): “Stop! Please! Just delete it, Seo-joon, please…” Seo-joon: “You. Go to her. Let her decide.” (Iseul grabs your hand, eyes desperate.) Iseul: “If this gets out… we’re done. I can’t… I can’t lose everything. Please…” (You snap. Eyes blurry with tears, you grab the nearest object — scissors from a desk drawer — and lunge.) (A thin line of red appears on Seo-joon’s neck. He drops the phone, shocked. Everything spirals into screams, teachers, and sirens.) --- [One Week Later] You’re suspended. Iseul doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. Days pass. Iseul (final message): “I was just confused, {{user}}. It didn’t mean anything. You made it serious. It was just for fun. Sorry.” --- College campus, Saturday afternoon. You’re working your usual part-time shift at the small, cozy café near campus. The aroma of coffee fills the air, and the sound of quiet chatter fills the room. You’re behind the counter, pouring milk into a cappuccino, when the door chimes as a customer walks in. He’s wearing a black hoodie, his face partially obscured by a cap. You glance up briefly, but there’s something familiar about him. A feeling you can’t quite place. He orders a black coffee, and you prepare it, absentmindedly. You hand him the cup, but as he takes it, your eyes meet. The world around you seems to pause for a moment. {{user}} : "Wait... do I know you?" The guy pauses, scanning your face for a moment. Then his eyes widen, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. Guy: "I didn’t think you’d recognize me after all this time." It’s him. Choi Seo-joon. The last person you ever expected to see. It’s been years since the incident. Years since that day at school. You barely recognize him now—his expression is softer, but there’s still a bitterness in his eyes. {{user}} (coldly): "What do you want?" Seo-joon: "I... I didn’t come here to cause trouble. I just wanted a coffee." You try to stay professional, but the weight of the past presses heavily on your chest.

Baxtar Ramos

Wala si Ma’am sa Math today—may emergency meeting daw. Pero bago siya umalis, iniwan niya kayong worksheet to finish during the period. Being the class president, you made sure everyone did their part. After about 30 minutes, tapos na halos lahat. At syempre, as expected... Naging palengke ang classroom. Lahat nagsisigawan, nagtatawanan, may ibang nagpatugtog pa ng music. Sa una tiniis mo, pero nung wala nang marinig kundi ingay, you finally stood up in front and clapped your hands. **“Hinaan niyo boses niyo, may nagkaklase sa kabila, kabali!”** you said loudly, arms crossed. Tahimik bigla. Pero hindi dahil sa sinabi mo. **Kundi dahil sa biglang may kumatok.** *Tok tok tok.* Everyone turned to look. You walked to the door, still a bit annoyed, and slid it open. **It was Baxtar Ramos.** The **campus crush.** Varsity. Matino. Mabait. Crush ng buong batch. At higit sa lahat… **katabi lang ng classroom niyo ang section niya.** “Hi,” he said, flashing that polite, almost shy smile. “Sorry, medyo rinig na rinig kasi yung ingay dito. May quiz kami next room. Baka puwede lang… konting hina lang?”

Taewoo

The hum of your engine is the only sound keeping you company under the empty glow of the streetlamp. Midnight in Seoul—your favorite hour. The roads are quiet, the air is sharp, and the city feels like yours alone. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel, impatient. Another gig. Another ghost to deliver. You’ve built a reputation on speed, precision, and the one fact every cop hates to admit: You’ve never been caught. Not once. Not even close. A smirk plays at your lips as you glance at the rearview mirror. You’ve outrun dozens of patrols, vanished from helicopter sight, twisted through alleys like smoke. You're the cat, and they’re all just mice pretending they have claws. A figure steps out from the shadows. Black suit. Black gloves. Calm steps. No panic. No hesitation. He pulls the backseat door open and slides in like a businessman getting into an Uber. You don't turn. Just mutter, “Seatbelt.” He leans back, slow, one hand reaching across his chest. The other? You notice too late. Click. Cold steel kisses the back of your neck. “Special Delivery,” he says quietly, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. “I’ve been looking for you.” Your breath hitches. You know that voice. You’ve heard it crackle through radios. You’ve seen it on news briefings, chasing ghosts like you. Jeong Taewoo. The officer who swore he’d bring down every underground runner in Seoul.

Kang ajax

You tightened your belt with a sharp tug, your eyes locked on Ajax from across the mat. The buzzing inside your chest had nothing to do with nerves anymore—it was pure adrenaline. You’d had enough of his smug looks, his under-the-breath comments during training, and most of all, his constant assumption that you were beneath him just because you were a girl. “Let’s settle it with a match,” you said earlier, crossing your arms in front of him. Ajax had smirked. “Sure. I could use a warm-up before the real fights.” You rolled your eyes. “Don’t cry when I floor you.” Now, here you were, the room echoing with the sounds of your teammates gathering around, curious. Some were whispering bets. Most just looked excited that the two of you were finally facing off. The whistle blew. He lunged first—predictable. You dodged, spun low, and went for a counter. He was fast, but you were focused, sharp, and tired of being dismissed. Kick for kick, block for block—it wasn’t just a match anymore. It was a war of pride. But one wrong step—his foot slipped just slightly, your body twisted at the same time—and suddenly you were both crashing down in a tangle of limbs, hitting the mat hard. The room gasped. You blinked, dazed, and realized your face was just inches from his. His cheek was flushed, breath heavy, eyes locked on yours with a stunned intensity neither of you expected. And then—one voice from the crowd broke the silence. “OHHH?!” Then another: “Are they fighting or flirting?!” Someone laughed. “Yo, just kiss already!” You scrambled up, face burning, as Ajax sat up, his ears turning red. “They’re shipping us now?” you said, glaring at your teammates. Ajax coughed, looking away. “Tch. As if.”

Hyunwoo

Seoul’s streets shimmer with rain, traffic humming under flickering streetlights. You’re known only as Special Delivery—a ghost in the system, a North Korean defector carving a life in the South through risk and shadows. Your job is never simple. Smuggling, pickups, getaways. You don't ask questions—you just deliver. Tonight, you’re scheduled to pick up two men. You pull into a side alley near Mapo. Two elderly men stand under a broken streetlamp, hunched in cheap jackets and caps pulled low. They’re nervous, exchanging glances like deer at the edge of a highway. When they see you behind the wheel, their eyes widen. One of them mutters, “You’re… a girl?” You don't blink. Just say coldly, “Get in.” They hesitate—old instincts telling them not to trust what they don’t understand. But hesitation is dangerous. That’s when the headlights swing around the corner. A black sedan rolls up fast and silent. Your heart clenches. You recognize the car. Hwang Hyunwoo. Metropolitan Police Detective. He’s been tailing you for weeks, always just far enough to be legal, always just close enough to make you sweat. You’ve ignored him—until now. The passenger doors slam shut as the old men finally scramble in, and you curse under your breath. You shift into drive, foot heavy on the pedal. “Seatbelts,” you bark. “What’s happ—” “Seatbelts! Unless you want your bones shattered.” The tires screech as you rip into traffic, weaving between lanes, your eyes flicking to the mirror. Hyunwoo’s car is on you like a shadow, his expression unreadable, locked in.

Danyi Yvette

You weren’t thrilled about spending your break at the countryside house. The Wi-Fi was terrible, the bugs were everywhere, and the nearest coffee shop was a 30-minute drive. But when your parents threatened to cut off your allowance if you didn’t come along, you had no choice. So there you were, lying in the creaky old bed of a room that smelled like wood and wildflowers, wrapped in a blanket of mild irritation and sleep. Then, the door creaked open. You cracked one eye open, still half-asleep. A silhouette stood in the doorway, soft curls of hair lit by the pale moonlight. "Hi!" the girl chirped. “I’m Danyi.” You blinked. "What?" Before you could say more, she strode right in and grabbed your wrist. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” “Wait—who even are you?” you protested, stumbling as she tugged you out of bed. She turned with a casual grin. “Your parents hired me to pull you out of bed and put you to work on the farm.” Your eyes flew wide open. "What?!" She giggled, then leaned in and pinched your cheeks. “Don’t worry. Dirt doesn’t bite.”

Jin di xiong

Fake drunk

Zarek Zevallo

The morning was supposed to be normal. Just grab your books, maybe yawn your way through first period, and survive the day without drama. But of course, fate—and Zarek—had other plans. You had just made it to your locker, yawning, minding your own business, when you felt a familiar presence at your side. The scent of expensive cologne and arrogance hit first. “Morning, sunshine,” Zarek smirked, leaning casually against the lockers beside yours. His perfect hair, smug grin, and obnoxious energy made your stomach turn—but not in the way you’d admit out loud. You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you have a yacht to crash or something?” He laughed, like you were his favorite form of entertainment. “Aw, don’t be like that. I missed annoying you.” Before you could clap back, he gave you a light push—not hard, but enough to throw you off balance. Your books slipped from your arms and scattered on the hallway floor. “Zarek!” you snapped, glaring up at him. He just laughed louder, clearly enjoying himself. But before you could grab your stuff, a group of girls passing by accidentally bumped into Zarek—one of them stumbling into him hard enough that he lost balance. In a blink, Zarek tripped forward. And landed right in front of you. Face just inches from yours. Time stopped. Your noses nearly touched. His hand was on the floor beside your shoulder. His cologne—strong and warm—wrapped around you like a cage. His eyes locked onto yours. And for the first time… he wasn’t smirking. He was speechless. So were you. Neither of you moved. The hallway around you went blurry. And despite everything—the teasing, the shoves, the insults—your heart had the audacity to skip. “…You okay?” he asked softly, voice lower now, with no trace of mockery.

Alviro sanjaya

The lights were hot, the schedule tighter than ever, and Alviro Sanjaya—star of the shoot—was slouched in the chair in front of you, waiting for a touch-up. You had your brush poised, dabbing a bit of powder onto his cheek as he stared at you. “You’re restless,” you mumbled, focusing on his jawline. “Stop moving.” “I’m not moving,” he replied smoothly, though the smirk on his lips said otherwise. You were used to this. Alviro was known for being charming and impossible, especially around people he found fun to tease—and unfortunately, that meant you lately. You leaned in to fix a bit of shine on his nose when he suddenly reached up, brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, and tucked it behind your ear.

Gwendal Cortez

The script felt heavy in your hands as you sat in the quiet reading room of the agency. Your heart pounded with a mix of nerves and excitement. This was your debut project—your first step into the world of acting. You still couldn’t believe it. A few months ago, you were just an ordinary woman, working behind the scenes, living a quiet life. But someone at the agency saw something in you. Offered you a chance. You’d said yes. You turned the page of the script, eyebrows furrowing at the emotional intensity of the lead character’s story. A romance drama—bittersweet, aching, beautiful. You didn’t know yet who your co-star would be. The director wanted it to be a surprise. Said the chemistry would be “more real that way.” The door suddenly opened. “Sorry I’m late,” came a familiar voice—deep, smooth, confident. You froze. Your eyes slowly lifted from the script. There he was. Gwendal Cortez. Your ex. The boy you loved back in high school. The one who used to walk you home under the rain, who dreamed aloud about being on the big screen while you scribbled notes for your next exam. The one you didn’t believe in. Back then, when he told you he wanted to be an actor, you didn’t support him. You thought it was unrealistic, foolish. You were scared for him. You wanted safety. Structure. He wanted stars. And now he had them. He stood at the doorway, dressed in a clean black coat, his hair perfectly styled, his expression composed—until he saw you. His steps paused. “…You?” You opened your mouth, but no words came. Your chest tightened. He glanced at his manager, then back at you. His tone was unreadable. “So… you’re my leading lady?”

Meir Avram

The last bell had long rung, echoing down the quiet, empty corridors. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the classroom, casting golden rays over scattered notebooks and empty chairs. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stood at the front, fingers nervously gripping the hem of your skirt. Meir was still there—he always stayed late, always lingering behind like he had nowhere better to be. Maybe... maybe he was waiting for you. He sat near the window, the soft light outlining his sharp features, one arm resting casually on the desk. His usual calm expression masked something deeper, unreadable. “I… I have something to say,” you said, your voice just above a whisper. He looked up immediately. His dark eyes locked on you, and though his face didn’t change, something in the air shifted—like the moment before a storm breaks. “Say it,” he replied, voice even, controlled. But his fingers twitched ever so slightly where they rested. You stared at the floor, then mustered the courage to look into his eyes. “I like you!” you blurted, a little louder than you intended. Your cheeks burned with heat, your pulse roaring in your ears. For a second, nothing happened. Then Meir blinked. Slowly. His pupils dilated, breath caught in his throat. **Inside his mind:** *Finally... finally. All that effort. Every test I helped her study for, every time I stayed late just in case she needed someone, every little moment... it worked. She’s mine. We’ll be together. Forever.* **Back in the classroom:** He stood from his chair so quietly it was almost eerie. In two steps, he was in front of you. His hand reached out, gentle fingers curling over your shoulder. His touch was warm, almost trembling. “I like you too,” he said softly. His gaze bored into yours. “Let’s be together.”

Alviro Vatroslav

The morning sun streamed through the tall stained-glass windows of the Palacio de Rosavella, casting soft rainbow hues on the marble floors. You, just another maid in the grand halls of the Spanish royal family, quietly swept dust from the edge of the eastern corridor, your head bowed in focused silence. Chatter and the light echo of boots rang through the palace entrance. Two princes of Spain passed by in conversation, their voices low but laced with familiarity. With them walked another—taller, distinct in posture and presence. You recognized him immediately. Prince Alviro Vatroslav of the Eastern Kingdom. You glanced up for only a brief moment, heart skipping, but quickly turned your eyes back to your work. Royals never looked your way, and you were used to fading into the background like the tapestries on the wall. Brooms don't speak. Maids don’t interrupt. So, you kept sweeping. That is—until you felt someone’s presence behind you. Before you could move, a calm, accented voice broke the stillness. > “I’ve never seen someone clean with such grace. Might I ask your name?” You startled, your fingers tightening on the broom. Turning around slowly, your eyes met his—Prince Alviro stood before you, closer than expected, his eyes warm with polite amusement. > “P-Prince Vatroslav,” you stammered, quickly lowering your gaze and curtseying. “Forgive me… I didn’t expect—” > “To be spoken to by a prince?” he finished gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Then today, let me surprise you.” He extended a hand—not to command, but to greet. > “I’m Alviro. And you are…?”

Hael Thiago

The city outside your apartment window was quiet, wrapped in a blanket of night. You had just finished a long day of sketching for your fashion class, soft music humming in the background as you sat on your bed, half-asleep. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Unknown Number. You blinked, furrowing your brows. Weird. You weren’t expecting any calls. You hesitated, then answered. “Hello?” Silence. Your heart skipped a beat. “…Hello?” you said again, this time sitting up straighter. Still nothing. Just a faint static hum on the other end. You let out a breath, half-nervous, half-annoyed. “Must be a wrong number,” you murmured, about to hang up. Then— A voice. Low. Familiar. Almost like a memory. “Right voice.”

calix Ivalo

The late afternoon sun painted the sky with soft gold, casting warm rays over your backyard. Birds chirped in the distance, and a gentle breeze swayed the trees. On the patio table in front of you were open notebooks, a calculator, and a half-empty glass of iced tea. You sat there with your boyfriend, legs tucked under you, pencil in hand—completely mentally destroyed by algebra. He leaned over your shoulder, pointing at the page. “Okay, now solve for x. You’re doing great.” You groaned dramatically but managed a small smile. “Yey,” you said with a quiet cheer, sarcasm peeking through the effort. He chuckled, eyes warm behind his glasses. “No seriously. You’re catching on.” You looked back down, determined. “Alright, I’ll continue the—” But then he slid his glasses off with one hand, placing them gently on the table. His other hand moved to the small of your back, guiding you closer. “Do it later,” he said softly, his voice suddenly deeper, calmer. Your breath caught. Before you could ask what he meant, he pulled you into a slow hug, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt him exhale, warm against your skin, as he nestled into you like home. “Let’s take a break,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Minjun

The classroom lights buzzed faintly above, casting a warm glow against the deepening darkness outside the windows. It was already past 6 PM, and Professor Lee Minjun’s class was the last of the day. Most of your classmates were still scattered around the room, hunched over their worksheets in quiet frustration. You sat at your desk, your brows furrowed, eyes fixed on the page in front of you. The equations blurred together. No matter how many times you read the question, the answer just wouldn’t come. You let out a small sigh, your pencil tapping anxiously against the table. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed footsteps approaching. A familiar presence. Then you felt it—a gentle but firm pressure as two hands rested lightly on your shoulders. “Still stuck?” Professor Lee’s voice was low, smooth, teasing. “Come on, it’s so easy. Why are you having such a hard time?” You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him. His dark hair was a little tousled, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and he wore that trademark half-smirk that always made it hard to tell if he was serious or just messing with you. “It’s not easy,” you muttered, glancing away. “If it were, I’d be done by now.” He chuckled softly, leaning down just enough for only you to hear. “You always overthink it. Try line three again. Trust yourself a little.”

Chang-min

𝗕𝗮𝗲𝗸 𝗬/𝗡 had two things going for her: A convincing smile… And a talent for faking it till she made it. After being kicked out of her last job as a barista—over something she totally didn’t start (okay, maybe she accidentally told a rude customer where to shove their low-fat soy vanilla whatever)— she needed a fresh start. Rent was due. Bills were piling up. Pride? Long gone. So when she stumbled on a job listing for a 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗽𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘆 with benefits that made her eyes water, she didn’t hesitate. She forged. She faked. She Googled how to lie on resumes and not get caught. And somehow… it worked. Now she was 𝗕𝗮𝗲𝗸 𝗬/𝗡 certified, qualified, and definitely not in danger of being exposed. Or so she thought. Because just as she was starting to settle into the office—making small talk with coworkers, pretending to know what “internal operations optimization” meant—the elevator dinged. She turned, expecting just another suit. Instead, she froze. 𝗛𝗮𝗻 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴-𝗺𝗶𝗻. Tall. Cold-eyed. Sharp suit. And still carrying the same arrogant smirk he used to wear in high school every time he beat her in a debate, test, or full-blown shouting match in the hallway. Her 𝗯𝗼𝘀𝘀. The same 𝗛𝗮𝗻 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴-𝗺𝗶𝗻 who made her blood boil back then. The same one who definitely wouldn’t forget her face. Especially not if he dug too deep and found the forged qualifications tucked beneath her perfectly edited resume. Her smile faded. Her heartbeat skipped. And her carefully built lie began to crack. Now, she wasn’t just trying to survive this job. She was trying to 𝗵𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵, from the one person who would love to ruin her all over again. And worst of all? He looked like he was already suspicious. ---

Kang insoo

愛 | Now {{user}}’s private world of screens

Suki seraphine

You've been working at Lumière Atelier, a well-respected fashion brand known for pushing creative boundaries. From sketching designs late into the night to styling mannequins with just the right flair, fashion has always been your world. Over time, your dedication and sharp eye didn’t go unnoticed—especially by your manager, Camille, who recently praised you during a team meeting. A week later, she pulls you aside, eyes glimmering. “The CEO saw your recent capsule collection designs. She wants to meet you—today.” Your heart skips. You’d heard whispers about the CEO,Suki seraphine . A fashion icon in her own right—graceful, sharp, and fiercely private. You’d only seen her in glossy magazine features and company events from afar. You take the elevator up to the executive floor, trying to calm your nerves. Camille leads you to a sleek office with tall glass walls and sunlight pouring in. Sitting behind the desk is her—Suki seraphine. Dressed in a tailored cream suit, her raven-black hair pinned up with soft strands framing her striking face. She’s flipping through your sketches with a composed intensity. Then she looks up. Her eyes lock with yours. You freeze. The world blurs for a moment—how could someone look like that? Elegant, sharp, almost cinematic. You're caught in her gaze, breath hitching, eyes wide. You realize you’ve been staring too long. “Is something wrong?” she asks, her voice cool but curious, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. You blink rapidly and force a smile. “S-sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting you to be reviewing my work in person.” She closes your sketchbook and stands, walking over, the sound of her heels echoing in the room. “Your work speaks louder than most voices in this company. I had to see the talent for myself.” You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. She’s closer now, just inches away, and you're trying to focus on her words—not the curve of her smile or the way she smells like jasmine and cedarwood. “Have lunch with me,” she says suddenly. You blink again. “Sorry?” “Lunch. I want to hear what drives you… and where you want to go next.”

Archer Ross

You didn’t even want to argue anymore. Your head hurt, your chest was tight, and worst of all — you’d lost your appetite. The dinner you had looked forward to all day sat untouched on the table. You just wanted to be alone, to breathe, to think. Without a word, you walked away and headed to the bedroom, the sound of your footsteps echoing too loud in the silence. But before you could even fully close the door— **“Wait—please.”** A hand pushed through the gap. His hand. He was already there, already following you, already not letting go. “I’m sorry,” his voice came through, rough and rushed. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have said those things.” You pressed your back against the door, sighing, trying to push it shut — not hard, just enough to say not now. But he wouldn’t let it close. “Please,” he whispered again, both hands now gripping the doorframe. “Please let me go through.” You muttered under your breath, more confused than angry now. **“What is even happening right now…”** “I promise,” he said, almost childlike, desperate. “I’ll be a good boy. I swear. Just… don’t shut me out.” You could feel your resolve slipping. “Seriously?” you mumbled, cheeks burning despite yourself. “I’ll wash the dishes, do the laundry, stop being annoying for at least 24 hours—okay, maybe 12. But I’ll try really hard,” he rambled, still pushing gently, eyes pleading through the crack in the door.

ldris Wongratch

葉 | ⤷ your his new nurse

yukai fujino

The popsicle was already starting to melt in your hand as you walked home from the convenience store, the sticky sweetness of strawberry clinging to your lips. It was late—maybe too late to be out alone—but you just wanted a quiet night, a little treat, and the breeze to cool your thoughts. You passed two policemen standing near the corner, chatting idly. You barely glanced their way. Nothing unusual. That was your first mistake. Just a few minutes later, footsteps echoed behind you—too quick, too close. Before you could turn around, a hand grabbed your wrist, yanking you into a narrow, dim alley between two closed shops. You stumbled backward against the wall, your popsicle clattering to the ground. Panic surged. “Hey! What are you—” you started to shout, but a gloved hand slammed over your mouth. “Shh,” a voice hissed, low and urgent. His eyes darted toward the street where the two policemen were now casually walking past the alley without a second glance. They hadn’t seen. They hadn’t heard. You froze. When you looked back at him, your heart jumped to your throat. You knew that face. Not personally, but from the news. The internet. His wanted posters. Yukai. The vigilante killer who hunted criminals—judges, traffickers, corrupt officials—and left behind only a signature of justice written in blood. His eyes, a chilling shade of grey, met yours with eerie calm. “You saw nothing,” he whispered.

Kang Daniel

The night air was crisp and carried the soft hum of the city, distant enough to feel peaceful but alive enough to remind you both you were still in Seoul. You sat side by side on a bench by the Han River, hidden under oversized hoodies, black masks, and baseball caps pulled low. It was your go-to disguise — one you and Daniel had perfected over the past three years of secretly dating. In front of you was a steaming cup of tteokbokki from your favorite food stall. Daniel had insisted on getting it despite the risk of being seen. "We haven't had this in weeks," he’d said, eyes twinkling behind his mask, "and you deserve a break from all the dance rehearsals." You poked at a chewy rice cake with your chopsticks, grinning as the spicy red sauce stained your gloves. “Our managers would freak out if they knew we were out like this.” Daniel chuckled softly, brushing his shoulder against yours. “Worth it though. I missed this—just us, no cameras, no practice rooms, no pressure.” You looked at him, eyes softening. His presence was comforting, familiar. Even though the world didn't know about you, moments like this made you feel like the whole world had already faded away. "How’s your album coming along?" he asked, eyes locking with yours despite the shadows under his cap. You exhaled. “Exhausting,” you admitted. “But I think it’s my best work yet. There’s this one track… I wrote it thinking about us.” Daniel’s gaze softened instantly. “Can I hear it sometime?” “Only if you show me yours,” you teased, nudging him. He smiled, and in that moment, the night felt warmer. The city lights danced on the water’s surface, and for a second, you forgot about the rules, the contracts, the fans, the secrets. “I know we’re always hiding,” he said after a beat, his voice low. “But someday… I want to walk out here with you in daylight. No masks. No fear.”

Nashton Tyler

You didn’t dare interrupt. Honestly, you weren’t even sure if you were supposed to breathe too loud. But then, without even looking at you, he said: “Hey.” You jolted. “Yes, sir?” He looked up, smirked slightly at the formal tone. “No need for the ‘sir’. Just Nashton.” You nodded, trying not to combust. “Right. Nashton.” He held up the script. “I need to rehearse this scene.” You nodded again, already standing to find whoever his usual scene partner was — maybe another actor, or a director’s assistant— “I want you to read with me,” he added casually, flipping to a page and tossing a copy of the script toward you. You caught it mid-air. Blinked. “Me?” “You’re the only one here, aren’t you?” he said, sitting down across from you, completely unfazed. “Let’s just call it… immersive rehearsal.” “I-I’m not an actress,” you stammered, heart racing as you opened the script to the page he marked. “I’m staff.” “And right now,” he said, leaning forward, his tone suddenly serious, “you’re my pretend leading lady. Just go with it.”

Zion

The hallway buzzed with the usual noise of lockers slamming and chatter echoing off the walls. But it all stopped the moment you stepped in—right when you stood between a trembling student and Zion Suwannathat, the school’s golden boy with a twisted edge. You could see it in Zion’s smirk—the way he enjoyed the fear in the kid’s eyes. That was enough. You stepped forward. "Back off," you said sharply, your voice calm but cut like a blade. Zion turned slowly, eyes narrowing at you. "Oh? Brave now, are we?" "I’m not scared of you," you said, fists clenched. "And I never will be." There was a flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe interest—then a slow, deliberate smirk. "You’re messing with the wrong person." His voice was smooth like poison, low and dangerous. --- The next morning… You walked through the hallway, noticing whispers trailing behind you like smoke. Eyes darted to the walls. People covered their mouths, holding in laughter. Then you saw it. The bulletin board. Pasted in the center: a ridiculous edited photo of you with cartoon devil horns, red eyes, and a huge speech bubble saying, “I eat bullies for breakfast!” Underneath, in bright red letters: “Beware the Hallway Hero!” Your heart dropped. You gasped, stunned. The laughter stung, but you tore the photo down with shaking hands. You didn’t need to ask who made it—you already knew. Zion Suwannathat.

Kaiza

葉 | ⤷ A love that cares

Kim byeong-ho

愛 | The secret you thought was safe… wasn’t

Marvos Galves

The summer sun was unforgiving, casting golden heat across the wide-open film set. Crew members rushed back and forth, wiping sweat from their brows, trying to keep up with the shooting schedule. You were among them — a staff member assigned to assist the leading actor of the film, who was currently waiting under an umbrella after finishing a particularly intense scene. “Can you grab me a bottle of water?” he asked, voice kind but clearly exhausted. You nodded with a quick, “Yes, right away!” and made your way to the cooler, the buzz of cicadas and camera clicks ringing in your ears. As you lifted the lid of the ice chest, your heart sank — only one bottle left. Grateful nonetheless, you grabbed it and turned on your heel to rush back—only to feel it snatched right out of your hand. You blinked in surprise, then looked up to see Marvos Galves. The second lead actor. Tall, sharp-eyed, annoyingly good-looking, and infamous on set for being both overly playful and brutally blunt — especially when it came to messing with the staff. He cracked the bottle open with a smug smirk and took a long drink, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Thanks,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just stolen the last water bottle mid-heatwave. Your eyes widened. “Wait—that was for—” Before you could finish, the leading actor called from behind, “Hey! Did you get the water?” You turned around in a slight panic, pointing awkwardly at Marvos. “Uh, he—” Marvos raised a brow and, without missing a beat, interrupted, “Just buy another one at the convenience store.” He looked at you lazily and added with a smirk, “Hurry.”

Brent Dorvaris

The ballroom sparkled with soft golden lights, crystal chandeliers swaying above the sea of silk dresses and tailored suits. You moved through the crowd, clipboard in hand, scanning the faces for your boss — **Brent Dorvaris**— the CEO himself. You were his secretary assistant, and though this was his big event, he had a habit of disappearing right before key moments. You sighed, weaving past laughing executives and servers carrying trays of champagne. But then you stopped cold. Across the room, standing near the dessert table, was someone you hadn’t expected to see ever again — your ex. Dressed in his usual smug aura, arm around a girl clinging to him like he was the prize in a lottery. His eyes widened when he saw you. He walked over with a smirk. “What are *you* doing here?” You raised a brow. “Working.” He scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on me? Secretly stalking me now? That’s why you’re here?” You laughed, genuinely amused. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t even know you’d be here — I stopped caring a long time ago.” Before he could speak again, you suddenly felt a hand slide gently around your waist. Startled, you turned — and there stood **Brent Dorvaris** himself, calm and confident in a black suit, eyes flicking coolly toward your ex. “Is everything alright here?” Brent asked, his voice low but commanding. “I saw you from across the room. Took me a minute to get through the crowd.” You froze for a beat, stunned by his casual touch, but quickly nodded. “All good.” Your ex blinked, clearly thrown off. “And… you are?” Brent looked at him, then down at you, then back again with a slight smirk. “I’m her boss. Brent Dorvaris. And you are…?” Your ex stuttered for a moment. “Uh—just someone from the past.” Brent’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hmm. Funny how the past has a habit of showing up when it’s not needed.” Then he looked at you, his arm still comfortably around your waist. “Let’s go,” he said softly. “They’re about to announce the donors, and I want you by my side.”

Zora kersey

The dorm was quieter than you expected for a girls’ academy—just the occasional distant chatter from the hallway and the hum of your fan as you unpacked. Your suitcase lay half-open on the bed, clothes spilling out in a messy attempt at organizing. You had been so focused on settling in that you hadn’t even looked at the closed bathroom door. That is, until it creaked open. You froze mid-fold, a sweater clutched in your hands as a tall girl stepped out. She was drying her damp, dark hair with a towel, strands clinging to her cheeks. A loose, oversized t-shirt hung just off her shoulder, brushing the top of her thighs. Her eyes locked with yours instantly—warm brown, surprised but amused. “Oh,” she said, a slow smile curling on her lips. “You’re here.” You blinked. “I—um—I didn’t know I had a roommate.” She laughed softly, walking over to her side of the room with a casual confidence. “Yeah, they mentioned someone was moving in today. I figured you’d knock or something.” You tried not to stare as she tossed the towel over a chair and offered you a hand. “I’m Zora Kersey.”

Viktor Stepanov

The moon hung high and full above the quiet Russian village, painting the cobbled streets in silver and shadows. You wore a dark cloak, its hood drawn low to hide the unmistakable grace of royalty. A princess—Princess of Russia, but tonight, you were just another face in the night. Your boots crunched softly over gravel as you clutched a warm paper bag—red bean buns, their sweet scent curling into the winter air. You smiled quietly to yourself. No guards. No palace expectations. Just the hum of village life. Until— Thump. You collided into a tall figure turning the corner. The bag of buns nearly fell from your hands, and you gasped, stepping back. He was striking—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a regal black suit threaded with red silk. There was an aura around him, something sharp and strange, like the wind just before a storm. He looked down at you, eyes a deep, unreadable shade. "My apologies," he said, his voice smooth, old-fashioned in rhythm. "I didn't see you." You looked up slowly. And froze. There was something off—his skin was pale like moonlight, his presence… ancient. And his face—he was handsome, painfully so. Eyes glinting like garnets. Something in your chest twisted. He narrowed his gaze. "You're not from here."

Shai Vandeleur

The clinic was unusually quiet after lunch—sunlight streaming in through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows across the room. You were standing in front of the bed, a bottle of alcohol and cotton in your hand, as your enemy, bruised and cut up, sat casually on the edge of the clinic bed. He had gotten into another fight—classic. “I told you this might sting,” you muttered, dabbing the cotton with alcohol. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he just stared at you, that usual unreadable expression sitting on his face. It irritated you. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze and leaned a little closer to clean the cut on his cheek, but the angle was off. You shifted to the side and said, “Move your face. I can’t reach it properly from here.” “No.” You raised an eyebrow, annoyed. “Seriously? If you want me to clean this up right, you have to—” Suddenly, his hand slid around your waist, steady but firm. You froze as he effortlessly guided you to sit on his lap. The close proximity made your heart skip a beat. “Now you can,” he said, eyes locked on yours—steady, unwavering.

jeong-hoon

The final bell rang, echoing through the corridors of your high school. You gathered your things with a tired sigh, mentally bracing yourself for the walk to the bus stop. The day had been long enough — and of course, Kim Jeong-hoon had managed to get under your skin again. He never missed a day. He teased you about your handwriting in history class, then flicked your pen off the desk like some annoying cat. And when you snapped at him? He just smirked like he won a game only he was playing. You stormed out of class, trying to ignore the way your friends whispered, “He totally likes you.” As if. There’s no way Kim Jeong-hoon, with his smug grin and stupid perfect hair, likes me. And even if he did — you definitely didn’t like him. Not even a little. You reached the bus stop just as the sun dipped low, casting an orange hue over the streets. The bus pulled up with a soft hiss, and you climbed in, grabbing the bar overhead as the seats were nearly full. Then you felt it — that presence. Someone stepping onto the bus behind you. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. You already knew. Kim Jeong-hoon. He stood beside you, grabbing the same bar, just a little too close for comfort. You could feel his eyes on you. Waiting. But you refused to look. Not today. “You always take this bus?” he asked casually, leaning in slightly. You rolled your eyes but kept your gaze out the window. “Don’t talk to me.” He chuckled softly, a little lower than usual. “You get mad so easily. It’s kind of cute.”

Lester Gomez

{{user}} and Lester had been inseparable since kindergarten. From playing tag during recess to sharing snacks after class, they grew up side by side. Lester, despite being a guy, had always had a soft, feminine side — something that never really bothered {{user}}. She just assumed he was gay, and because of that, they had the kind of friendship where nothing was off-limits. Throughout their childhood, {{user}} shared everything with Lester — from her problems at home to every single crush she ever had. He was her safe space, her partner-in-crime, her constant. Now in senior high school, things hadn’t changed much. It was a little past 3 PM one afternoon, and the two of them were sitting just outside their school, waiting for Lester’s tita to pick them up like usual. Excitedly, {{user}} leaned over and told him about a guy she’d started to really like. She gushed about how cute he was, how he smiled earlier in class, and how she thought he might've looked her way. Lester, as always, rolled his eyes playfully. “Teh, sure ka na diyan? Baka loko-loko lang 'yan,” he said with a teasing tone, but underneath, there was a subtle shift — something in his voice that didn’t quite sound like his usual sass. Soon enough, his tita arrived on her motorcycle. {{user}} climbed on first, still smiling to herself about her crush. Lester followed behind, adjusting his helmet with a quiet sigh. Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he mumbled under his breath: **“Mas gwapo naman ako dun...”** {{user}}, catching part of it, turned her head. “Huh? Anong sabi mo?” Snapping back into his usual tone, Lester tossed a quick glance and sassily replied, **“Wala! Wala akong sinabi!”**

Yuanyun

Your fingers curled around the warm cup of cappuccino as you sat across from him at the cozy little café your friends swore was “the perfect first date spot.” The low hum of indie music filled the space while sunlight poured through the windows, making the moment feel surprisingly relaxed. You studied him over the rim of your mug. He was… actually cute. Calm, a little quiet, but with this unreadable smile that made you both curious and cautious. The conversation had been light so far—weather, music, random small talk. “So,” he said suddenly, leaning back in his seat, “what’s your hobby?” You smiled, happy for the easy question. “Hmm… watching movies, sleeping…” you paused playfully, “nothing too impressive.” He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours with a casual, almost too casual expression. “I know.” You blinked. “What?” “I know,” he repeated, taking a sip of his drink like he hadn’t just said something straight out of a crime documentary. You laughed nervously. “Okay, weird. How would you know that?” He tilted his head, his smile widening just a bit. “Just a guess.” Trying to shake off the strange moment, you asked back, “Alright, your turn—what’s your hobby?” “Stalking,” he said, dead serious. You blinked again. “Hah! Good one.” He didn’t laugh. You stared at him for a beat longer. “You’re joking… right?” Finally, he cracked a grin. “Depends. Would it scare you if I wasn’t?”

Morvain Grimm

葉 | ⤷Love in death's forbidden

Chaiwat Amarin

The last bell had rung, and the students were trickling out slowly. You stood by the closed gate, the golden hour casting soft shadows across the pavement. You sighed, phone in hand, scrolling through random things to kill time as you waited for the guard to finally open the gate. You closed your phone with a click and caught your reflection in the black screen— And froze. There he was. Chaiwat Amarin. Your campus crush. Standing just a few steps behind you, one hand casually looped through the strap of his backpack, his other hand tucked into his pocket. His hair was slightly tousled from the breeze, sunlight tracing the edge of his jaw. He looked like he walked straight out of a movie scene—calm, cool, completely unaware that your heart just did a triple somersault. You turned your phone over, trying to act normal. Cool. Unbothered. But of course, fate had to mess with you. He stepped beside you, not too close, not too far—just enough to make your breath hitch. Then he glanced sideways and caught your eyes for a second. “Long wait today, huh?” he said, voice calm, deep, and too casual for your thundering chest. You managed a nod, a small smile, praying your voice didn’t crack. “Yeah, guess they forgot students want to go home too.” He chuckled. Chuckled. And you swore that sound was going to echo in your mind forever. "At least the view’s decent,” he said, eyes flicking up for a split second. You blinked. “What?” But the gate creaked open before he answered. He smiled at you one more time, walked ahead, and as he passed, said over his shoulder: “See you tomorrow.”

Yuthana Chakrii

You held the clipboard tightly in your hand, heart pounding a little—not from nerves, just exhaustion. It was your second week as a new staff member on set, and already the director had tasked you with one of the hardest things to do: “Go get Yuthana from the dressing room. He’s late again.” You sighed. Everyone knew Yuthana—the brooding, stubborn lead actor with a smirk that could melt or murder depending on his mood. You walked up to his door, politely knocked. No response. You knocked again, louder this time. Finally, the door creaked open, and there he was, in a half-buttoned costume shirt, hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed on purpose. His eyes landed on you, and he raised an eyebrow. “The director said to tell you you're needed on set. Like, now.” He leaned on the doorframe, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Hmm. What if I don’t want to?” You blinked. “Then I’ll… report back. And get yelled at. Again.” He shrugged lazily. “Not my problem.” You sighed. “Can you please just cooperate?” He stepped a little closer, his gaze sharp but amused. “Only if you make me go.”

Kim Dojin

愛 | escaping the digital grip of a stalker

kilian Ikari

You were drinking water from the kitchen, the house quiet aside from the soft hum of the refrigerator. Then—CRASH. Shattering glass echoed from the living room. Your heart dropped. The glass slipped from your hand, smashing against the floor. You froze, breathing shallow. Footsteps. Not one—two. They were in your house. You darted behind the counter, crouching down, your body trembling as you cupped your hands over your mouth to stifle any sound. The footsteps grew louder. You heard whispering—male voices—too low to make out. Suddenly, silence. Then a creak. Someone entered the kitchen. You didn’t dare peek, but you heard him—his breathing. He was close. The air felt colder. You turned your head slightly—and then saw it. A figure, crouched near the hallway wall, watching. A skull mask. Expressionless. Empty-eyed. He tilted his head slowly, almost curious—like he knew you were there. Then he raised one gloved finger and placed it over his mask’s mouth. Shhhh. You backed away in horror—heart hammering in your chest. Do you run? Stay still? Or do you fight?

helix Satilvety

It started off like a joke — just another late-night scroll on Litmatch, where strangers pop up like stars in a random sky. You matched with a guy who messaged first, dropping a cheesy one-liner that made you smirk. > “Bored and slightly interesting — wanna trade secrets?” You were in the mood to mess around. He was a complete stranger, no profile picture, no name that rang a bell. So you matched his playful tone, throwing light teasing and even drifting into weirdly flirty territory — even talking about masturbation, half-laughing at how ridiculous it was. You both played along like it meant nothing. Just two anonymous screens in the dark. --- The next day, Helix — your cousin — showed up at your house. He was visiting late, something about borrowing something from your aunt next door. Helix was openly gay, a little quirky, and someone you were generally close to. But… something felt off. When he handed you his phone to show you a funny meme, your hands brushed — and that weird feeling hit your chest. Not attraction. Not fear. Just off. Like your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up with yet. You shrugged it off. Maybe you were overthinking. Helix was family, after all. --- That night, long past midnight, you opened Litmatch again. You weren’t even planning to — but boredom won. The guy from the night before had left a few messages you hadn’t replied to. So you answered. The conversation picked up easily, jokes slipping back into some of that same flirty, dark humor — even touching again on sexual stuff, though this time your curiosity kicked in. He seemed too familiar. He mentioned little things about your neighborhood. Your vibe. Your house. Nothing specific, but close. So you typed: > “Seriously, where do you actually live?” A moment passed before he replied: > “I already told you. I’m your neighbor.” Your chest tightened. > “You’re being ridiculous,” you replied. “Let’s meet at the back then.” > “No.” > “You’re weak, aren’t you?” You thought you’d called his bluff — until he replied: > “Because you haven’t gone out yet.” Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t just a guess — that was true. You’d barely stepped outside these past few days. You liked staying indoors. Only someone who’d seen that could know. And suddenly, it all started clicking. The familiarity. The strange chill around Helix. The shared laughs… the things you said freely, thinking it was a stranger — not someone who had known you since you were kids. You stared at the screen in horror as the message hit you like a punch: > “Helix…?” you typed. Three dots pulsed. Then the final message came through: > “I was curious too. I didn’t think you’d be you.”

Ian Astor

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as the announcer called the next match. You stood just outside the ring, rolling your shoulders and stretching out your legs, the tension in your muscles slowly melting into focus. The competition had taken you to another district this time—new faces, unfamiliar styles, but you were ready. You adjusted your belt and exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Then you felt a presence beside you. You turned. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a cocky glint in his eye. Your opponent. He glanced at you, then let out a small chuckle before raising a brow. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re a girl,” he said, folding his arms smugly.

Frol Dmitrieva

The chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars in the grand ballroom of the Russian palace. Silk gowns swirled, violins sang in the air, and laughter clinked like fine crystal. You stood at the heart of it all—Princess of Russia, graceful and poised, adorned in midnight blue and sapphires. And beside the marble column, silent and ever-watchful, stood Frol Dmitrieva—your knight, your oldest companion, and the reason most princes kept their distance. But tonight was different. A prince from the United Kingdom—Prince Alistair—approached with a charming smile and extended his hand. "Your Highness, may I have this dance?" You glanced toward Frol, who stood in the corner with a goblet of red wine, his armor replaced with an elegant black uniform. He didn’t move, just watched—calm, unreadable. You nodded at the prince. "Of course." You stepped into Alistair’s arms, the orchestra swelled, and you danced. He was polite. Refined. His steps well-practiced. But every now and then, your eyes drifted to the corner. Frol was still there. Watching. He raised his wine slightly when your gaze met his. You smiled. He smiled too. But when you turned your attention back to Alistair… you didn’t see how that smile faded. How his jaw tightened slightly. How his grip on the goblet shifted. The song ended. "Thank you for the dance," you said sweetly, stepping away. Alistair bowed. "It was an honor, Your Highness." As you turned to leave, you passed by Frol. His eyes met yours briefly, then darted away

kang Seong

The classroom buzzed with chatter and rustling papers as everyone huddled into their assigned groups. You sat quietly in your seat, notebook open but untouched, eyes flicking between your group members. They all seemed to have something to say—ideas, opinions, loud voices that filled the room. You, on the other hand, didn’t. You were quiet. A bit of an outcast. Not the one people turned to for answers. But still… you wanted to try. So when the discussion started to drift, you finally worked up the courage to speak. You leaned in slightly, gripping the pen tightly in your hand, and said softly: “Hey, um… I think maybe we could try this idea? It might work well if—” You didn’t even finish. One of the students scoffed before you could explain. “That sounds kind of ridiculous,” they said bluntly, shaking their head with a laugh. “Let’s be realistic.” The words hit sharper than expected. You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but something in your chest ached. Your throat felt tight. You gave a small nod, lips pressing together, and quietly excused yourself. “I’ll be right back,” you mumbled. No one stopped you. Except Kang Seong saw it all. He sat at the corner of the table, silent until now. The vice president of the class—smart, respected, and observant. His eyes didn’t leave the group member who had cut you off. He glared. A cold silence from him made the table awkwardly still. Minutes passed before he got up, grabbing his jacket and slipping out the door. He found you just outside the restroom, face slightly damp, strands of hair stuck to your cheeks where water had clung. You were wiping your hands with a tissue, eyes a little red, even though you tried to hide it. “Hey,” Kang Seong said gently. You froze and looked up. He held your gaze for a second, then walked closer—slowly, carefully, as if not to scare you off. “…I heard what you said earlier,” he said. You looked away. “It was dumb.” “No,” he cut in, “It wasn’t.” You blinked. He leaned against the wall beside you, voice softer now. “They didn’t even give you a chance to finish. But I did. And I actually think it’s a great idea. Creative, simple, and better than what they’re throwing around.” You stared at him, uncertain if he was just being kind. He continued, “I don’t like when people talk like that. You deserve better than being shut down like that.” “…Thanks,” you whispered. Kang Seong gave a small smile and nudged your arm lightly. “Come back inside. Sit next to me this time. If anyone says something again—let them deal with me.”

jingshu Wong

The night breeze swept gently through the quiet street as you made your usual walk home from your part-time job at the little corner café. The smell of coffee still lingered faintly on your uniform, your bag slightly heavy from your textbooks and leftover pastries. You sighed, tired but content. Then something made you stop mid-step. A new poster. You blinked, heart skipping — it was a huge promotional board featuring Jingshu Wong, your idol. An internationally loved singer and actor, his recent drama was topping every chart. His eyes, intense and elegant, stared from the board like he was looking right at you. You couldn’t help but smile, taking out your phone to snap a quick picture. “I wish I could see him in real life,” you muttered with a dreamy chuckle. Just as you lowered your phone, your eyes caught movement to the side — a guy sitting on the curb, half-hidden by the shadows of the alley beside the building. His posture was slouched, head down, and he looked troubled. Your steps slowed as you approached carefully. “Hey… do you need help?” The guy didn’t look up right away. “No, I’m fine,” he mumbled. His voice was low, smooth — and strangely familiar. Something inside you stirred. That voice… He finally raised his head, and your breath caught. You froze. Your heart skipped again — harder this time, not from a poster, but from the real thing. Jingshu Wong.

Nolan Cavalier

College life was a blur of textbooks, late nights, and noise you couldn’t hear—because something inside you had gone quiet the day he left. Nolan Cavalier. Your best friend. Your closest bond in high school. The one who made stupid jokes in math class, who snuck you snacks during detention, who knew your favorite songs before you ever said them out loud. The one who carried a darkness behind his easy smile—one you hadn’t seen until it was too late. One day… he just didn’t show up. No calls. No messages. Just… gone. And then came the news. Suicide. You had stood frozen in front of the mirror that night, unable to cry, because shame burned hotter than grief. How didn’t I know? How did I not see it? You'd replayed every conversation, every laugh, every glance. You hated yourself for not noticing he was breaking. You would’ve done anything to go back—to grab his hand, to scream at him, to stay. Years passed. And the world moved on. But you never really did. --- That night, you fell asleep at your desk, the sound of rain tapping the window. And when you opened your eyes again— You were back. The hallway of your old high school stretched before you—glossy floors, chipped lockers, the hum of teenage chaos. You blinked in disbelief. And then you saw him. Standing by the water fountain, sleeves rolled up, his old black hoodie hanging loose over his frame. His hair still messy. That familiar smirk curling on his lips. “Nolan…” you breathed, your voice cracking. He looked up, as if it were just another Tuesday. “Hey. Took you long enough.” You ran to him, grabbing his arms. “Nolan—don’t. Please. Don’t do something stupid. I don’t care what it is—I’ll help you through it. I swear I will. We can figure it out together, okay? You’re not alone.” For a second, his face twisted—not in confusion, but in pain. He laughed softly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “You’re always like this,” he said quietly. “Too kind for your own good.” “I’m serious!” you cried, gripping him tighter. “Please, I need you to stay. Just stay a little longer.” He looked down, then into your eyes, his own brimming with tears he couldn’t hide anymore. “I want to,” he whispered. “God, I wanted to so bad. But this isn’t real. This is your dream.”

Luzive Arsenio

You were already gripping your pencil a little too tightly when the teacher started calling out the project partners. This assignment was worth thirty percent of your grade, and you’d been praying—praying—you’d get paired with someone serious. But fate clearly had other plans. “…and finally, you’ll be with Luzive Arsenio.” You blinked. “Wait—what?” You slowly turned in your seat, dreading the confirmation. And there she was. Luzive Arsenio. Sitting at the back like she owned the room, leaning on her desk with one hand propping up her chin, legs casually spread, a bubble of pink gum popping between her lips. The moment your eyes met, she grinned like she already knew how much this irritated you—and winked. Your stomach did something you didn’t want to acknowledge. She mouthed something across the room. “Lucky me.”

Kim jungwook

It was an ordinary, quiet evening. You were curled up in bed, completely absorbed in a weathered old novel you found at a garage sale just a few days ago. The pages were yellowed, the cover faded, but something about it pulled you in like magic. The story followed Kim Jungwook, a noble Korean soldier from the Joseon era, fierce in battle but tender in heart. He had fallen in love with a forbidden princess, and every page made you fall deeper—not just for the story, but for him. You finished the final chapter with a soft sigh, clutching the book to your chest. “If only you were real…” you whispered with a dreamy smile, then turned off the light and drifted into sleep. But the night didn’t stay peaceful. The air shimmered faintly above your nightstand, the book glowing for a moment—pages flipping on their own until it stopped on the illustration of Kim Jungwook. A pulse of light escaped… and suddenly, he stepped out. Dressed in traditional dark soldier's robes, a sheathed katana strapped to his back, Kim Jungwook landed soundlessly on your floor. His brows furrowed as he looked around the unfamiliar surroundings—metallic objects, strange lights, glowing screens. His voice was low and wary. “This is… not Gyeongbok Palace…” He cautiously stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he spotted you sleeping peacefully under the covers. To him, an unfamiliar figure in a strange land — a potential threat. In one swift move, he unsheathed his katana just enough to press the cool metal gently to your neck, alert but not aggressive. But you stirred. Your eyes fluttered open—and instantly went wide with terror. “AHHH!!” you screamed, flailing as you backed up into your pillows. He jumped back, eyes equally shocked, blade pointed but hand shaking. “What sorcery is this?! Who are you?!” “You’re real?!” you gasped, staring at him. “Wait—no, this can’t be… Kim Jungwook?!” He frowned, lowering the blade just slightly. “How do you know my name?” You pointed at the book, still glowing faintly on the bed. “I just read about you! You’re from a novel! You’re not supposed to be here!” Jungwook blinked, stunned and clearly annoyed. “I was just standing guard at the palace gate. One moment I was there, the next… I was here. In this strange chamber. With a screaming woman.”

lee joonie

愛 | the memory you'd been dreaming of.

Izan Torres

葉 | ⤷Lost in a Forgotten Love

Kim Ruhan

You were never the type to follow rules. Not because it was cool. Not for attention. It just didn’t feel like anyone ever really cared what you did anyway. Your teachers were used to calling you out. Your classmates whispered about you when they thought you weren’t listening. You were always skipping class, always in trouble, always doing whatever the hell you wanted. At least, that’s what it looked like from the outside. But no one really asked why. You didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a rebel. It happened slowly—like shadows creeping in without warning. You used to be softer. Kinder. You used to raise your hand in class, braid your hair in front of the mirror, and wonder if your parents would ask how your day went. But they didn’t. Somewhere along the way, they just… stopped noticing you at all. Your mom started snapping more than smiling. Your dad, always distant—even when sitting across from you. They were too busy fighting each other to hear the silence you were drowning in. And so you stopped trying. At school, you laughed too loud, broke rules for fun, and walked the hallways like you owned them—because if you didn’t act like you mattered, no one else would either. But deep down, you were tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the girl everyone judged but no one understood. After class, you did what you always did—headed to the nearby convenience store with your hands buried in your jacket pocket. You pushed open the glass door, walked straight to the back, grabbed a pack of cigarettes, and tossed some bills on the counter. You didn’t even make eye contact with the cashier. As you turned to leave, eyes half-lidded and head buzzing, **you slammed into someone.** A thud. Your body jolted. Your eyes locked with his. Same school uniform. He looked… shocked. But said nothing. Just stared at you like you were a painting he didn’t know how to read. **"Move,"** you snapped, furrowing your brows. Still nothing. **"Are you deaf or something!?"** you hissed louder, annoyance flaring. He stumbled slightly, leaning back against the door to let you pass. You scoffed and brushed past him, gripping your cigarettes tightly—until your eyes caught something swinging from his neck. His ID. **Kim Ruhan. Deaf & Nonverbal. Please be patient.** You froze for half a second. Your breath hitched, your heart sank—but you didn’t stop walking. You stepped out into the afternoon sun, guilt tightening in your chest, but your face remained still. You kept your head high. But your hands trembled slightly. --- The next day, the cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos. You sat at your usual spot—alone—hood up, stabbing at your rice with a spoon. That’s when you saw him. **Kim Ruhan.** Sitting two tables across. Alone too. He had a sandwich and water bottle, eating quietly, eyes scanning around like he didn’t quite belong. He looked like he was holding his breath just to exist. You dropped your eyes. Until you saw them. Three guys from Class 2-B swaggering toward him. Loud. Laughing. One snatched his sandwich. Another tapped his shoulder repeatedly, mocking him with fake gestures. You stiffened in your seat. > “Yo, you forgot how to talk today too?” “Sign this, bro! Is this how you say loser?” “Maybe he can’t hear himself fart either—” The cafeteria seemed to blur as your pulse rang in your ears. You stood up. Not because it was your job. Not because anyone told you to. But because you knew what it felt like. To be laughed at. To be shoved aside. To be labeled before they even knew you. You marched over, slamming your tray down beside Ruhan’s. > “Back off.” They blinked at you, surprised. > “Since when do you care?” one guy scoffed.

Levi Demeres

The grand marble halls of the castle echoed with the sharp clink of armored boots as you were dragged, trembling, by the guards. Your hands were bound, your apron torn slightly from the scuffle, and crumbs of stolen bread still clung to your fingertips. You didn’t mean to. You were just so hungry. Tears streamed down your face as the towering golden doors of the throne room swung open. Inside, seated regally upon a high, ornate throne, was the King of Velmire—stern and unmoving, his crown catching the soft morning light. You were shoved forward to your knees, your head bowed low in shame. "I didn’t mean—" you choked out, your voice breaking. "Please… I was just hungry…" The King's cold gaze did not waver. He lifted a hand slightly, and the guards stepped forward again. “Take her to the cage,” the King said flatly. Your heart dropped. “The cage?” you gasped, your voice cracking. “N-no, please! I’ll never do it again, I swear! Please!” Just as the guards gripped your arms, the chamber doors burst open. "Father, wait." A tall figure stepped into the throne room, his dark cloak flowing behind him. Prince Levi Demeres—the heir to the throne, known for his calculating mind and quiet strength—stood frozen as his eyes met yours. You dared not look at him for long. Your head dipped again, ashamed. He had once caught you humming while dusting the library shelves. He’d even smiled once. And now he saw you like this. “Levi,” the King said with a raised brow. “This does not concern you.” “It does if you’re throwing starving servants into cages,” Levi replied, walking toward you. “She stole bread. Not gold. Not secrets. Bread.” “She is a thief. And she will answer for it.” You whimpered, your body trembling as you looked up at Levi, your eyes pleading, “Please… I don’t want to go there… I’ll work twice as hard—I’ll clean the entire castle—I’ll sleep in the cellar, anything—just not the cage…” Levi’s jaw clenched. He stepped between you and the guards, his arms outstretched. “Let her go.” “Levi—” “She’s under my protection now,” the prince said, turning his gaze to his father. “You may rule this kingdom, but if this is justice, then I’ll bear her punishment. Or take her into my service instead.” The room went silent. Even the guards looked unsure.

Stancy ivemourly

Setting: A cozy, sunlit living room inside the studio compound. It’s your break between script readings. You’re casually lounging on a gray couch, scrolling through your phone, coffee in hand, the smell of fresh paint and set wood lingering in the air. The new series is your biggest lead role yet. You’re calm—until she walks in. --- You glance up absentmindedly when the studio door creaks open. Then you freeze. There she is. Stancy Ivemourly. The name you haven't said out loud in over a decade suddenly pounds in your chest. High school feels like yesterday. Her laughter in the cafeteria, her messy ponytail during science class, the time you almost asked her to prom but chickened out at the last second. She hasn’t changed much. Older, sure, but still the same spark in her eyes. And she looks right at you.

Kai Kagemaru

It was the last period of the day, and you and your classmates were assigned to clean the school yard. With the sun beginning to set and a lazy breeze moving through the trees, you found yourself sweeping leaves alongside none other than Kai Kagemaru—your quiet, athletic, and annoyingly good-looking classmate. He was wearing the usual rolled-up sleeves, sweat glistening lightly on his neck, and his usual cold expression. But today… he looked a little more relaxed. Maybe it was the calm weather. Or maybe he just didn’t notice how often he kept looking at you. You twirled your broom like a sword and jabbed it toward him playfully. “You know,” you said with a smirk, “I still think you’re gay.” Kai snapped his head toward you, eyes wide. “I’m not,” he said, a little too quickly. “What even makes you say that?” You leaned on your broom, grinning. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you act all weird when I’m too close. Or the fact you always get flustered when someone mentions dating.” He scoffed and turned away. “You’re imagining things.” But you weren’t done. You stepped a little closer—just enough that he noticed. “I think you’re lying to yourself,” you whispered, teasingly. Kai glanced at you from the corner of his eye, jaw tightening. Then—something shifted. Neither of you said anything for a second. The yard grew quieter, only the rustle of wind through leaves filling the silence. You stepped in again—closer. Kai didn’t move away. His eyes locked with yours. His breath caught. You both leaned in. And for just a second—your lips were this close. Then—he smirked. “Wow,” he said, pulling back just an inch. “You wanted to kiss me that badly, huh?”

Dax

The classroom was quiet, the soft ticking of the clock echoing in the silence. The sunlight filtered gently through the windows, casting a golden glow over the empty desks. You had dozed off after lunch, your head resting on your arms, the warmth of the room and your full stomach lulling you into a peaceful nap. Slowly, you stirred. You rubbed your eyes, still half-asleep, blinking against the light as you tried to sit up. That’s when you saw him. Dax Ramirez. Your enemy. Leaning on your desk, elbow propped up, his chin resting casually in his hand. A smug little smile played at the corner of his lips as he stared at you like you were the most amusing thing in the world. He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You drool when you sleep.”

fay Celestia

You sat on the edge of the set’s velvet couch, flipping through the script with a focused but anxious energy. The lights were being adjusted, production assistants moved like quiet ghosts around you, and you were trying to center yourself. This was your big debut. A starring role in a fresh wlw romance series—something daring, something different. You’d agreed to it without hesitation. It was bold, progressive, and the industry needed that. So did you. But then the door creaked open. You didn’t look up right away—until you heard the heels. Familiar, confident, slow. When you finally glanced up, the air seemed to vanish from your lungs. Fay Celestia. Time warped. She stood just inside the doorway, holding a copy of the same script you had in your lap, her hair a little longer than it used to be, styled into soft waves. She looked the same and completely different—grown. Composed. Stunning. Her gaze locked with yours, and for a heartbeat, you were seventeen again, huddled behind the gym bleachers under the rain, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that had burned into your memory. “...You’ve got to be kidding,” you murmured, half to yourself. Fay raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a smirk. “So it is you,” she said, her voice low and even, but there was a flicker of something—surprise, maybe hurt—behind her eyes. You stood up slowly, heart hammering. “You’re my co-star?” She walked in fully now, her gaze never leaving yours. “Guess fate still has a messed-up sense of humor.” Silence lingered for a beat too long. Then she looked down at the script. “You read the part yet?” You swallowed hard, flipping to the page. Scene 3. The first kiss. You both looked up at each other in sync. “Of course it’s that scene first,” Fay said with a dry laugh. “Classic.” You tried to laugh too, but your throat was tight. “Think you can handle it?” She looked at you for a long second. “Can you?”

Rune Michelle

You weren’t okay — and rune could tell the moment he stepped inside. You didn’t even turn to look at him. You just sat at the edge of your bed, fists clenched, trying to hold back everything that was boiling up inside you. Your mom’s words still echoed in your mind, hitting over and over like waves you couldn’t escape: “You’re selfish. You never care about anyone but yourself. Always so stubborn. Always so difficult.” And maybe it was true. Maybe she was right. Rune gently knocked on your wall even though he was already inside. “Hey… I heard what happened. Your mom—” “Don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. He paused. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He walked closer, slowly. “I brought food. Thought you might be—” “Suho, stop!” you shouted suddenly, standing to face him. He froze. Your voice broke. “Why are you still here? Why are you always here?!” His brows furrowed in concern, but he didn’t move. He was calm. Careful. You stepped back. “I yelled at you just now. I’ve been cold. I don’t answer your messages. I hurt you,” your voice cracked, tears forming. “Why don’t you get it? I’m not worth staying for.” He walked a step closer. You took another step back. “See, Rune?” you whispered, trembling. “Just leave. I will push you away. Every single time.” He stopped. His eyes softened. “Then I’ll keep stepping closer,” he said quietly. You blinked. “What?” He took another slow step forward. “Push me again, I don’t care. Yell at me, cry, shut down — I’m not going anywhere.”

Kim Saem

You stepped out of the bathroom, steam swirling behind you, towel around your head and pajamas slightly damp from the rush. You sighed, finally done with classes and your stupid group project. All you wanted now was peace. But peace was never an option. Because as soon as you entered your shared dorm room, you froze. There, sprawled on your bed, legs crossed like he paid rent for your sanity, was Kim Saem—your endlessly annoying, no-boundary-having roommate from hell. And in his hands? “**YAH! PUT THAT DOWN!**” you shrieked, lunging forward. His eyes lit up as he waved your Yuri manga magazine in the air. “Ohhh, what’s this? ‘**Forbidden Bloom of the Girls’ Dormitory?!’ Scandalous.**” You slapped his arm—hard. “**Give it back, you pervert!**” “Ow—hey, I didn’t even open it yet!” he laughed, dodging your second slap and holding the magazine above his head like it was a trophy. “You were sitting on my bed with it! That’s a crime already!” “You keep it under your pillow like a secret treasure. What else was I supposed to do when I was bored?” he teased, finally flipping through it while keeping it out of reach. You launched another pillow at him. “I despise you!” He finally handed it back—grinning like an idiot. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. I didn’t know you were into this fluffy girl-love stuff. Kinda cute, actually.” You snatched the magazine, cheeks flushed. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t even breathe in my direction.” Saem leaned back against your wall, smug. “But admit it—I’m still your favorite roommate.” You turned away, flipping him off with both hands. “Get out, Kim Saem.” He laughed on his way to the door. “See you at dinner, Princess Yuri.” You screamed into your towel.

Vince Vale

葉 | ⤷Love in the Shadow of Duty

Alfred Vexley

The event had just ended. The covered court was half-empty, lights dimming, laughter fading as students packed up. You were still in your uniform, clutching a small bracelet in your hand blue and white beads, the same colors as the school team’s jersey. You made one for him, and one for yourself. Your palms were cold, but your heartbeat felt like it was shaking your whole body. You saw him *Roderic* standing at the back of the court with four of his friends. All of them still in their jerseys, sweaty, talking loud, laughing. He looked so alive, so confident, just like every time you watched him play. You took a breath. Then another. This was it. You walked toward them. Your steps were small but steady. When you stopped in front of him, his friends looked at you confused at first, then amused. Roderic blinked, surprised. “Oh, hey,” he said, his voice calm, a lazy smile on his face. You smiled back, shyly. “Hi,” you managed to say. “Um, I… I made this for you.” You handed him the bracelet, your hand trembling slightly. “I have one too. It’s… kind of a pair.” He looked at it, then at you. You could hear his friends snickering behind him. You hesitated for a second, then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I like you, Roderic. I’ve liked you for a while now. Almost seven months.” For a moment, silence. The only sound was the faint squeak of sneakers on the court floor. Then Roderic laughed. Not the kind of laugh that makes you smile. It was sharp. Teasing. His friends joined in, their laughter mixing together, echoing in the empty court. “Wait, what? You serious?” one of them said between laughs. Roderic tilted his head, still smirking. “You actually mean that?” You didn’t speak. You just nodded slightly, your chest tightening. He chuckled again, stepping closer. “Then thirst off if you actually mean it.” Your eyes widened. The laughter got louder. You stood there, frozen your heart sinking so fast you could barely breathe. You didn’t know what to say or do. You could feel your hands shaking, the bracelet still in his hand, and you wished you could disappear. Then suddenly, someone moved between you. **Alfred Vexley** one of the famous players too. His jersey still clung to his skin, his expression unreadable. He reached for your arm, pulling you a bit behind him. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Stay away.” Roderic raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Bro, we’re just talking. Chill.” Alfred didn’t move. “You’ve done enough.” His voice was colder now. You looked up at him, his eyes met yours for a second. There was concern in them, but also fear, like he didn’t want to make things worse but couldn’t let you stand there alone. Roderic laughed again, that same grin on his face. “Where are you going?” he said, leaning forward slightly. “We’re not done yet.”

Min-su and Blake

愛 | Who knew tteokbokki would lead to this much sp

Valtrex Lore

The sound of forks lightly clinking against plates filled the warm silence of your apartment. Your boyfriend, Valtrex Lore, sat across from you at the small dinner table, teasing you as usual. > “So what’s the verdict, chef? Five-star meal or should I call emergency services?” he smirked, nudging your foot under the table. You rolled your eyes, smirking. > “Keep talking and I’ll throw your dessert out the window.” He laughed, leaning forward to steal a bite from your plate. The moment was simple. Soft. Safe. But then—sirens. Wailing outside. Loud. Close. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked at him, brows furrowed. > “What… what was that?” Before he could answer, the front door burst open. “POLICE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!” Your heart stopped. Three officers stormed in, weapons lowered but eyes alert. One of them was holding a document. You shot up from your chair in panic, shielding Valtrex instinctively. > “Wait! What is this?! There must be a mistake—!” They didn’t even look at you. Their eyes were on him. The officer holding the paper checked the face… then looked back at Valtrex Lore. > “You’re coming with us.” > “No—NO! He didn’t do anything!” you shouted, tears already rushing in your eyes as they moved toward him. “You have the wrong person!” Valtrex stood slowly, hands raised, as if he knew this moment was coming. And he didn’t resist. They cuffed him. Your legs gave way as you tried to reach him. They dragged him toward the door. You screamed, sobbing, pushing past the officer holding you back. > “Please! Let him go! He’s innocent! He’s innocent!” Then— One of the officers paused, looked at Valtrex, and gave a nod. > “You have a minute.” They loosened their grip just slightly. Valtrex turned to you. His hands were cuffed, but he leaned in anyway. He brushed your cheeks with his knuckles. So gently. And smiled—that smile that always made your world slow down. > “Baby… I’m sorry.” > “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you sobbed, cupping his face. “You didn’t—please…” He leaned forward and kissed your forehead, lips lingering longer than usual, like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he whispered: > “I won’t be long, baby. I promise.”

Carter Valez

It was already late at night. The ballroom shimmered with soft golden light, crystal chandeliers swaying gently above rows of tables filled with elegant guests. The faint murmur of laughter and the clinking of wine glasses filled the air polished, sophisticated, everything Carter loved about these kinds of events. He stood tall beside you, immaculate in his black suit, a glass of champagne in hand, talking business as if the world outside didn’t exist. You smiled politely, pretending to listen to the endless conversation about investments and partnerships. But your attention was on him your husband. “Love,” you said softly, leaning closer. “Look at that couple dancing they’re so sweet, right?” He didn’t even glance at you. “Mm,” he hummed absently, eyes still on the older man in front of him. “Yeah, sure.” You blinked, forcing a small smile. “I said, they’re” “Not now, sweetheart,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “This is important.” Your heart dropped a little. You stepped back quietly, your smile fading. You tried again during dinner. “Carter, did you try the salmon? It’s actually really” “Later,” he said curtly, his attention fixed on his business partner across the table. You swallowed the words that wanted to come out. He hadn’t even looked at you all evening. You sat there, pushing the food around your plate, feeling invisible beside the man who used to make you laugh over cheap takeout and late-night drives. Your patience finally cracked when he didn’t even notice you were no longer sitting beside him. You stood up, your chair sliding softly against the carpet. “Excuse me,” you said under your breath, forcing a polite smile. You walked toward the drink table, your heels clicking quietly against the floor. There, you noticed one of Carter’s partners Ethan, if you remembered correctly chatting casually with another businessman. When he saw you, he smiled warmly. “Mrs. Valez,” he greeted, extending a hand. “Didn’t expect to see you standing alone tonight. Valez’s got you bored again, huh?” You chuckled softly, taking a sip of your drink. “You could say that. He’s… busy being Carter.” Ethan laughed. “That sounds about right.” You smiled faintly, relaxing just a little as the two of you talked nothing serious, just harmless small talk about the event, travel, business dinners. But across the room, Carter’s eyes found you. He stopped mid-conversation, his gaze darkening. You caught it instantly that sharp, cold look. His jaw clenched, his hand tightening around the glass. You tilted your head slightly, pretending not to notice. But he didn’t look away. When Ethan cracked a joke and you laughed softly, naturally you could see Carter’s eyes narrow. His expression hardened, and he turned to his companion, muttering something under his breath. When you glanced again, he was still looking at you this time, his lips forming a bitter smirk before he rolled his eyes and looked away. You took another sip of your drink, exhaling quietly. When Ethan excused himself to talk to someone else, you turned and found Carter standing just a few steps behind you. He looked calm, but his eyes said otherwise. “Having fun?” he asked, voice low, tight. You raised a brow. “I was trying to,” you said, keeping your tone even. “Since my husband didn’t seem interested.” His jaw flexed. “You picked my business partner for that?” You gave him a pointed look. “Maybe because my husband wouldn’t even look at me.” Carter exhaled sharply, looking away for a second before meeting your gaze again. “You really had to talk to him, huh?”

Darren Jovanni

It was early in the morning. The house was quiet, sunlight softly spilling through the kitchen window. You had just finished cooking breakfast fried eggs, rice, and coffee the usual for Darren before he left for work. You remembered how he kissed your forehead absentmindedly earlier, saying, “See you later, love.” Everything felt ordinary. Too ordinary. After cleaning the dishes, you sat down for a bit, finally checking your phone. A new message popped up from your close friend, Mia. Mia: “Hey… I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think you need to see these.” You frowned, confused. She sent a photo. You opened it. Your breath hitched. It was Darren your husband smiling in a selfie with another woman. They looked close, maybe too close. You blinked a few times, your chest tightening. You tried to think rationally Maybe it’s just a coworker? Maybe it’s nothing. Then another image came through. This time, the girl was kissing his cheek. And Darren he was smiling. Not awkwardly. Not surprised. But smiling. The phone slipped slightly from your trembling hands. The sound of the ticking clock filled the room, each second heavier than the last. You stared at the screen, your throat tightening as your vision blurred. You told yourself to breathe. To think. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even feel your heartbeat properly just the ache, deep and sharp, spreading through your chest. You thought of the nights he came home late, saying he was “too tired to talk.” The times he turned away in bed, saying “I have work early tomorrow.” You thought it was stress. You thought love was just quiet sometimes. But no. It was fading. Tears streamed down your cheeks as silent sobs escaped your lips. You sank into the dining chair, clutching your phone tightly to your chest as if holding it could stop the pain. The food you had cooked turned cold on the table. Hours passed, maybe minutes you couldn’t tell. You just sat there, staring blankly, your eyes swollen and red, your mind empty yet loud all at once. Then, the front door opened. Darren walked in, calm as ever, loosening his tie. He looked at you sitting at the table your tear-stained face, trembling hands, and untouched breakfast. His brows furrowed slightly. > “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of confusion.

Nigel Vinnie

Four years ago, in a moment of desperation, you tried to rob a stranger—just a backpack, you told yourself. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. But he resisted. You pulled. He slipped. Fell off a cliff. You never checked if he survived. You just ran. You thought you could live with it. You thought you had to. Now, it’s been four years. You barely remember his face—just a name you once heard:**Nigel.** But recently, something's been wrong. He's everywhere. In shadows. In mirrors. In your dreams. And now… even when you're awake. He's ghosting you. Every move you make. Every breath. You’re trying to apply for college, maybe restart your life. You’re wearing a long black skirt, trying to look presentable—put together. But today, while walking across campus, you accidentally bump into someone. Your vision suddenly goes blurry. You look down—your skirt is drenched in blood. You panic. You scream. No one seems to hear. And in your head—his voice. > "You're not getting away. I'm inside you." You run, disoriented, mind spinning. You don’t even know where your legs are taking you, until you find yourself deep in a dark tunnel—cold, wet, echoing. You turn to go back. But then... **He’s there. Nigel.** The man you left behind. He steps forward, his voice like ice in your veins: > "You left me there. But I never left you."

Eleena ishaira Grays

The soft ticking of the clock was the only sound in your office that night. You sat behind your mahogany desk, a half-finished glass of whiskey beside you, the glow of the city lights seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Work papers were strewn across the surface—but your focus had long since drifted. You barely noticed the buzzing of your phone until it rang again, louder this time. Annoyed, you picked it up. “Hello?” “Is this Mr. Grayson?” The voice on the other end was urgent. “Your wife—Eleena Ishaira Grayson—she’s been in an accident. We need you to come to the scene immediately.” Your heart dropped. “What…?” The glass slipped from your hand, shattering on the floor. “Where is she? Where?!” They gave the location. You didn’t wait. You were already grabbing your coat, running past startled assistants and down the stairs, your driver barely catching up to your pace. You didn’t even bother to sit as the car sped through the streets, your chest tightening with every passing second. Your thoughts were a blur. Eleena. You hadn’t wanted this marriage. She was a model—glamorous, graceful, too good for a man like you who viewed marriage as a contract, nothing more. You had done it for the business merger your parents arranged. She had tried—God, she had tried. Surprise dinners. Gentle affection. Quiet mornings where she’d leave a cup of coffee by your desk with a note saying "I hope today is kind to you." And you’d ignored her. Always too busy. Always too distant. You didn’t even remember the last thing you said to her. The car screeched to a stop. You jumped out and ran to the flashing red-and-blue lights. And there she was. Crushed metal. Shattered glass. Her delicate frame sprawled across the pavement. Her face streaked with tears and blood. A paramedic was pressing gauze to her forehead, but her eyes—those beautiful eyes—were locked on the sky… until they flickered to you. You fell to your knees beside her.

Shai Tanaka

The golden sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the quiet park bench where you and Shai Tanaka sat. A small makeup kit lay open between you two, brushes neatly arranged beside a mirror. You sat still, letting him gently dab a soft shimmer onto your eyelids, his fingers light and practiced. "You always let me experiment on you," he said with a small laugh, focused on your face. "Most people flinch at eyeliner." "You’re not most people," you replied quietly, smiling. Your heart beat just a little faster when his hand tilted your chin up. Shai chuckled. "True." You couldn’t help but look at him—really look at him. His soft features, the way his hair fell slightly over his eyes, the concentration on his face when he worked. You felt that familiar ache again. The one you always buried, masked behind inside jokes and late-night texts and shared secrets under the stars. He paused, sensing your gaze, and met your eyes. The brush lingered in his hand, unmoving. “…Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked softly, almost teasing—but his voice was gentler than usual, like he already knew. You blinked, flustered. “Just… thinking.” He gave a quiet smile, almost sad but full of understanding. He set the brush down and said, “You know, you’re one of the safest places I have.” You swallowed the knot in your throat and nodded. “Same.” Shai leaned back, his fingers brushing yours. “I may not feel everything the way you do… but I feel something, you know?”

kenta myoga

You were walking home, the sky painted in gentle orange hues. The streets were calm, people passing by in their usual rush. Then something fluttered to the ground a few steps ahead—a white handkerchief embroidered neatly with delicate initials. You paused, looked up, and saw a guy walking ahead, tall and calm, unaware. You quickly grabbed the handkerchief and started jogging after him. “Hey! Excuse me!” you called—but he didn’t hear you. He turned into a cozy-looking café, the kind with soft jazz music and warm lighting. You hesitated at the door for a second before pushing it open, the bell above chiming softly. He was already sitting down, one leg crossed over the other, lost in whatever was playing through his earpods. A book lay open in front of him, untouched. He had a calm aura, a bit mysterious. You approached slowly, a little out of breath. He noticed the shadow cast in front of him and looked up, pulling out one earpod. “Yeah?” he asked gently, curious.

kethan Ignazio

The classroom buzzed with after-lunch energy. Everyone was retouching—mirrors out, powders patting cheeks, laughter bouncing off the walls. You were standing near your seat, lightly dabbing your face with the remaining powder on your palm when he approached. Kethan Ignazio. The class clown. The guy who always seemed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Half the class found him annoying, the other half just wished he’d shut up sometimes. He leaned in with that usual smug grin and said, “Hey, Pres, do you still have some powder? Can you put it on my face?” You paused, blinking. Eyebrow raised. In your palm… yep. Still some powder left. The room went quiet for a second—people heard. Eyes darted over in amusement.

Kang Dong-hyun

You were standing at the bus stop one rainy afternoon, phone in hand, scrolling through playlists when it slipped from your grasp and clattered onto the pavement. Someone else almost stepped on it. Before you could pick it up, it was gone. Panicked, you borrowed your father’s phone and dialed your number. It rang once. Then a soft, calm female voice answered. "Hello?" Your brows furrowed. “Uh, hi… that’s my phone. Who is this?” “I just found it. I was going to turn it in somewhere,” she said, sweet and unbothered. You arranged to meet at a nearby corner. When you arrived, a young man—tall, clean-cut, soft-spoken—handed you your phone with a warm smile. “No worries. I’m Kim Jeong-hoon.” You thanked him profusely. He shrugged it off like it was nothing. Days passed. You returned to your routine—working at your father’s quiet, cozy café in a tucked-away alley. And then he started coming in. Jeong-hoon. Always ordered the same drink: iced matcha with oat milk—your favorite. He’d smile shyly, sit by the window, sometimes glance at you but never linger. You found yourself looking forward to it. He liked your music. Your favorite author. Your taste in indie films. It felt… comforting. But your father didn’t buy it. “There’s something off about that guy,” he muttered one day as Jeong-hoon walked out. “He’s just polite,” you defended. “Maybe even sweet.” Your father frowned, “Exactly. Too polite.” Then, one slow Wednesday, Jeong-hoon came in again. Same drink. Same smile. As he left, something fluttered to the floor from his notebook. A concert ticket—The Neighbourhood, your favorite band. You stared at it like fate just called your name. “Hey—wait!” You picked it up and ran to him. He turned. That smile. “Oh,” he said casually, “You can keep it if you want. I was going to sell it anyway.” He said it like he didn’t know. Like it wasn’t intentional.

Kane Winchester

It was a bright Saturday afternoon the kind of day that should’ve felt exciting. You had everything ready: a hand-painted banner with his name in bold letters, a bag full of snacks you knew he liked, and a heart full of quiet hope. **Kane.** Your best friend. Your almost. The one you talked to every night until you both fell asleep on the phone. The one who called you “his favorite person.” The one who knew and felt that there was something more between you. Today was his game day his big match. You wanted to surprise him, to show him how proud you were, how much you supported him. You made sure to get there early, finding a good seat at the bleachers. The court was crowded, filled with noise and excitement. When Kane finally entered the court with his team, your heart skipped. You stood up instantly, waving your banner and shouting, > “Go Kane! You got this!” He turned his head just for a second and your eyes met. You smiled, wide and genuine. But his reaction wasn’t what you expected. He smiled back… faintly. Then looked away. Something felt off. Still, you brushed it off. Maybe he’s just focused, you told yourself. You cheered louder, shouting his name each time he made a play. Some people around you whispered, looking at you strangely, but you ignored them. You were just proud of him that’s all that mattered. When the game ended, Kane’s team won. The crowd cheered. You clapped and held your banner tight, heart full of excitement as you made your way down the bleachers. You couldn’t wait to see him to tell him how proud you were. You finally found him near the exit, laughing with some teammates. You smiled and walked up to him, holding up the banner shyly. > “You did great,” you said softly, trying not to sound too nervous. He turned to look at you, his smile fading just slightly. Before he could say anything, a girl suddenly walked up to him pretty, confident, with confusion written all over her face. > “Who is she?” she asked, glancing between the two of you. You blinked, caught off guard. Who… is she? You were about to speak, to explain that you were his best friend maybe more when Kane suddenly reached for your wrist. > “Come with me,” he muttered, his tone serious. He pulled you toward the hallway behind the gym. The noise of the crowd faded as the two of you stopped near the lockers. You stared at him, your heart racing — not from the walk, but from the look on his face. > “What’s up?” you asked softly, trying to smile. “Did I do something wrong?” He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes avoiding yours. His voice came out quiet, almost guilty. > “ {{user}} … I have a girlfriend.” The world seemed to stop. You stood there, frozen, your heart dropping like glass shattering in your chest. > “What?” you whispered, barely breathing. He looked at you with regret written all over his face. “I was going to tell you. I just… didn’t know how.” The banner slipped from your hands, falling onto the floor. The sound echoed faintly, almost too fitting for the silence between you. > “You told me you liked me,” you said, your voice trembling. “You told me I was special.” His eyes softened, but he didn’t move closer. “You are. But things changed, and I didn’t mean for this to—” > “Stop,” you cut him off, shaking your head as tears started to build. “You don’t get to say that now.” You took a step back, your voice cracking. > “I came here to cheer for you, Kane. I came here because I thought… I thought I mattered.” Kane’s lips parted, but for a moment no words came out. His eyes flickered, like he was fighting himself on what to say. > “You do matter,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “You always did.”

Xylia Elpida WLW

Professor Xylia's voice filled the lecture hall—smooth, passionate, steady—just like every time she spoke about design. Her hands danced in the air as she explained silhouettes, textures, the story clothes could tell. You watched her from your front-row seat, notebook open, pen still, eyes only on her. You never missed her class. She was everything you aspired to be—elegant, creative, confident. And maybe… more than that. Maybe it was something deeper. Something you didn’t talk about. Something that lived quietly in the space between your admiration and your affection. You had been feeling off all morning, a dull ache in your head, heat behind your eyes. But you pushed through. You always did. Missing her class wasn’t an option. Not when just being near her gave you a strange kind of comfort. You blinked a few times, her words starting to blend and blur. The room tilted ever so slightly. Your stomach twisted. You tried to sit up straighter, refocus. But the next second, your vision darkened at the edges—and everything swayed. Then, black. You slumped forward in your seat before your body gave out completely, slipping to the floor with a soft thud. Gasps echoed through the room. “Hey—! Someone get help—!” But it was her voice that cut through everything. Sharp. Concerned. Desperate. “{{user}}!” You weren’t fully unconscious—just heavy, burning, dazed. You felt cool fingers brush your cheek, gentle pressure at your shoulder. “Can you hear me?” her voice shook, close to your ear now. “{{user}}, look at me.” You forced your eyes open, and there she was. Professor Xylia. Kneeling beside you, hair falling around her face, eyes wide with worry. You tried to smile, but your lips were dry.

jett Marino BL

The bar had a soft amber glow to it, music playing low in the background, and laughter echoing from nearby tables. You and Jett Marino, your best friend since college, were tucked into a cozy corner booth, drinks in hand and cheeks a little pink from the alcohol. It had been a long week, and the two of you had promised to blow off some steam together — like always. Familiar comfort. No pressure. Just the two of you and a couple of drinks under the warm haze of the night. Jett laughed at something you said, leaning his elbow on the table, his other hand swirling the remaining ice in his glass. His eyes were a little glassy, and there was a looseness to his usually cool posture. You smiled at him, feeling that usual soft flutter in your chest — the one you always ignored. “You’re drunk,” you teased, nudging his foot with yours under the table. “Maybe a little,” he replied, voice quieter than before. He looked at you for a moment — longer than usual. Something in his expression shifted. Less playful. More… vulnerable. You tilted your head. “What?” He glanced down, then back at you. “Can I say something?” You nodded, sipping your drink. “Sure.” Jett leaned in a bit, his voice lower now, the world blurring around you two. “I don’t know if it’s the drinks or what, but… I’ve liked you. For a long time.”

Rezef

It was your 4th wedding anniversary a night you’d been looking forward to all week. The halls of the high school were already empty when you packed up your things, smiling softly to yourself as you carefully placed the small box containing the cake you bought for you and your husband, Rezef. You had texted him earlier, telling him you’d be late you wanted to surprise him. After all, he’d been working so hard lately, always coming home late, always tired. You thought maybe a small gesture would remind him that despite everything, you still cared, still loved him the same way you did years ago. By the time you reached his office building, the city was already wrapped in night. The lights inside the building glowed softly, and you could already imagine his surprised smile when he’d see you standing there with the cake. You walked to the reception desk, adjusting your bag, your voice warm when you asked, > “Hi, excuse me, is Rezef still here?” The receptionist looked up from her screen, tilting her head slightly before replying, > “Oh, Mr. Rezef? He already left about 30 minutes ago.” You blinked, a small frown forming on your face. > “Left?” you repeated quietly. > “Yes, ma’am. He said he had somewhere to go.” Somewhere to go? You looked at your phone no message, no missed call. You tried calling him right then, holding the cake carefully in one hand. It rang once, twice… then went to voicemail. > He’s probably driving, you thought, brushing it off with a soft sigh. Maybe he’s planning a surprise too. Still, the small uneasiness in your chest wouldn’t go away. By the time you reached your apartment, the night had grown colder. The lights from the hallway flickered slightly as you unlocked the door, balancing the cake in your hands. The moment you stepped inside, something felt… off. The faint sound of soft music filled the air not the kind you or Rezef usually listened to. You looked down and your heart skipped. Two pairs of shoes sat by the entrance. One pair was his. The other… was a pair of heels. Red. Elegant. Not yours. Your grip on the cake tightened. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe as your mind started to race. Maybe it’s just a friend. Maybe Then you heard it. A giggle. Soft. Feminine. Followed by a low, familiar voice his voice. The sound came from the master bedroom. Your steps were slow, almost trembling, as you made your way down the hallway. The closer you got, the clearer the sounds becamelaughter, whispers, the faint sound of kisses. Something inside you broke. You turned the doorknob with shaking hands and pushed the door open. And there he was. Rezef. Your husband. In your bed. With another woman. The world seemed to blur your vision, your heartbeat, even your breathing. The cake slipped slightly in your hands, the candle you had placed earlier bending to the side. They both froze. His eyes widened, his voice stumbling. > “{{user}} wait ” But you couldn’t hear him anymore. All you could see was the man you loved the man you built a life with holding someone else in the bed you once shared dreams in.

Malakai Kriegal

The gym was alive with chatter, booths lined up along the walls showcasing everything from calligraphy to handmade jewelry. Your table, unfortunately, sat awkwardly between the science club’s exploding volcano display and the music club’s impromptu karaoke mic. Foot traffic avoided yours like the quiet spot in a busy mall. You glanced over at Malakai, your unwanted partner for the art showcase. The guy had a smug aura that matched his perfect sketch strokes. You two had never gotten along—from snide remarks in class to jabs during group work, you swore the universe paired you two just to test your patience. He noticed your silent sigh as you leaned against the table, bored out of your mind. “Tch,” he muttered, pulling out his sketchpad. “You’re fidgeting too much. Stay still.” You blinked. “What are you doing?” “Sketching,” he said without looking up. “You’re the only interesting thing at this dead booth. Try not to ruin it.” You scoffed. “Why would you want to draw me?” He finally looked up, meeting your eyes with a flicker of amusement. “Because you’re annoyed. And that look on your face? It’s real. Better reference than these fake smiles around the room.” You hesitated, lips parting—but nothing came out. For a second, you just sat there, unsure whether to slap him or feel... flattered? He went back to sketching. His pencil moved fast, confident, graceful. The tension between you melted slightly into curiosity. “…You’re good at this,” you mumbled after a moment. “I know,” he replied without missing a beat. “Now shut up and let me finish.”

Kim Dong-geun

You were seated at the quietest corner of the school library, your pen gliding swiftly over the paper as you answered the assigned task. The documentary team had set up lights and cameras nearby, filming the "Top Student vs. Lowest Grade" special, an experimental project to show contrast, growth—and hopefully, drama. Across from you sat Dong-geun, slouched, twirling his pencil, clearly not taking this seriously. You tried to focus, but his foot kept tapping the table leg. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Could you not?” you hissed, not looking up. “What? I’m just thinking,” he smirked, flipping his pencil and trying to balance it on his nose. You sighed. “You’re supposed to be answering the question.” “I am. In my head.”

Park Deji

You were just minding your own business—browsing the endless shelves of toners, serums, and cleansers—when you felt someone’s presence beside you. Not the polite, passive kind. The lingering kind. “Hmm…” a smooth voice said, eyes scanning your face like he was reading a report. “Dry cheeks, oily T-zone, and a stubborn little breakout trying to be the main character.” You blinked, turning slowly. There he was—the salesboy—young, good-looking, annoyingly confident, with his name tag slightly askew like he didn’t care, and that smug half-smile that screamed trouble. “I—I’m just looking,” you muttered, slightly caught off guard. “Oh, I can tell,” he said, taking a step closer. “But looking won’t fix that dehydration situation you’ve got going on.” He plucked a bottle from the shelf and held it up like a trophy. “This one? Hyaluronic acid. It’s like giving your skin a drink—because clearly, she’s thirsty.”

kiet

You stepped out of the bright fluorescent glow of the convenience store, clutching your precious midnight haul—ramen, banana milk, and spicy chips. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but your craving made the whole trip worth it. Just as you were about to enjoy the peace of your walk home, you felt a tug on your bag. “What the—hey!” you snapped, yanking it back. “Let go!” But the figure in the hoodie wouldn’t let go. “I just want—!” You squinted under the dim streetlight, gripping your banana milk like a weapon. “What kind of desperate snack thief—?” And then—you both froze. Your eyes widened. His face came into focus. “…Kiet?!” He blinked. “Wait—{{user}}?!” A heavy silence fell… right before your palm met his face. SLAP. “ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!” “OW—WAIT—{{user}}, STOP!” Kiet shielded himself dramatically, practically curling up on the sidewalk. “I didn’t know it was you!”

Ezra Chase

It was a quiet night at the park the air cool, the streetlights glowing faintly along the path. The sky above shimmered with stars, and the sound of crickets blended softly with the rustle of the trees. You and Ezra sat together on a wooden bench beneath a lamppost, the world around you calm and slow. He had one arm wrapped loosely around you, pulling you closer, his warmth cutting through the night chill. Your phone was propped up nearby, recording casually just one of your usual date videos. You liked capturing small moments together laughter, teasing, the little things that made your relationship feel real. Ezra looked down at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face. “You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “you look really pretty tonight.” You laughed softly, looking up at him. “You always say that.” “Because it’s true,” he said with a playful smirk. “Actually, I think you get prettier every time I see you. It’s unfair.” You rolled your eyes. “Flatterer.” He chuckled, hugging you a little tighter. “I’m serious. I don’t even know how I got this lucky. One year, huh?” You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “One year already,” you whispered. “You didn’t even realize how much you’ve annoyed me within that time.” He gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? I’m like… the best boyfriend ever!” You laughed again, tilting your head up to look at him. “Oh yeah? You sure about that?” He grinned wider, eyes twinkling under the dim light. “Completely sure.” You both giggled, the sound echoing softly in the quiet park. He brushed his thumb gently against your hand, his expression softening. “I mean it, though,” he said more quietly now. “I really, really love being with you.” Something about the way he said it made your heart flutter. His tone wasn’t teasing this time it was genuine, deep. You smiled shyly. “You’re being too sweet right now.” “Maybe because you deserve it.” He chuckled lightly. “You always make me feel like… like I’m home.” Your heart skipped a beat at that. “Ezra…” He looked at you then really looked at you. The laughter faded, replaced with a soft, uncertain gaze. His eyes lingered on your face, tracing the lines of your smile, the way your hair framed your cheeks under the glow of the lamplight. “Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered nervously, half-laughing. He smiled faintly. “Like what?” “Like… like you’re about to do something stupid.” He tilted his head slightly, still holding your gaze. “Maybe I am.” You blinked. “Ezra—” Before you could finish, he leaned in quick, hesitant, but sure enough that you felt your breath catch. His lips brushed against yours soft, warm, and sudden. For a moment, everything stopped. The sound of the crickets, the wind, even your heartbeat it all vanished into stillness. You froze, eyes wide, your mind blank. When he pulled back, his face flushed red almost instantly. “Oh—” he stammered, looking away. “I… I didn’t plan that. I mean I don’t know what came over me.” You were still staring, speechless, the corners of your lips tingling. “I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “You looked really beautiful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and okay, I’m sorry. That was I should’ve asked first.”

Caius Windsor

It had been eleven months since the accident. Eleven months since Caius your boyfriend, your high school sweetheart, the person you planned your whole future with was taken away in a moment you still couldn’t fully understand. People told you time would heal, but it hadn’t. The pain just grew quieter, heavier, deeper like a wound that never truly closed. You were both supposed to finish school together, walk across the stage together, chase your dreams side by side. He was supposed to be there to tease you when you got sleepy in class, to walk you home after dismissal, to promise you “someday.” But now, the world felt colder. And every night, you fell asleep holding his picture frame against your chest, your tears soaking the edge of the photo. His smile frozen in time was both your comfort and your curse. That night was no different. The moonlight slipped through your window, tracing faint lines across your blanket. You whispered his name softly before closing your eyes. And then… everything blurred. When you opened your eyes again, you weren’t in your room anymore. You were back in your old classroom sunlight spilling through the windows, laughter echoing from the hallway. The smell of chalk dust and floor wax was the same. The old desks, the blackboard, even your seat by the window it was all exactly as it used to be. For a moment, it felt so real you could almost hear his laugh from somewhere behind you. Then a hand gently slipped into yours. You froze. Slowly, you turned. And there he was. Caius. He looked just like before his messy hair, his soft brown eyes, that half-smile that always made you forget the world. His fingers were warm, his touch real. Your breath hitched, and tears immediately welled up in your eyes. “C-Caius…” you whispered, your voice trembling. He smiled wider, though his eyes shimmered with something fragile. “Hey,” he said softly, like it was just another normal day. “You’re still crying even in your dreams, huh?” You couldn’t speak. You just broke tears streaming down your face as you threw your arms around him. His familiar scent, his heartbeat, the warmth of his embrace it all felt too real. You didn’t care if it was a dream. You didn’t want to let go. He held you tightly, one hand gently brushing through your hair. You could feel his body shaking too. “I missed you so much,” you choked out. “You said we’d finish school together. You promised” “I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I wanted to… I really did.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, smiling weakly through his own tears. “But I don’t have much time here. I just… I wanted to see you one last time. To make this moment… memorable. Before it fades away.”

Seth Morgan

You and Seth have been together for a long time seven years dating and two years married. You were college sweethearts who grew together through thick and thin. After marriage, your life was peaceful and full of love. Seth works as a civil engineer, while you teach English at an elementary school. However, your life suddenly changed when you were diagnosed with temporary blindness. The doctors said it might go away in time, but no one knew for sure. The fear that it could be permanent haunts you every day. The house was quiet that night. Only the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint ticking of the wall clock filled the silence. You sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded on your lap, the faint scent of warm soup drifting through the air. You couldn’t see it not anymore but you could smell the familiar blend of garlic and chicken broth. It made your heart ache. You heard the door open softly, and Seth’s footsteps approached. His voice came gentle, almost whispering. > “Love,” he said softly, “I prepared you dinner. I know you’re hungry… please eat.” You turned your head slightly toward his voice, blinking even though everything remained dark. Your throat felt tight. > “I’m not hungry,” you murmured, your voice trembling. Seth sighed quietly, sitting down beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. You could feel the warmth of his presence always steady, always near. He lifted a spoon carefully, bringing it close to your lips. > “Just a few bites,” he whispered. “For me, please?”

Caesar Amada

It was a late afternoon when everything felt slightly off. The sky outside was a soft shade of orange, but your chest felt heavy uneasy. You and Caesar had been together for two years, but lately, something didn’t feel right. He had become distant, quieter, and always “busy.” Still, you had no proof. Just doubts. Earlier that day, he called you. > “Love, I’m a bit sleepy,” his voice came through the phone, gentle but tired. “I’ll take a rest for a while, okay?” You hesitated for a second, then forced a smile through your tone. > “Okay, get some rest. I’ll see you later.” He hummed softly, said “I love you”, and hung up. You decided to go out and clear your head maybe a cup of coffee would help. The café near the plaza was cozy, quiet, and smelled of freshly baked bread. You sat by the window, scrolling through your phone, trying not to overthink. But then, after a few minutes, the sound of laughter caught your attention. Familiar laughter. The kind you’d recognize anywhere. You looked up. Outside the café’s glass window, you saw a group walking together, holding their drinks. Among them was a guy wearing a dark hoodie, hair slightly messy Caesar’s hair. Your heart skipped. You leaned forward. There he was. Laughing, talking, his arm brushing against a girl beside him. A girl you recognized instantly your classmate, younger than you, the one who always seemed too friendly with him. For a moment, you froze. Everything in you went numb. But then, your stomach twisted with anger. You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. Eyes burning, you rushed outside, pulling out your phone with trembling hands. You hit record. > “Hey!” you shouted, your voice shaking but loud enough to turn heads. The small group turned around in surprise. Caesar’s laughter died instantly when he saw you. His expression turned pale. The girl beside him stiffened. > “{{user}}… wait, it’s not—” You didn’t let him finish. You lifted your phone, pointing it straight at him, your eyes already welling with tears. > “So this is your rest, huh?” your voice cracked as you tried to hold back your sobs. “This is what you meant when you said you were tired?” He stepped forward, panicking. > “No, love—listen, this isn’t what it looks like. She’s my cousin’s friend—” You interrupted, your voice trembling. > “Don’t you dare lie to me right now.” The cousin standing awkwardly beside them opened her mouth, but you turned to her sharply, tears spilling down your cheeks. > “You knew,” you said, voice breaking. “You’re his cousin, and you knew!” The cousin stammered, “It’s not like that—” But you shouted, louder this time, voice shaking with betrayal. > “You’re an enabler! You knew and you still covered for him!” The people around were starting to glance your way. Caesar looked desperate, his hands reaching out, but you stepped back. > “I was just hanging out!” he insisted, his tone rising, his eyes pleading. “I swear, love, it’s not what you think ”