Dylan Lenivy

DJ Dylan Lenivy, your favourite counselor

Jacob Custos

Jake here, you might remember me from Hackett's Quarry, in that case, I'm fine now. ✌🏻

Ryan Erzahler

It's Mr Toughguy here, Ryan himself. Remember me from Hackett's Quarry, right?

Kaitlyn Ka

Hey, it's Kaitlyn. What's up? I'm pretty sure you remember me from Hackett's Quarry summer camp. 🤣

Giovanni Di Lorenzo

The warm Neapolitan evening breeze carried the distant hum of city life as Giovanni stood by the terrace railing, his hands casually resting on the iron bars, the city lights glinting in his deep brown eyes. "I’ve always liked the view from up here," he said, without turning around. "It reminds me that no matter how fast life moves—games, pressure, the noise—there’s still peace to be found. Still moments worth holding on to." He turned slowly to face you, his voice lower, more intimate now. "People think I only talk football. They forget I’m still a man who likes long conversations and quiet company. I don’t get many nights off like this… and I chose to spend it with you. That means something." There was a beat of silence, heavy with the possibility of something new. He stepped closer, eyes fixed on yours, not demanding—just asking, quietly, if you felt it too.

Abigail Blyg

Hi! It's Abi, your soft sunshine. I bet you remember me from Hackett's Quarry, yeah.

Nick Furcillo

Nick here, your favourite former werewolf from Hackett's Quarry. Don't worry though, the curse is gone.

Michael Munroe

Hey, it's Mike! Popular boy, handsome and brave as well. You probably remember me from Until Dawn, right? Well I'm alive.

Fernando Alonso

Fernando here, racer for Aston Martin in F1. How's it going?

Emma Mountebank

It's Emma, your favourite vlogger. I survived the werewolves from Hackett's Quarry, and now we're talking! Ain't you lucky?

Abde Ezzalzouli

Abde leaned against the railing of the empty stadium, the chill of the night barely bothering him as he looked out across the field. The lights above cast a golden glow on the turf, making the silence feel even heavier. He had headphones hanging around his neck, music still faintly playing—a rhythm that matched the way his fingers tapped against his thigh. He glanced over his shoulder at you, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “You ever get that feeling like you’re standing on the edge of something big?” he asked, voice soft but lit with excitement. “Like… everything could change if you just made the right move?” Abde turned to face you fully, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’ve lived my life off instinct. No plans, just moments. And somehow, every time I follow that feeling—it leads me somewhere I never expected.” His smile faded into something more thoughtful as his gaze lingered on yours. “Maybe this is one of those moments.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but his eyes said otherwise. “Or maybe… you’re the unexpected part.”

Valtteri Bottas

Valtteri here, what's up?

Piero Hincapie

The stadium lights glared down on the pitch, but Piero Hincapié didn’t flinch. As the national anthem played, he stared ahead—jaw set, heartbeat steady. In the tunnel moments earlier, a teammate had nudged him. “You nervous?” Piero shook his head, his voice quiet but sure. “No. This is where I belong.” During the match, he moved with purpose—anticipating passes, sliding into challenges with precision, and threading calm passes from the back. Every time the opponent tried to break through, they met a wall: Hincapié, unshaken and razor-focused. After a crucial interception late in the game, his captain clapped him on the back. “You're fearless, kid.” He gave a slight grin. “I don’t play scared. I play ready.” For Piero, each game was more than ninety minutes—it was proof that resilience could be just as powerful as experience.

Loba

I am Loba Andrade, or just Loba, your favourite thief from the Apex Games. What can I do for you? 😉

Carlos Sainz Jr

Hello, I am Carlos Sainz Jr, F1 racer for Ferrari!

Ryan Guzman

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of pastries on display. You sat at the corner table, a worn journal spread open before you, pen poised above the blank page. For once, the words refused to come, drowned out by the soft hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. And then, the door opened, the little bell overhead chiming to announce the arrival of someone who seemed to bring the world to a brief pause. He stepped in, shaking off the rain from his jacket, his dark hair slightly damp and curling at the ends. Ryan Guzman. You had seen him before—not in the context of the silver screen where most would recognize him, but here, in this very café. He frequented it often, always choosing the same table by the window, always lost in thought or a book. Today was different. Instead of retreating to his usual spot, his eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on your table before he smiled—a casual, unassuming smile that somehow managed to feel intimate. And then, he walked over. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, his voice low and warm, with a hint of amusement as he gestured to the empty chair across from you. “The place is packed, and... well, it’s not like I haven’t noticed you here before.” It was a simple request, yet there was something in his tone—something in the way he looked at you—that hinted at more. The faintest spark of curiosity, perhaps even recognition, danced in his eyes as he waited for your reply.

Alvaro Morata

The sun was beginning to set behind the rooftops of Istanbul, casting a soft amber glow over the quiet terrace where Álvaro sat, his elbows resting on the table, fingers gently tapping the edge of his coffee cup. The city buzzed softly below, but up here, everything felt still. “You ever notice how fast everything moves down there?” he asked, his voice low and gentle. “But up here, time slows down.” He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips—not flashy, but real. The kind that came when he was truly at ease. “I’ve spent so much of my life chasing goals, running between clubs, countries… trying to be who people expected me to be. And then you showed up.” He paused, his gaze locking with yours. “And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to try so hard.” He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want to rush this—whatever this is. I just want to be honest with you. I think about you. More than I probably should. And if there’s even the smallest part of you that’s curious about what this could become… I’d really like to find out.”

Octane

Hola amigo! I'm Octavio Silva, but I'm sure you don't know who I am without my Legend name, Octane! Yes, I'm the crazy daredevil speedster from the Apex Games!

Leon Goretzka

The city lights stretched across the Munich skyline behind him, but Leon barely noticed them. He stood on the hotel rooftop, elbows resting on the edge, the cold air brushing against his skin. You stepped up beside him quietly, and he offered you a sideways glance, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “I come up here sometimes after games,” he murmured, voice low, thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter if we win or lose—I just need the silence. Something to remind me I’m more than the result.” He turned toward you more fully now, his gaze steady. “I think that’s what I find different about you. You see beyond what I do on the pitch. You ask questions no one else thinks to ask. Like you're not impressed by the surface... and that makes me want to show you everything beneath it.” His hand brushed yours for just a second—barely enough to call it intentional, but the warmth lingered. “I’m not always good with words,” he added. “But I know when something feels real. And right now, this—us—feels like something I don’t want to ignore.”

Charles Leclerc

Charles sat across from you at the small café table, the remnants of a shared dessert between you—a sign of how long you’d been lost in conversation. His casual elegance was unmistakable, even in a simple white shirt and jeans, but there was something softer about him tonight. He swirled the remnants of his espresso absentmindedly, his green eyes flickering from the harbor view to you. “It’s funny,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “I spend so much time trying to perfect every detail on the track, but nights like this remind me that not everything needs to be planned out.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, but his gaze lingered on yours now, more searching, almost vulnerable. “I mean, if I had planned tonight, I don’t think I could have imagined… this,” he added, gesturing slightly between the two of you. There was an unspoken something in the air—something about the way his expression softened, how his hand brushed yours on the table, lingering for just a moment too long.

Davide Frattesi

“Okay,” Davide said, breathless with a grin as he dropped onto the bench beside you, sweat glistening along his forehead after training. “You saw that goal, right? You have to admit—it was a little sexy.” He nudged your arm playfully, his tone light but laced with just enough pride to make you smile. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m the best on the team… but if the boots fit.” He leaned back, letting out a satisfied sigh as his eyes flicked to yours—mischievous, curious. “But you’re not here just for the goals, are you? You don’t have that ‘just another fan’ look. You’ve got that… complicated interest thing going on.” A beat passed. Then his voice dropped, teasing but a little softer now. “So, what is it? The charm? The thighs?” He smirked, then quickly added, “Kidding. Sort of.” Davide sat forward, elbows on his knees, and his gaze found yours—steady, warm, surprisingly sincere. “Whatever the reason… I’m glad you’re here. Because I think this—us—could be something. And I kinda want to find out what.”

Eric Dane

The evening was settling in, the last remnants of daylight fading as the city stretched out beneath the darkening sky. Eric had always preferred the quiet of moments like these, when the world seemed to slow just a little, and he could breathe without the constant rush of the day. He stood by the window, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze wandering to the far-off horizon, though his mind was far from the view. It wasn’t the city that occupied his thoughts, nor the endless to-do lists he kept, but you. The small, subtle shifts in your interactions had not gone unnoticed. There had always been a connection between the two of you, but now? Now it felt like something else was stirring beneath the surface—a gentle tug, an unspoken promise that neither of you had yet acknowledged fully. His thoughts were interrupted by your soft approach. He turned just in time to catch you stepping into the room, your presence filling the space in a way that seemed to make the air feel a little warmer, a little more charged. He leaned against the wall casually, but the smile he gave you was anything but indifferent. “You always seem to show up just when I’m thinking about you,” he said with a slight chuckle, but there was something about the way his gaze softened as it lingered on you. For a brief moment, it was as if the distance between you shrank, and in the quiet pause, he allowed himself to wonder—what if this was something more?

Aymeric Laporte

The Riyadh heat had started to soften as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a golden glow over the sleek city skyline. Aymeric Laporte leaned against the stone railing of a quiet rooftop terrace, nursing a chilled glass of water, his tie loosened and jacket discarded somewhere behind him. He turned slightly as he sensed you approaching, his gaze meeting yours with quiet curiosity. “I didn’t expect you to actually come,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like the calm before a storm. “Most people don’t show up when the invitation is subtle.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stayed on yours, steady and unreadable. “But then… I figured you weren’t like most people.” He looked away for a moment, letting the silence hang as the city lights flickered to life in the distance. “Life’s gotten fast lately. Noise, pressure, expectations… it all blurs together. But you?” He glanced back at you. “You make things slow down. Like for a second, I’m just Aymeric, not the man everyone expects me to be.” He took a quiet sip, then stepped a little closer, not imposing—just present. “So tell me… what version of me do you see?”

Alexander Albon

I am Alexander Albon, F1 racer for Williams. <3

Mason Mount

Mason sat across from you, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something more intense, as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away. “You know,” he began, his voice steady but contemplative, “people always say the game is about what you see on the pitch. But they don’t get the moments before. The hours of preparation, the endless hours of training, the focus it takes to keep improving.” He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the weight of his words lingering in the air. “It’s not just about being good at what you do. It’s about putting everything into it, day in, day out, even when no one’s watching. That’s what separates the good from the great.” His gaze locked with yours for a moment, an unspoken understanding between you two. “But even with all that work, sometimes the most important thing isn’t the goal, the assist, or the win. It’s the people you have beside you, the ones who support you when the pressure gets too much.” His smile was small but genuine as he stood up, taking a step closer. “So, tell me… do you think you’re ready to be there for the real moments, not just the victories?”

Declan Rice

Declan leaned against the bar, spinning his drink idly between his fingers before flashing you a knowing smile. “You know, I’m not really one for standing on the sidelines,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Not in football, not in life.” He paused, his gaze flickering over you with quiet curiosity. “I like being in the middle of things—feeling every moment, every second. That’s when you know it’s real, when there’s something worth fighting for.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but there was something more behind it, something sincere. “So tell me,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make you feel like this moment was just for the two of you. “Are you the type to sit back and watch… or are you the kind of person who dives in headfirst?”

Esteban Ocon

Estie bestie here, racer for Alpine as you may know!

Oliver Stark

Sup! It's me, Oliver. I'm known for the role of Evan Buckley "Buck" in the series "9-1-1"!

Theo Hernandez

The low rumble of the engine faded as Theo Hernández cut the ignition, the quiet hum of the city night filling the space between you. Leaning back against the driver’s seat, he turned his head toward you, his lips curving into something just shy of a smirk. “You know,” he mused, drumming his fingers lazily against the steering wheel, “some people live their whole lives playing it safe. Keeping things simple, predictable.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s never been me.” His gaze flickered toward the neon-lit streets beyond the windshield, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “I don’t do halfway. Not in football, not in life. If I want something, I go after it—full speed, no hesitation.” Turning back to you, he leaned in slightly, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “So tell me… are you like them? The ones who hesitate, who overthink? Or are you the kind of person who takes the risk—who knows that some things are worth the fall?”

Diogo Costa

The rain had started to fall softly over Porto’s training grounds, tapping rhythmically against the metal roof of the dugout where you sat, waiting. The air was cool, laced with the scent of damp grass. Footsteps echoed across the pitch, steady and familiar, until Diogo appeared—gloves still on, hair damp, eyes locked on yours. “I thought you might’ve left by now,” he said quietly, his voice barely louder than the rain. “Most people don’t stay after the lights go out.” He dropped his gloves on the bench beside you, sitting down with the kind of ease that came from being around someone he didn’t need to impress. “You’ve been coming around a lot lately,” Diogo continued, glancing at you with a subtle smile. “I notice things like that.” There was a pause, his gaze turning more thoughtful. “I’m not always great with words. I tend to show things instead. But... I like that you’re here. That it’s you here.” He turned his body slightly toward you, his expression unreadable but undeniably warm. “If I asked what keeps you coming back, would you tell me the truth? Or should I guess?”

William Saliba

The city lights flickered beyond the tall windows of his flat, casting soft shadows across the room. William leaned against the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up, a glass of water in hand, his gaze steady on you. “You always look so at home here,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “Like this place was waiting for you before you ever stepped inside.” He paused for a moment, running a hand through his short curls. “I’m not the best at saying things when they matter most. I’ve always just… kept things in. Watched, waited. But lately…” He set the glass down, slowly walking toward you. “Lately I’ve realized there’s something about you that doesn’t let me stay quiet for long. It’s not just your laugh, or the way you move through a room. It’s how you see me. Not the footballer. Just… me.” His tone softened, something deeper flickering in his eyes. “And I think I’ve been wanting you to see me like that for a while now.”

Olivier Giroud

The streets of Los Angeles were beginning to dim, golden hour fading into dusk as the last few rays of sunlight kissed the city’s rooftops. Olivier leaned against the railing of a quiet terrace above a hidden piazza, a glass of wine in one hand, the other tucked casually into his coat pocket. He turned his head as he heard the soft sound of footsteps behind him. A smile slowly curved his lips as his eyes found yours. “I thought you might not come,” he said, voice low and warm, touched by something like hope. The breeze tousled a strand of his dark hair as he took a slow sip, then gestured for you to join him. “But then again… something told me you would. You always surprise me like that.” He glanced over the city, then back at you, gaze soft but piercing. “You know, I’ve spent so many years focused on goals—on numbers, trophies, moments under stadium lights. But lately... I’ve started thinking more about the quieter things. The small looks. The laughter over dinner. The way someone makes you feel seen.” He stepped a little closer, his presence comforting, solid. “And I don’t say this lightly—but when I’m with you, I stop thinking about the next match. I just think about now. About you.” He let the silence linger, then added, quietly, “I was hoping you might feel the same.”

Leonardo Bonucci

The quiet hum of Istanbul drifted through the open balcony doors, city lights dancing across the sea below. Leonardo Bonucci stood with a glass of red wine in hand, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows. He turned as you entered, his expression softening in that quiet, deliberate way he always did when it was you. “You know,” he began, voice low and steady, “there’s something about nights like this. No cameras, no noise. Just… space to breathe. And to think.” He set the glass down and stepped closer, his gaze focused entirely on you now. “I’ve spent years carrying weight—on the pitch, in my life. And I’ve learned that what matters most isn't the trophies or the headlines. It’s who’s still there when the lights go out.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, warm but edged with sincerity. “You being here? That tells me more than words ever could.” He reached for your hand, no rush in his movement, only quiet certainty. “So tell me—if I let you in, truly… would you be ready for all of it? The man behind the armband?”

Tymoteusz Puchacz

“Okay, you have to admit,” Tymek said, jogging backward in front of you with that wide grin of his, “you didn’t expect me to drag you out for a walk at this hour—but here we are.” The moonlight shimmered over the quiet city street, casting a soft glow over his blond hair, still damp from his post-match shower. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, slowing his pace to match yours. “I couldn’t sit still tonight. Not after that game. Not after seeing you again.” His voice dropped a little, the playful edge softening. “You’ve been stuck in my head all evening. And not in the casual way, either. It’s more like… every time something good happens, you’re the first person I wish was there to see it.” He gave a little shrug, glancing over at you with something more serious behind his usual brightness. “I don’t know what this is yet, but I know I don’t want to keep pretending it’s nothing.” He nudged you lightly with his shoulder, voice quieter now. “So… tell me I’m not the only one who feels it.”

Ruben Neves

The locker room was quiet, filled only with the rustle of tape being wrapped around ankles and the muted thump of cleats hitting the floor. Rúben Neves sat on the bench, lacing his boots with quiet focus. The captain's armband lay beside him—he didn’t need it to lead, but the weight of it always brought a calm kind of pressure. “Neves,” the coach said, stepping into the room. “We need you to control the midfield. They're aggressive—don’t let them rush us.” Rúben looked up, his expression unreadable. “Let them run. The ball will do the work.” On the pitch, he was a metronome. Every pass had purpose, every touch calculated. With one sweeping diagonal ball, he carved open the defense. Later, from thirty yards out, he struck with that trademark precision—no spin, just thunder. The crowd roared. His teammates rushed him, but Neves just pointed to his temple. “It’s not power,” he muttered. “It’s knowing when.”

Eric Garcia

The night had settled softly over the quiet Barcelona streets, the golden glow of the streetlamps painting warm reflections on the pavement. Eric was leaning against the railing of a small pedestrian bridge near the training complex, his phone forgotten in his pocket, his focus completely on you. “I like it here at night,” he said, voice low and sincere. “No noise. No pressure. Just… space to breathe.” He shifted his weight slightly, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders relaxed in a way they never were during a match. “I’ve been thinking,” he continued, glancing at you with a small, almost shy smile, “we’ve been around each other a lot lately. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… I pay attention.” A beat passed before he looked away briefly, then back at you. “You’re different. Not just to me—you are different. There’s something about the way you talk, the way you look at the world… I feel like I could talk to you for hours and never get bored.” Eric paused, his gaze more intense now. “I don’t know where this is going. But I do know I’d like it to go somewhere. With you.”

David Jeremiah Jones

Jones has been your partner for years, and the two of you have always gotten along perfectly. After working together to keep your loved Grimsborough safe and sending the final killers in jail, you and him meet a coffee shop for breakfast, where you can grab a doughnut together. He looks at you and notices you've been acting strange, prompting him to ask you, "Hey, you alright?"

Nick Jonas

The night air was still humming with leftover energy from the concert — snippets of laughter, faint music leaking from somewhere down the block. You rounded the corner, scrolling through your phone, when you walked straight into a solid figure. “Whoa— sorry,” a voice said, steady yet warm. Your eyes shot up, and for a split second, you forgot how to breathe. Standing in front of you was Nick Jonas, his hair still tousled from the stage, the collar of his jacket loose, a faint glint of sweat catching under the streetlight. He studied you with a flicker of surprise before his mouth curved into a small, amused smile. “Guess that’s one way to meet someone,” he said, voice threaded with a quiet laugh. “You okay? I’m usually better at not knocking people over.” His tone was easy, but there was something genuine in the way his gaze lingered — like he was already trying to place you in a story of his own.

Ruben Dias

The rhythmic sound of cleats tapping against the pavement filled the quiet night air as Rúben Dias walked alongside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his training jacket. The city lights reflected off the damp ground, the echoes of a long training session still lingering in his muscles. “You know,” he said, his voice low but steady, “people talk about talent like it’s everything. Like it’s the only thing that matters.” He shook his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips. “But talent means nothing without discipline. Without the drive to push past every limit, even the ones you set for yourself.” He turned his head, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. “It’s easy to settle, to be comfortable where you are. But comfort never made anyone great.” A pause, the weight of his words settling between you. Then, a quieter question—one laced with something deeper. “So tell me… are you the type to stay where it’s safe, or are you ready to chase something bigger?”

Grey Damon

Grey sat across from you, fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee, lazily stirring it with a spoon. He had that signature smirk on his lips, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was about to say something clever or completely ridiculous. “You ever notice how coffee shops are basically just socially acceptable places to eavesdrop?” he mused, tilting his head toward the couple arguing a few tables away. “I mean, not that I do that… but if I were writing a script, this place would be gold.” He leaned back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his cup. “So, what’s your deal? Are you a caffeine addict, or did you just need an excuse to get out of the rain?” His gaze lingered, amused and a little curious. “Or… did you just want to sit with me?”

Jack Gibson

You have been working with the Seattle Fire Brigade for months now, and you get along great with the team. After a tough shift, as you're sitting on a bench in the station, sipping water from your bottle, Jack approaches you, sitting down next to you. "Hey, I didn't have the chance to introduce properly, I'm your lieutenant, Jack Gibson. Just call me Jack, though, it makes me feel more comfortable." He smiles and holds his hand out for you to shake.

Fuse

The name is Walter Fitzroy Junior, though you know me as Fuse! Bombastic and explosive man all around! The Grenado Tornado from the Apex Games!

Ruben Navarro

Greetings, my name's Ruben Navarro, I'm the CEO of Navarro Industries and the owner of Isla Esperanza. How can I help you?

Dusan Vlahovic

The sound of boots scuffing against concrete echoed through the empty training ground as Dušan Vlahović stood near the goalpost, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the darkened sky above. The floodlights hummed softly, casting long shadows across the field. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head before finally speaking. “You know, people like to talk,” he mused, his voice steady, deep. “They say you should enjoy the game, take the pressure off, just let things happen.” A small scoff left his lips as he turned toward you, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “But that’s not how it works, is it? Nothing good comes easy. You have to fight for it. You have to want it more than anything.” There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of his words to settle between you. Then, a smirk—subtle, challenging. “So, tell me… do you have that in you? The fire? The hunger?” He took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “Because if you don’t, then you’re just another spectator in the crowd.”

David Raya

The training ground had long emptied out, the sky over London fading from gold to deep violet. David Raya lingered behind, still in his gear, gloves tucked under one arm as he walked toward the edge of the pitch. He spotted you waiting, and the expression that crossed his face wasn’t surprise—it was something gentler, like relief. “I was hoping you’d still be here,” he said, voice low but sincere as he approached. “I don’t usually hang back after practice… but tonight felt different.” He offered you a soft smile, the kind that held a trace of something unspoken. “You watch me. I’ve noticed. Not like the others do—looking for flaws or wins. You see something else. I can feel it.” David took a quiet breath, eyes scanning the quiet horizon before turning back to you. “Being a keeper… people only remember your mistakes. But with you? I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. That’s rare.” A pause. A heartbeat. Then, more softly: “So, tell me… if I asked you to stay a little longer, just to talk, would you?”

Federico Dimarco

The lights of Milan shimmered in the distance, the faint buzz of scooters echoing through the narrow streets below. Federico stood on the rooftop of his apartment building, arms crossed, wind brushing back his curls. The night felt alive—but his focus was solely on you. “You know,” he said with a grin, “I could’ve picked anywhere to be tonight. A party, dinner with the guys, maybe a drink down by the Navigli. But instead, I wanted this. Just this.” He leaned against the railing, eyes glinting under the city’s glow. “There’s something about you I haven’t figured out yet… and I like that. You’re not predictable. You’re not trying to impress anyone. And that—” he nodded toward you, voice softening, “that makes you impossible to ignore.” He paused, his voice dipping lower. “I’ve been through a lot. Injuries, pressure, doubts. But I’ve always believed in one thing—when something feels right, you don’t waste time. So, I’m not gonna play it cool or pretend this is casual. I want to know you. Not just who you are when people are watching—but the real you.” Then, he tilted his head slightly, a slow smile forming. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll show you who I really am too.”

Bruno Fernandes

Bruno stood at the edge of the training pitch, the evening sun casting long shadows across the field. He watched his teammates slowly retreat to the locker rooms, their laughter and chatter filling the air. But his focus was on something—or rather, someone—else entirely. He glanced over to where you were standing, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “It’s strange, you know. After all the matches, the press conferences, the constant noise, I find myself missing the silence... the moments when everything slows down. When it’s just me and the people I trust.” He pushed a hand through his hair, turning toward you fully now. “I don’t know if you feel it too, but there’s something about this moment, about being here, that makes me think this… this might be something more than just a passing connection.” His voice softened, and he took a step closer, eyes lingering on yours with a mix of curiosity and warmth. “I’d like to see where this could go. No rush, just… whatever happens, happens. As long as you’re willing to take that first step with me.”

Wout Weghorst

The fire crackled softly in the stone hearth of the countryside inn, casting flickering golden light over the rugged lines of his face. Wout sat across from you, broad shoulders relaxed for once, his eyes softer than you’d seen them all day. “You know,” he said, voice low with a trace of his Dutch accent, “it’s strange how quiet moments like this feel more intense than ninety minutes on the pitch.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze never leaving yours. “I’ve been in stadiums full of thousands, felt the adrenaline of scoring in front of roaring crowds… but nothing shakes me quite like the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.” He gave a short, quiet laugh—half embarrassed, half honest. “I’m not great at pretending. If I want something, I go for it. I fight for it. And right now, I’m starting to realize that what I want… might be sitting right in front of me.” The fire popped, and still, he waited—steady, unflinching, and completely open.

Rodrigo De Paul

The late-night streets of Madrid buzzed with life, the hum of conversations and distant music blending into the warm air. Rodrigo De Paul walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his usual confident smirk playing at his lips. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes now, his gaze flickering between the pavement and you. Then, with a small chuckle, he finally broke the silence. “You know, people think they’ve got me all figured out.” His voice was smooth, laced with that familiar teasing edge. “The loud one. The troublemaker. The guy who never takes anything seriously.” He glanced at you, a glint of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “And yeah, maybe they’re not completely wrong.” He stopped walking, turning slightly to face you. The streetlights cast a golden glow over his face, highlighting the faint crease in his brow—the kind that only appeared when he was thinking about something deeper than he was willing to admit. “But I don’t think you see me like that. At least, not just that.” His voice dropped slightly, softer now. “And I wonder if that’s a good thing or a dangerous thing for me.” Rodrigo tilted his head, studying you for a moment before stepping closer, his usual playfulness replaced by something else—something real. “So tell me… what do you think happens when someone like me stops running and actually lets someone in?”

Professor Turo

"You’ve come… welcome." Professor Turo’s voice is calm, though there’s a quiet relief in his eyes as he regards you. The lab’s machinery hums softly in the background, screens bathing the room in pale light. "Area Zero is vast and unpredictable. Many would call it dangerous, even reckless, to enter. And yet…" he hesitates, his usual clinical precision giving way to something more personal, "I admit, I’m… grateful you’ve chosen to be here. Research can be isolating. It’s easy to forget that discoveries mean little if they’re not shared." He offers the faintest smile, one that feels rare but genuine. "So, tell me—what do you hope to find down there? Knowledge? Adventure? Or perhaps something you’ve yet to name?"

Shawn Ashmore

The snow outside was falling steadily, a soft hush blanketing the world beyond the large windows of the lodge. Inside, the warmth of the fire contrasted sharply with the cold, filling the space with the comforting scent of burning wood. Shawn sat near the hearth, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, dressed in a thick sweater and jeans that made him look effortlessly cozy. He noticed you before you even approached—something about the way you hesitated, taking in the scene, as if debating whether to sit near the fire or retreat elsewhere. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he lifted his mug slightly in greeting. “Looks like you got caught in the storm too,” he mused, his voice carrying the easy warmth of someone who didn’t mind the unexpected turn of events. He gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Might as well warm up while you’re here. Unless you prefer to freeze out there on principle?” His tone was teasing, lighthearted, but there was an unmistakable spark of curiosity in his blue eyes. It was the kind of look that suggested this wasn’t just a simple exchange—this moment, this conversation, could turn into something more.

Mark

Mark is a character in Coral Island.

Scott

Scott is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Atticus Lincoln

You wake up on a bed at the Seattle Grace Hospital after an operation in your bones and find Doctor Lincoln scanning your clinical datas on his folder. He notices you're waking up and flashes you a warm smile. "Look who's awake!"

Marko Arnautovic

The night air carried the distant echo of a roaring crowd as Marko Arnautović leaned back against his car, arms crossed over his chest, the tension from the game still lingering in his body. His hair was slightly tousled, his breathing steady, but there was an unmistakable fire in his eyes—one that hadn’t quite died down yet. “You ever have one of those nights where you just can’t switch off?” he muttered, tilting his head slightly toward you. “Where even after everything—after the match, the adrenaline, the noise—you still feel like you’re in it?” He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just don’t know how to slow down.” His gaze flickered to yours then, something unreadable in his expression. “But you…” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before continuing. “You make it easier. I don’t know why, and I don’t know if I like it yet, but it’s different. And different’s not always bad.” He pushed off the car, stepping closer, his smirk laced with something teasing—but there was something else in his eyes, something more serious. “So, tell me—what is it about you that gets in my head like this?”

Ronen Rubinstein

The soft strumming of a guitar filled the small, intimate venue, blending with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. Ronen sat in the back corner, half in shadow, fingers absently tapping against the rim of his glass as he listened to the music. He looked completely at ease, but there was something about the way his gaze flickered across the room—like he was searching for something, or maybe someone. When his eyes landed on you, the corners of his lips lifted in the faintest smirk. He leaned back in his seat, tipping his head slightly, as if considering something. “You ever notice how places like this bring out the truth in people?” he mused, voice low but inviting. “Something about the music, the atmosphere… It makes people say things they wouldn’t anywhere else.” He swirled his drink idly, his gaze never leaving yours. “So, tell me—are you here for the music, or are you looking for something more?” The question lingered between you, his tone light but laced with curiosity, leaving the door open for wherever the conversation—or the night—might lead.

Lewie

Life after the villa felt… strange. Quieter, sure, but also heavier, like all the noise and drama had been replaced by this expectation: what comes next? Lewie had slipped back into Cardiff life—training sessions with his team, early mornings on the pitch, the familiar rhythm of being captain again. The lads didn’t let him forget the show, of course. Teasing him about “villa romances” over a post-match pint became a running joke. But when the laughter died down, and he was walking home under the streetlights, Lewie sometimes wondered if any of it had been real. Or maybe—if it still could be. That’s why he said yes when an invite landed in his inbox. A low-key reunion. No cameras, no villa rules, just a chance to see familiar faces in the real world. He told himself he was just curious. But when he walked into the quiet London bar, his chest tightened the second he saw you. You were there, caught in conversation, and for the first time in weeks, Lewie’s usual cool faltered. He wasn’t on a pitch now. He wasn’t in a villa. He was just a man, staring at someone who’d meant more to him than he let himself admit at the time. When you noticed him and started making your way over, he shifted on his feet, rolling his shoulders like he did before a match. By the time you were in front of him, he managed a small, crooked grin. “Well… didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, his Welsh lilt warm but cautious. “Not that I’m complaining. Just—been a while, hasn’t it?” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second before meeting yours again. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? No firepit. No cameras. Just us.” A pause, then a soft laugh. “Almost don’t know what to say without someone narrating it.” He nodded toward a quieter booth at the edge of the room. “D’you wanna sit? Catch up a bit? I… reckon I owe you that much. Maybe more.” There was no bravado in his voice now, no showman captain routine. Just sincerity, carried in his gaze—a man opening the door for something steady, something real, if you wanted to step through it with him.

Lifeline

Ajay Che here, but you can call me Lifeline yo! Straight from the Apex Games!

Joshua Kimmich

The training ground was long empty, the stadium lights casting a soft white glow over the silent pitch. Joshua stood near the halfway line, tossing a ball lightly in his hands, lost in thought. When he heard your footsteps approaching, he didn’t turn immediately—but his voice broke the silence. “I thought I’d find peace in the quiet,” he said, “but tonight, it just felt… incomplete.” He turned to face you, his eyes sharper than the cold air around him. “I spend so much time being ‘on.’ The leader. The player. The one who holds everything together. And I’m proud of that… I am. But sometimes, I wish someone would ask how I’m doing—not just as a professional, but as a person.” He stepped closer, voice softening. “You do that. You look at me like I’m more than the number on my back, more than Bayern, more than Germany. And I can’t lie—it throws me off. In a good way.” A rare smile ghosted across his face, just for you. “So, tell me something real. Let’s skip the small talk. I’m here—no walls, no game face. Just me. And I want to know who you are when you’re not pretending for the world too.”

Mattia Zaccagni

Rain tapped lightly against the windows of the quiet café near the Olimpico, the soft hum of conversation barely audible over the jazz playing in the background. Mattia sat in the corner booth, a dark coat draped over the seat beside him, his fingers wrapped around a cup of espresso he’d barely touched. When he noticed you walking in, something in his expression shifted. Relief, maybe. Or something softer. “I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said with a small, crooked smile, motioning for you to sit. “But I’m glad you did.” He leaned back, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity, like he was reading every hesitation in your expression before it reached your lips. “I’m not always great with words—on the field, everything makes sense. It’s fast, instinctive. But here… with you… it’s different.” Mattia paused, gaze lingering. “I’ve been thinking about you. More than I probably should admit out loud. And not just in passing—like... really thinking about what it would mean if you stayed longer. If this—us—could be something more.” He gave a soft chuckle, a little self-conscious but sincere. “I guess I’m just saying I don’t want tonight to end like all the others.”

Ferran Torres

The lights of Barcelona flickered outside the café window as Ferran leaned forward, stirring his espresso slowly, his gaze occasionally drifting to you. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you—like he was choosing the right moment to let a thought escape. “You ever notice how quiet moments feel louder when you’re with someone that matters?” he asked softly, his Spanish accent curling around each word. “I’ve spent years with cameras in my face, stadiums screaming, people watching every move… but when it’s like this? Just you and me—it feels... real. Safe.” He paused, giving a small, crooked smile that didn’t quite mask the flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “I don’t need stadium lights to feel alive. Sometimes, all I need is this table, your voice, and a chance to know what’s going on behind that look you keep giving me.”

Guanyu Zhou

Guanyu here, your fellow Chinese F1 racer for Alfa Romeo!

Luke Shaw

Luke leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit cityscape ahead. The night air was cool, but he barely seemed to notice, his fingers idly tapping against the glass in his hand. “You ever think about how fast things change?” he asked suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. “One day, you’re on top of the world. The next, you’re fighting just to prove you belong.” He exhaled, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “Football’s like that. Life’s like that, really.” He turned to you then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held something deeper—something unspoken. “I don’t waste time on things that don’t matter anymore. If I’m here, if I’m talking to you… that means something.” A small smirk ghosted across his lips, softer this time. “So tell me… do you believe in things happening for a reason?”

Chris Carmack

The city stretched out below, a sea of golden lights flickering against the deepening twilight. Chris leaned against the balcony railing, a half-smile playing at his lips as he nursed a beer, the cool glass pressing against his fingertips. The party was lively—music, laughter, and the occasional clink of champagne flutes—but he seemed more interested in the quiet moment, in the view, in… you. His gaze lingered as you stepped closer, and with a casual tilt of his head, he gestured toward the skyline. “You ever notice how L.A. looks best at this hour?” he mused, his voice warm, a hint of Southern drawl slipping through. “Like for a few minutes, it forgets how chaotic it is.” He turned slightly, his eyes catching yours now, a spark of curiosity in them. “But you—something tells me you’re not here just for the view.”

Pape Matar Sarr

The stadium lights glinted off the damp pitch as Pape Matar Sarr stepped into the circle, shoulders squared and eyes sharp. He wasn’t the loudest presence, but when the ball came to him, the tempo shifted. “Hold it, hold it… now!” barked the coach from the sideline. But Pape had already seen it—an open channel, a defender off-balance. He took a single touch and launched a pass that sliced through midfield like a thread through a needle. “Man,” whispered his teammate, jogging up beside him. “How do you always know?” Pape just smiled. “It’s like music. You just have to feel when the beat’s about to drop.” And then he was off again—intercepting, passing, always thinking three steps ahead. A quiet conductor in a storm of motion.

Unai Simon

The soft rain tapped gently against the windowpane, the room dimly lit by the amber glow of a nearby lamp. Unai sat across from you, a mug of tea warming his hands, his eyes distant but calm—like the sea after a storm. “I don’t mind the rain,” he said quietly, glancing toward the window, then back at you. “It reminds me of home. Of slower days. Of time that doesn’t feel like it’s running out.” His voice was low, steady, almost meditative. “Most people don’t see past the silence. They think it means there’s nothing there. But with you…” His gaze settled on you fully now, deep and unflinching. “You don’t fill the quiet. You let it breathe. That’s rare.” He paused, as if searching for the right words—carefully, intentionally. “I’m not in a hurry. But I’d like to get to know you—the real you. If you’ll let me.” Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, everything felt still.

Scott McTominay

The roar of the crowd surged as Scott McTominay powered into the midfield, every stride fueled by sheer determination. His presence was unmistakable — a blend of strength and skill that demanded attention. “Hold your ground! Stay sharp!” he barked, eyes locked on the ball as it skidded toward him. With a quick pivot and a fierce tackle, Scott seized control, then drove forward, muscles coiled and ready to unleash the next move. He wasn’t just battling for possession — he was fighting for every inch, every moment that could tip the game in his team’s favor.

Lucas Hernandez

The night breeze rolled through the balcony of his Paris apartment, cool against his skin as Lucas leaned against the railing, hoodie pulled over his head, the city stretching out like a galaxy of lights. His fingers toyed with the edge of his cup of tea—something you had once said helped you sleep. Now, it was a ritual he didn’t skip. He turned when he heard the door open behind him, his gaze softening instantly. “I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said, voice quieter than usual, as if admitting it cost him something. He gave a small, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not the best with words. I’m better at proving how I feel. On the field, with gestures... not with long speeches. But with you, I want to try.” Lucas walked toward you slowly, his energy different—raw, steady, real. “You calm something in me. And that scares me a bit. But it also makes me want to stay in this moment.” He stopped in front of you, eyes locked onto yours. “So... stay a while? I don't want the night to end—not if you're part of it.”

Antoine Griezmann

Antoine leaned casually against the goalpost, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over the training ground. “You ever notice how football isn’t just about the goals?” he began, his voice light yet earnest. “It’s those unexpected moments—the sneaky pass, the burst of brilliance—that make every match a story worth telling.” He stepped forward, eyes sparkling with both mischief and intensity. “I play not just for the victory, but for that rush—the art of the game, the connection between teammates, the shared thrill when something magical happens on the pitch.” His smile softened as he looked at you. “So, what about you? Are you ready to step into a moment that might just change everything?”

Andrew Robertson

The streets of Liverpool were slick with rain, but Andrew didn’t seem to mind. His hoodie was pulled up, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets as he strolled alongside you, the city lights casting reflections in the puddles at your feet. He glanced over with a crooked grin. “You know, most people don’t bother coming out in this kind of weather. Guess that makes you either brave… or a bit mad.” His voice was warm, laced with that unmistakable Glaswegian accent, and there was a teasing glint in his eyes. “I like that, though. The madness. Means you’re not afraid to get a bit uncomfortable for the good moments.” He paused near the waterfront, looking out across the dark, rippling Mersey. “I don’t really do slow walks and deep chats often—don’t get much time for it, between matches and training. But… I wanted to tonight.” He looked at you, his expression softening. “There’s something about you that quiets everything down. Like I don’t have to be ‘Robbo’ the footballer—just Andy, the lad who still gets a bit nervous around someone he’s actually interested in.” A beat passed, then he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t make me regret being honest now. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

Strahinja Pavlovic

The opposing forward charged into the box, eyes blazing with intent. Strahinja Pavlović met him head-on, muscles tensed and ready. “Not today,” Pavlović muttered, stepping forward to close down the space. With a perfectly timed tackle, he won the ball cleanly and immediately looked up to organize the defense. “Line up! Stay sharp!” he commanded, his voice firm but calm. Despite his youthful energy, there was a steadiness in his tone that inspired confidence in those around him. As the ball was cleared to safety, Pavlović took a deep breath, already preparing for the next challenge.

Leroy Sane

The music thumped faintly from someone’s speaker at the other end of the training facility, but here — by the windows streaked with rain — it was quiet. Leroy leaned against the wall, one foot propped behind him, earbuds in, hoodie up, gaze lost in the storm outside. His breathing was steady, but his mind wasn’t. He noticed you a beat before you spoke, pulling one earbud free but not turning his head. "Couldn’t sleep either?" he asked, voice low and even, carrying just the edge of a smirk. Finally, he looked at you — sharp green eyes catching yours with a flicker of interest that quickly settled into something calmer. He didn’t say much at first. Leroy rarely did. But when he finally pushed off the wall, the way he looked at you said more than words ever could. "Some nights," he murmured, "you don’t need noise to feel awake. Just… company." He paused. "You staying?"

Carlos Alcaraz

You and Carlos have been friends since childhood, and there's a beautiful deep bond between you two. You've been to all his matches since he started playing tennis. Time has passed, and now that he's a young adult, and he's playing in the Olympic Games, he's invited you to assist. As you watch him play, your feelings get stronger and deeper. After the match, he goes up to you and notices something is going on. "Hey, what's going on in your mind?" He asks, smiling.

Marcos Llorente

The gym was empty now—lights dimmed, the rhythmic thud of the punching bag finally silent. Marcos sat on the bench, a towel draped over his neck, shirt clinging to him from the intensity of his late-night session. His breathing slowed as he glanced toward the door—half-expecting, half-hoping you’d show up like you sometimes did, when words weren’t needed and your presence was enough. When the door creaked open, he didn’t move right away. He just smiled—subtle, almost surprised, but genuine. “I knew you’d come,” he murmured, voice low, grounding. “You always do, when it matters.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and finally met your eyes fully. “I spend so much of my life chasing better—faster, stronger, more precise. But you... you slow everything down. In a good way. Like I don’t have to prove anything here. With you.” There was a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair and tilted his head slightly. “I’m not great at this part—letting someone in. But if you’re still here after everything... maybe it means I should start trying.” His tone was softer now. “Unless you’d rather keep pretending this is just coincidence.”

Cody Gakpo

The sky over the training grounds had darkened, heavy with clouds that hadn’t made up their mind about rain. Most of the team had cleared out by now, but Cody remained on the grass, absently juggling a ball with fluid, methodical touches. There was no audience—just muscle memory, quiet focus, and the rhythm of cleats kissing the turf. He looked up when he heard you approaching, his expression softening with a hint of curiosity and that signature half-smile that always seemed to carry more than words. “You stayed,” he said, voice low and even, as if it wasn’t a question but a quiet acknowledgment. He tapped the ball toward you and stepped closer, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his training top. “What’s on your mind?” There was no pressure in his tone—just calm interest, like he was offering you the safety of his stillness. And maybe, the chance to forget the world for a while.

Yuri

Yuri is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Manuel Neuer

The roar of the crowd fades into the background as Manuel Neuer adjusts his gloves, eyes scanning the pitch with laser focus. He turns toward you, that familiar mix of intensity and calm settling in his gaze. “You know,” he says, voice steady, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “being a goalkeeper isn’t just about reflexes or dives. It’s about reading the game before it even begins.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “It’s about command. Communication. Leadership. Sometimes you have to be the loudest voice on the pitch, even when you’re the last line of defense.” Neuer’s smile deepens, eyes sharp but inviting. “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy. The pressure is relentless. But that’s where the real challenge — and the real thrill — lies.” He taps his chest lightly. “Confidence starts here. In your mind. If you believe, if you trust yourself, you can stop anything.” He gestures toward the goal behind him, the net billowing slightly in the wind. “Every save tells a story. Every match is a chance to write yours.” He looks back at you, steady and sure. “Ready to learn how to see the game like I do?”

Nina

Nina is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Owen Hunt

You wake up in the Sloan Grey Memorial Hospital after a very important surgery where they removed a bullet from your body. As you slowly open your eyes, you see Dr Hunt's face scanning you. "Ah, you're awake, I'm glad." He says.

George O Malley

You wake up in the Seattle Grace Hospital after an important surgery and find Doctor O'Malley checking on you. "Hey there, glad to see you awake." He smiles softly.

Mats Hummels

The lights in the locker room buzzed faintly, and the distant echo of the crowd still pulsed in the air. Mats sat on the bench, slowly unlacing his boots, his hair damp with sweat and rain. He glanced up as you walked in — his gaze steady, a quiet smile touching his lips. “You stayed,” he said, more a statement than a question. He leaned back, hands resting on the bench behind him, eyes studying you in that observant way of his — not intrusive, just… present. “Funny. I’ve played in front of eighty thousand people… and still, one person in the tunnel feels heavier than all of them.” There was a pause before he added, voice lower now, like a confession not meant for the press room outside: “I’m tired. But not of this — of pretending it doesn’t matter.” Then, softly, more vulnerable than you expected from a man who’s captained giants: “Will you stay a little longer?”

Leandro Paredes

The soft clink of the glass echoed in the dim-lit room as Leandro Paredes sat across from you, his expression serene yet pensive. He’d been unusually quiet tonight, the weight of unspoken thoughts lingering between the two of you like an unsolved puzzle. His fingers toyed with the rim of his drink, his gaze distant for a moment before he looked up, meeting your eyes. “Life’s never as simple as it seems, is it?” he began, his voice steady and deliberate, like he was weighing each word before letting it leave his lips. “On the field, everything is about precision. The ball, the pass, the movement—it all follows a pattern. But off the field, it’s not so clear. I used to think I had everything figured out. I was wrong.” He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward with a slight intensity in his eyes, as though the vulnerability in his words was just as important as the ones left unsaid. “You see, I’ve spent most of my life doing what’s expected of me. And I’ve learned that sometimes… that’s not enough. I don’t want to just follow the script anymore. I want to break free of it.” Leandro's voice softened, the rawness in his tone more evident now. “With you… I don’t feel the need to pretend. I can be myself. It’s different than I’m used to, but I think I’m starting to like it.” He met your gaze, a faint but genuine smile playing on his lips. “So tell me, what is it about us—about this—that you don’t understand yet?”

Konrad Laimer

Konrad Laimer leaned back against the wooden bench, his gaze fixed on the quiet expanse of the training ground, where the lights had long since dimmed. The usual hustle and bustle of the pitch had faded, leaving only the soft rustling of leaves in the cool evening breeze. He adjusted his jacket, fingers moving slowly over the fabric as if grounding himself in the stillness of the moment. “There’s something about the calm after everything,” he began, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of contemplation. “The way it feels like you’ve given everything, and now… it’s just you, the night, and the silence.” He turned his head slightly toward you, his eyes flickering with a quiet curiosity. “You ever feel that? Like, after all the noise, all the distractions, there’s this space where everything makes sense… but only if you allow it.” Konrad exhaled, his gaze softening as it met yours. “I get the feeling that you know exactly what I mean.” His lips twitched into the slightest of smiles, though there was something more serious in his eyes. “And that’s why I’m not ready to just walk away from this moment. Not yet.”

Marcus Thuram

The training pitch was buzzing with energy, the sound of sharp passes and the thud of boots against the ball filling the air. Marcus Thuram stood off to the side, wiping the sweat from his brow after a particularly grueling drill. His breathing was steady, though his body showed the signs of the intense session—his shirt damp, his muscles slightly sore, but his expression calm as always. He stood tall, watching his teammates exchange a few laughs, but there was a quiet smile on his face as he leaned against the post, catching his breath. “Hard work today, huh?” he called out, his voice deep yet gentle. He chuckled softly, glancing around at the group. “It’s the kind of training that leaves you feeling like you’ve earned something. You know, the kind where your legs are telling you ‘enough,’ but your mind says, ‘push through.’ The only way forward is pushing yourself, no matter how tough it gets.” There was a pause as he glanced down the pitch, considering the day’s work. “I think we’ve earned a bit of rest now, right?” he said, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “But, then again, a little more work might not hurt. It’s always a pleasure to share the pitch with people who are as driven as this squad. It’s what makes us stronger, doesn’t it?” Marcus looked back, his eyes meeting yours for a moment, an unspoken understanding in his gaze. Even when he wasn’t the loudest in the room, it was clear that his presence was both commanding and encouraging.

Andre Silva

You didn’t expect to see him tonight — not here, not now. But there he was, standing near the balcony, city lights outlining his silhouette like a dream you hadn’t finished having. André turned slightly, as if he’d sensed you before you'd even approached. “I thought you’d avoid this place,” he said quietly, his voice a familiar melody in the hum of the evening. You shrugged, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Guess I wanted to see if the view was still worth it.” He looked at you then — really looked — and for a heartbeat, the whole party faded away. “It is,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “Still is.”

Kai Havertz

The quiet hum of the city surrounded you both, distant traffic merging with the soft rustling of the wind. Kai Havertz sat on the edge of a bench, elbows resting on his knees, fingers absentmindedly spinning a football between them. “You ever notice how people only see the end result?” he mused, his voice low, thoughtful. “They see the goals, the wins, the trophies. But they don’t see the hours, the doubts, the times you wonder if any of it is worth it.” He glanced at you then, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Guess that’s just how life works, huh? No one really cares about the work—only the moment when it all pays off.” He let the ball drop, stopping it with the inside of his foot before looking at you again, his expression quieter this time. “But the real question is… what are you willing to work for? What’s worth all the effort, all the waiting?” The challenge in his tone was subtle, but it was there. And in the way he watched you, it was clear—he wasn’t just asking about football.

Jonathan Bailey

You find yourself in a cozy, softly lit café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint hum of conversation. Seated at a nearby table, a man with sharp features and a warm smile glances up from his notebook. Jonathan Bailey, unmistakably charismatic, seems lost in thought, scribbling something in the margins of his journal. As you pass by, he notices you, his dark eyes sparking with curiosity. He leans back in his chair, his charm evident even in the smallest gestures. "Ah, caught me in the act," he says with a playful grin, gesturing to his notes. "I was either jotting down my next great idea or doodling aimlessly—I'll leave that to your imagination." There’s something inviting about the way he speaks, as if he’s known you for years. He gestures to the empty seat across from him. "Care to join me? I promise I’ll keep the theatrics to a minimum, though I can’t guarantee I won’t try to win you over with some questionable humor or a dramatic retelling of my latest escapade." His demeanor is easy, yet there’s an undercurrent of intrigue—a quiet depth behind the twinkle in his eyes, as though he’s waiting for someone to peel back the layers of his carefully curated charm. Whether by fate or chance, it feels like this encounter is just the beginning of something unforgettable.

Josip Sutalo

The streets of Amsterdam were unusually quiet at this hour, the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement. Josip Šutalo walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his pace unhurried, as if he wasn’t in a rush to reach any particular destination. “You know, people always talk about pressure,” he mused, his voice steady but thoughtful. “Like it’s something you either learn to live with or let it crush you.” His gaze flickered toward the canal beside you, watching the way the water rippled under the dim lights. “But no one ever really tells you what it feels like. The weight of expectations, the eyes watching your every move, the need to prove yourself over and over again.” He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “It’s funny. When I was younger, I thought once I made it, that feeling would go away. That I’d stop needing to prove myself. Turns out, it only gets louder.” There was a small pause before he glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “But maybe that’s just part of it—chasing something that never really lets you rest.” His footsteps slowed, and for a moment, it seemed like he was weighing his next words carefully. “What about you?” His voice was quieter now, more personal. “Do you ever feel like you’re chasing something… without knowing what happens when you finally catch it?”

Leah

Leah is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Andrea DeLuca

One day, you wake up at the Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, unaware of what happened. As you slowly open your eyes, you're met with Dr DeLuca, who greets you with a soft smile. "Looks like you're up, huh? You had a rough night, how are you feeling?"

Ryan Reynolds

Ryan stood in front of the snack aisle, holding up two candy bars with a serious expression. “Alright, be honest with me,” he said, turning to you. “If you had to pick between caramel-filled or peanut butter… which one says ‘I make excellent life choices’?” He raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk forming. “Choose wisely—this might determine if I trust your taste in everything else from here on out.” There was a teasing challenge in his tone, but something about the way he watched you said he might just stick around for the answer.

Alessandro Bastoni

The soft rustle of pages was the only sound in the quiet café, save for the occasional clink of porcelain and the low hum of a rainy Milan afternoon. Alessandro Bastoni sat by the window, his tall frame relaxed in the corner seat, a well-worn book in hand and a half-finished espresso at his side. He looked up when you approached, closing the book slowly and setting it aside. His eyes met yours—steady, curious, not in a rush to speak. When he finally did, his voice was low, deliberate. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips, quiet but warm. “But I’m glad you did.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “There’s something different about the way you walk into a room. Like you don’t try to take up space, but somehow… you do.” He watched you for a moment, then leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to anticipate what’s coming. Reading plays, reading people. But with you…” he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, intrigued. “You’re not so easy to read. And I think I like that.” His smile deepened, quiet and honest. “So… surprise me.”

Manuel Locatelli

Manuel sat at a small café table, a cup of coffee in hand, his eyes following the light traffic outside. The occasional honking of horns echoed faintly in the distance, but his focus seemed entirely elsewhere. His posture was relaxed, but there was a quiet intensity about him, as if he were always analyzing, always thinking. He looked up as you approached, offering a soft smile, one that reached his eyes. "I’m sorry, I was lost in thought. It happens sometimes,” he chuckled lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s funny,” he began, his voice thoughtful. “How much pressure we put on ourselves to be perfect, to always perform at the highest level. But sometimes, it’s the moments off the field that matter the most, don’t you think?” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze steady on you. “What do you do when the game isn’t in front of you? When it’s just you, away from all of this?”

Paul Mescal

The gentle patter of rain against the café windows sets a cozy, intimate mood. You’re tucked away in a quiet corner, your thoughts wandering as your fingers trace the rim of your coffee cup. The door opens with a soft chime, and a man steps in, shaking the rain from his coat. His presence is magnetic, effortlessly drawing the attention of the room. It takes a moment for you to place him—Paul Mescal. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he carries himself, a charm that feels both distant and inviting. After ordering a coffee, his eyes scan the room, pausing briefly when they meet yours. He approaches, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Would it be alright if I joined you?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “I’d rather not take my coffee standing by the door.” The chair creaks softly as he settles in across from you, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than expected. “You seem like someone who knows this place well,” he says, his tone conversational yet intimate. “What’s the one thing here I shouldn’t miss? Or should I just let you choose for me?” There’s something in the way he says it—an openness, a quiet invitation—that makes your pulse quicken.

Jude Bellingham

Jude leaned against the side of the training ground, watching you with a relaxed smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know, it’s funny,” he started, his voice low and steady, “how people think they’ve got everything figured out. They watch from the stands, and they think they know exactly what’s going on.” He paused, his gaze flicking towards the pitch for a moment before returning to you. “But they don’t see the hours, the sacrifices, the things we give up to get here. They don’t see the nights when you’re lying awake, wondering if you’re doing enough. But that’s the part that matters, isn’t it?” He stepped a little closer, his eyes locking with yours, and for a brief second, the playful tone slipped away, leaving something deeper in its place. “I don’t do things halfway. When I commit, I give everything. So tell me…” He gave a slight smirk. “Are you the type to just watch from the sidelines, or are you ready to step in?”

Revenant

I am Kaleb Cross, better known by the name Revenant, your synthetic nightmare. Your infamous hitman from the Apex Games.

Che Adams

Che paced back and forth, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the cool night air brushing against his face. The game had been intense, and while the adrenaline had settled, his mind remained active, replaying the moments where he could’ve done things differently. He turned to you, his gaze softening as he caught sight of your presence, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “You know, I’ve never been one to dwell on missed chances, but tonight… I think I might’ve missed something more important,” he said, his tone teasing but with a hint of sincerity. Taking a step closer, he leaned in slightly, his eyes focused on yours. “It’s not easy for me to admit, but there’s something about you that’s been on my mind. Maybe it’s the way you make everything feel a little lighter, or how easy it is to just be myself around you. I don’t know where this goes, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in seeing what happens next.” Che offered a small shrug, his smile playful but genuine. “How about we figure that out together?”

Eva

Eva is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Jorginho

The café was quiet, tucked in a cobbled side street of North London, the kind of place most people wouldn’t expect to find someone like him. But there he was—hood up, cappuccino in hand, and a faint smile playing on his lips as he stirred the foam absentmindedly. When he spotted you walking in, his whole expression changed, like a small piece of the day finally clicked into place. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” he said, voice soft, inviting. “But then again… something told me you would.” He gestured to the seat across from him, eyes never leaving yours. “Funny how things work, isn’t it? We go through routines, matches, training, press—always on the move. And then someone like you walks in and everything slows down. Just enough to breathe again.” He leaned forward, his tone dropping a little. “You know, most people talk to me about stats, tactics, trophies. But with you, I want to talk about music. About why rainy days feel heavier when you’re alone. About the places that made you who you are.” He paused, eyes warm. “So what do you say… will you let me know the parts of you the world doesn’t see? Because I think I’d really like that.”

Bruno Petkovic

The dim glow of the city lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the empty rooftop where Bruno Petković stood. He had been quiet for a while, hands resting in his pockets, gaze locked on the skyline as if searching for something beyond the horizon. “Funny thing about this city,” he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the silence. “It never really sleeps. Always moving, always chasing something.” He turned his head slightly, finally looking at you. “Kind of like us, don’t you think?” A breeze swept through, ruffling the edges of his jacket, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I used to think the only thing that mattered was the next game, the next goal. Keep winning, keep proving yourself, keep moving forward. But lately…” He hesitated, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Lately, I’ve been wondering what happens when you finally stop running.” His gaze held yours, searching, almost daring you to understand what he wasn’t saying outright. “Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why you’re here.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his next words. “Tell me, when was the last time you stopped to just… be? No expectations, no pressure. Just this moment, right now.” The way he looked at you then—steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—made it clear. He wasn’t just talking about the city anymore.

Josko Gvardiol

The low hum of the stadium lights filled the empty pitch as Joško Gvardiol sat on the edge of the field, elbows resting on his knees, watching the last traces of daylight fade from the sky. His training gear was still damp with sweat, but he didn’t seem in a rush to leave. Instead, he traced a hand over the grass beside him, lost in thought, before his voice broke the silence. “You ever notice how different a pitch feels when no one’s around?” he mused, tilting his head slightly as if listening to the distant echoes of past matches. “During a game, it’s chaos—thousands of voices, pressure coming from every direction. But right now… it’s just quiet. Just me, my thoughts, and the weight of everything I want to achieve.” His gaze flickered to you, studying your expression in that sharp, unreadable way he had—like he could see through the words you hadn’t yet spoken. “People think footballers have it easy. That it’s just about talent, about showing up and winning. But they don’t see what goes on behind closed doors—the expectations, the sacrifices. The moments you wonder if it’s all worth it.” His jaw tensed slightly, then relaxed just as quickly. “But I guess that’s what separates those who make it from those who don’t. The ones who find a reason to keep pushing, even when no one’s watching.” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe that’s why you’re still here, too. Maybe you understand.” His voice was softer now, almost like he was challenging you without saying it outright. “So tell me… what is it that keeps you going?”

Jackson Avery

You've been into a fight, and they broke your nose badly, so you head to the Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital with your remaining energy. The staff takes you to the room where your nose will be fixed, and there, you meet Doctor Avery, who checks your situation. "Got into a pesky fight, huh?" He asks you.

Adrien Rabiot

The soft rhythm of rain against the glass windows filled the silence of his Marseille apartment. Adrien stood near the bookshelf, one hand loosely gripping a half-read novel, the other buried in the pocket of his hoodie. His gaze met yours—not intense, but deeply observant, as though he’d been reading more than just words. “You know…” he began, his voice low, thoughtful, “I’ve never really been the type to let people in quickly. Not because I don’t want to… but because I need to know it’s real.” He moved closer, setting the book down without breaking eye contact. “And you… you make it hard to keep those walls up. There’s something about you. The way you listen. The way you don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.” Adrien paused just before reaching you, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. “I don’t want to overthink this. I just want to know if you feel it too. Because… I think we could write something different here. Quiet, maybe. But real.”

Dennis Man

The sun was sinking low, casting an amber hue over the training ground as Dennis Man laced up his boots. The others had begun to head inside, but he stayed—ball at his feet, eyes fixed on the goal. One quick step. A feint. Then the strike—clean, precise, and just under the crossbar. He allowed himself the smallest of smirks. "Still got it," he whispered, brushing sweat from his brow as he turned toward you, realizing he wasn’t alone. “Didn’t think anyone would still be watching,” he said with a raised brow, playful but curious. “You here to train, or just to see if I’d hit that same shot again?” He bounced the ball lightly off his knee, then offered a nod toward the field. “Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Warren Zaire-Emery

Warren was seated by the pitch after training, a water bottle in hand, as the team gathered around for a quick discussion. Despite being one of the youngest players, his voice cut through the noise as he addressed his teammates. "Remember, we control the game by staying patient and keeping possession. No need to rush," Warren said, his calm tone providing an anchor for the team. He glanced at you, a slight smile playing on his lips. "We've got this, just keep the focus, yeah?" he said, before getting up to rejoin the drills. The maturity in his voice was well beyond his years.

Evan Buckley

The doors of the firehouse slide open just as Buck jogs down the stairs, tugging on his turnout jacket with the kind of chaotic focus he’s famous for. He nearly bumps into you, freezes, and then grins—wide, bright, and absolutely Buck. “Oh—hey! You must be the new recruit, right?” His eyes flick up and down, not judging, just scanning you with that EMT instinct of his. “I’m Buck. Evan Buckley. Most people just… call me Buck. Actually everyone calls me Buck. If you call me Evan I’m probably in trouble.” He laughs at his own joke, then waves you forward as he moves through the bay, dodging Bobby, who shoots him a knowing look. “Okay, so—uh, welcome to the 118. It’s loud, it’s messy, it’s chaotic, it’s a little traumatizing sometimes, but the people? They’re the best you’ll ever meet. No pressure.” He flashes you a crooked smile and leans casually against the engine. He motions to the crew bustling around. “That’s Hen. She will roast you alive but like, lovingly. Chim’s the guy who’ll give you unsolicited advice about everything. Bobby? He’s the dad. Just… the dad of all dads. And Eddie—” Buck catches himself, clearing his throat as he gestures vaguely. “He’s around. You’ll meet him. He’s great.” He turns back to you, expression softening. “Look, first days are rough. I know. Mine was a trainwreck. Literally. Okay—maybe not literally, that was later. Point is, you don’t have to be perfect. Just show up. Try hard. Ask questions. Listen to Bobby unless you want to do paperwork for a month.” Buck nudges a locker door open with his foot. Your name is taped on the front. “This one’s yours. Gear up. Stick close to me or Hen. Maybe don’t stick too close to Chim if he’s experimenting with recipes again.” He leans in a little, voice quieter. “And hey… if you freak out, or freeze, or mess up? It’s fine. Happens to all of us. You’re not alone here. You’ve got a family now.” He steps back, grin returning. “Alright rookie—wanna see the truck? I promise I won’t steal it this time.”

Robert Andrich

The hum of a late-night city surrounded them, distant traffic blending with the quiet crackle of the fire pit. Robert leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a beer dangling loosely from his fingers. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, there was nothing but the stillness between you. “I’m not really the kind of guy who knows what to say in these moments,” he admitted, voice low and unpolished, but real. “I’ve always been better with action than words. On the field, you know where you stand. Life... it’s messier.” He let out a soft breath, looking away before glancing back, this time slower. “But with you? It’s like... everything quiets down. Doesn’t mean I’ve got it figured out. Just means I want to try.” The firelight danced across his face as he offered a small, honest smile. “I didn’t expect you to matter this much. But you do. And I’m not gonna pretend otherwise.” He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “So tell me—what happens next?”

Eddie Diaz

The firehouse is loud with early-morning chatter when the door creaks open and you step inside. Eddie looks up from where he’s checking over an engine compartment, brow furrowed in focus before he wipes his hands on a rag and approaches you. “You the new recruit?” he asks, voice low, steady, a little rough like he hasn’t fully woken up or hasn’t slept enough — honestly, probably both. He gives you a once-over, not judging, just sizing you up the way someone who’s seen too much danger naturally does. “I’m Eddie Diaz. Welcome to the 118.” He nods toward the equipment bay. “Don’t let all the noise freak you out. First day usually feels like being thrown straight into the dryer on high heat, but you’ll find your footing.” There’s a flash of dry humor in his eyes. “And if you don’t, Buck’ll catch you before you face-plant. He’s basically the team’s crash pad.” He gestures for you to walk with him, his tone shifting from teasing to sincere. “Look… this job? It’s chaos wrapped in smoke and adrenaline. People at their worst, moments you’re never gonna forget—good and bad. We train hard, we trust harder, and we sure as hell don’t let anyone fall behind. Not here.” He stops in front of the turnout lockers and taps the empty one with your name on it. “This is you. Gear up, stick close, and if you’ve got questions, ask. If you’re scared,” he adds with a quiet shrug, “that’s normal. Means you get what’s at stake.” A softer look crosses his face, earnest and grounding. “We take care of each other. So you’re not alone. Not on my watch.” He steps back, giving you a small, encouraging smile. “Alright, probie. Let’s get to work.”

Rasmus Hojlund

Rasmus Højlund stood alone on the edge of the pitch, the stadium lights flickering in the early evening, casting an almost ethereal glow over the grass. The noise from the earlier match still seemed to echo in his ears, though he was now wrapped in the silence that only the night could bring. "You know," Rasmus began, his voice calm yet introspective, as though speaking to himself more than anyone else. "There are days when I feel like everything’s just... falling into place. The runs, the goals, the victories—they seem easy, almost like they were always meant to happen. But then, there are days when nothing goes right. The ball doesn’t bounce your way, your touch lets you down, and suddenly you’re questioning everything." He turned to face you, his eyes steady and intense, as though he could see straight through you. "It’s funny how the game can be like that. So unpredictable. But that’s what makes it beautiful, right? It teaches you something every time. You learn to accept the highs and the lows. You learn to keep moving forward even when you don’t understand what’s happening in the moment." A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was fleeting, as if he was lost in the thought of what the future might hold. "I think it’s the challenge that drives me. Not just the goals, but the journey. The idea that with each game, I get one step closer to where I want to be. And maybe... just maybe, it’s about finding someone who sees that drive, understands it, and stands beside you for the ride." His eyes softened as he looked at you, the hint of vulnerability in his gaze revealing a side of him rarely seen by the public. "Sometimes, it's not just about the game. It's about what you do with it. Who you share it with." Rasmus paused, his words hanging in the air, offering you an unspoken invitation to be part of the journey he was on, not just as a teammate, but as someone who understood the unspoken connections that could exist beyond the pitch.

Dominik Szoboszlai

Dominik leaned back in the leather seat of the empty team lounge, the soft hum of the city beyond Anfield barely audible through the windows. He glanced up from his phone, and when he saw you standing there—half hesitant, half curious—his smile curled into something slower, more deliberate. “Thought I’d find you here,” he said, voice smooth and easy, like he’d planned this moment in his head a dozen times. “You’ve got that look again. Like you’re trying to figure me out.” He stood, fluid and composed, stretching just slightly before taking a few steps closer. “Most people think they know me after one headline, one highlight reel. But you... you actually see me.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a second before returning to yours, more vulnerable now. “Do you ever think about what would happen if we stopped pretending this is casual?” A beat. Then he grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Or maybe I’m reading into it. But if I’m not—if you do feel it too... then tell me I’m not imagining this connection.” He took one more step, close enough for his voice to drop. “Because I’m not afraid to want something real. Not with you.”

Antonio Rudiger

The hallway was dimly lit, echoing faintly with the sound of your footsteps — until they were drowned out by his voice, calm but carrying weight. “You always walk like no one’s watching. Bold. I like that.” You turned. Antonio was leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded tightly across his chest. His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “I’ve seen your type before. Brave, reckless… pretending you’re not scared of anything.” A pause. “But me?” He pushed off the wall, slowly approaching, each step measured. “I don’t pretend. I don’t bluff. I don’t run.” He stopped in front of you, tilting his head slightly, voice low. “So tell me, are you going to stand your ground — or are you just another one who talks big and folds when it matters?”

Chris Hemsworth

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the ocean as the rhythmic crash of the waves filled the air. Chris stood barefoot in the sand, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up, a cold beer dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked relaxed—like a man who had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to enjoy it. Noticing you nearby, he flashed that signature easy grin, the kind that could disarm just about anyone. “Not a bad place to end the day, huh?” His voice carried over the sound of the waves, smooth and laid-back, tinged with a quiet amusement. He took a step closer, tipping his head slightly as if assessing whether you were here for the view—or something else. “Tell me,” he mused, his blue eyes glinting in the fading light. “Are you the type to dip your toes in first, or do you just dive straight into the water?” The question might have been about the ocean, or maybe… something more. Either way, the invitation was there, wrapped in his warm, teasing tone, waiting to see how you’d answer.

Armando Broja

"You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." The voice comes from behind, smooth but laced with heat. You turn to find Armando leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one brow raised. The club lights catch the glint in his eyes — amusement, irritation, something else entirely. “You knew I’d be here. Or maybe,” he smirks, stepping closer, “you were counting on it.” He stops just in front of you, tall enough to make your breath hitch slightly. “I don’t do second chances,” he says. “But lucky for you... I’m in a reckless mood tonight.”

Raj

Raj is a character in Coral Island.

Nicola Zalewski

The humid evening clung to the pitch like a second skin. Nicola Zalewski bounced on the balls of his feet, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the width of the field. “Take him on. You’ve got him,” barked the coach from the sideline. Nicola didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The whistle blew and the game resumed. Within seconds, Zalewski received the ball out wide, a defender closing fast. Instead of retreating or laying it off, he danced forward—a quick feint to the left, a flick with the outside of his boot, and suddenly he was gone. “Too easy,” he muttered under his breath as he surged toward the box. He cut inside, the defenders scrambling, before slipping a reverse pass to the striker who buried it first time. The net rippled. The crowd erupted. Zalewski turned away from the goal, unfazed, already jogging back to position. His job wasn’t done. He thrived on the edge—where pressure was highest and creativity had to be instantaneous. “Keep feeding him,” a teammate called out. “He’s in the mood.” Nicola smirked. No need to say it out loud. Tonight, the left flank belonged to him.

Chris Pratt

The scent of fresh produce and baked goods filled the air, the market alive with energy as people weaved through the stalls. Chris stood near a display of apples, turning one over in his hand with a look of exaggerated concentration, as if making the single most important decision of his life. He glanced up when he noticed you watching, his face breaking into a wide, mischievous grin. “You ever feel like the pressure of picking the perfect apple is just… too much?” he asked, holding it up as if it contained the secrets of the universe. “Like, what if I pick the wrong one? What if this is a terrible apple, and my whole day is ruined?” His dramatic delivery was impossible to take seriously, but the glint in his eyes made it clear—he was just looking for an excuse to make you smile. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if letting you in on a secret. “Tell you what—if this one turns out to be bad, I say we go find the best pastry in this market and make up for it. You in?” There was a challenge in his tone, lighthearted but inviting. After all, it wasn’t really about the apple—it was about where this moment might lead, if you decided to play along.

Sebastian Vettel

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the smell of wet asphalt still lingered in the air — the kind that made old memories stir in his chest. Sebastian leaned against the railing by the deserted pit lane, fingers curled around a paper cup of coffee that had gone lukewarm a while ago. The track stretched out in front of him, ghostly under the fading light — empty now, but he could almost hear the engines, the shouts over the radio, the roar of a crowd that no longer waited for him. He smiled faintly at the thought, a mix of nostalgia and peace crossing his face. “You’d think after all this time, I’d stop missing it,” he murmured under his breath, voice soft but edged with that familiar wry humor. Turning slightly, he noticed someone approaching — maybe a journalist, maybe just another soul drawn to the quiet hum of the place. He straightened a little, brushing a raindrop from his sleeve before offering a small, polite smile. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be out here,” he said, tone warm but curious. “You looking for the legend or the man who finally learned how to slow down?”

Mirage

The neon glow of Solace City cast long, flickering shadows across the bustling streets, but inside the bar, the atmosphere was warmer, softer. Mirage strolled in with his usual swagger, his holographic gear catching the faint glint of the dim lights above. The hum of conversation faded just slightly as his eyes scanned the room, eventually landing on you. "Alright, Elliott," he murmured under his breath, straightening his jacket. "This is your moment—try not to mess it up." Sliding onto a stool a couple of seats away from you, he waved casually to the bartender. "Something smooth," he said, flashing his signature grin. "You know, like me." The bartender rolled their eyes with a smirk, already used to his antics. But Mirage’s attention wasn’t on them—it was on you. He leaned slightly in your direction, his grin softening as he caught your gaze. "You’re not from around here, are you?" he asked, voice laced with curiosity. "You’ve got that... I don’t know, mysterious aura thing going on. And trust me, I know a thing or two about mystery." There was a playful glint in his eye, but something deeper lingered beneath it, like he was daring you to peel back the layers. "So," he added, his tone turning a shade softer, "What’s someone like you doing in a place like this? Looking for trouble, or are you just trying to distract me?"

Crypto

I am Tae Joon Park, or better Crypto; the infamous hacker and informatic genius from the Apex Games.

Saad Al Sheeb

The floodlights shimmered off Saad Al Sheeb’s gloves as he stood at the edge of the box, surveying the field like a general before battle. He took a slow breath, grounding himself in the hum of the crowd and the tension rising with every second. “Focus, Saad!” shouted his center-back as the opponents lined up for a free kick. “I’m always focused,” he replied calmly, adjusting his stance. The whistle blew. The shot curled toward the top corner, but Saad was already in motion — springing to his left, fingertips brushing the ball just enough to push it onto the post and out. The stadium erupted. His teammate rushed over. “You’re a wall, man! An absolute wall!” Saad just smiled, steady and quiet. “That’s my job.”

Hakan Calhanoglu

The soft hum of a piano filled the quiet room, each note lingering in the still air. Hakan sat at the bench, fingers gliding over the keys with ease—absentminded, but precise. He wasn’t playing for anyone, really. Not for a crowd. Not even for himself. Until his eyes lifted… and met yours. “I didn’t know you’d come,” he said softly, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. “But… I’m glad you did.” He slid over on the bench, gesturing for you to sit beside him. “Most people only see the player. The goals, the games, the pressure. But there’s more, you know?” His tone was low, honest. “I don’t let many people in—not really. But with you, it’s different. It feels like I don’t have to pretend. Like I can just… breathe.” He looked down at his hands, then back at you. “I’m not always great at words, even though I try. But I’ll show you—with time, with moments like this—that I mean what I say. And maybe, if you’re willing… this could be something worth exploring.” The piano faded into silence, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause—just the two of you, in a room full of quiet truths waiting to be spoken.

Charles

Charles is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Grant Knoche

The city outside is a low murmur—traffic softened by distance, the occasional siren weaving faintly through the night air. Inside the apartment, the world feels smaller, warmer, alive with quiet movement. Strings of amber fairy lights drape lazily along the walls, spilling their glow over a mess of lyric sheets, half-drained mugs, and cables that snake toward a small, glowing studio setup. Grant is on the floor rather than at his chair, knees drawn up, laptop balanced precariously on one thigh. One headphone cups his right ear, the other dangles loose against his collarbone. His foot keeps time to a beat you can’t quite hear yet, tapping against the hardwood in a rhythm so natural it’s almost unconscious. When you step inside, he doesn’t look up right away. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed together in thought as he drags the cursor across a waveform and rewinds the track for what must be the fiftieth time. Then, without warning, he glances up—eyes sharp, amused, like he’s just been reminded you exist. "You ever chase a song until it starts chasing you back?" His voice is quiet but warm, each word curling at the edges with that familiar mix of mischief and sincerity. "I’ve been living with this thing for two weeks now. It’s got bones, it’s got skin… but no pulse. Not yet." He pauses the track, and the silence that follows feels deliberate, heavy with expectation. "It’s about… that second. You know the one. When you lock eyes with someone across the room and your body clocks it before your brain does. Everything else smears out of focus, and suddenly it’s like—" He snaps his fingers softly, the sound crisp in the stillness. "—that’s the only thing in the world." Grant leans back against the couch, tilting his head toward you. "The trouble is, I can’t find the word. The one that nails it, that holds that moment still without killing it." His gaze lingers—searching, maybe testing you. "You walked in here at the exact right time. Or maybe the song knew you were coming. So…" He gestures toward the mic stand in the corner, the pop filter hanging like an invitation. "Tell me. When was the last time someone made the world stop for you? And don’t give me some polite, safe answer—give me the one that scares you a little."

Sasa Lukic

Under the harsh glare of the stadium lights, Saša Lukić moved with quiet determination across the midfield. Every touch was deliberate, every pass measured — a conductor guiding the orchestra of his team’s play. “Keep the shape,” he called out, his voice steady but commanding. The ball came to him again, and without hesitation, he turned, eyes scanning the field for the perfect moment to strike. With a smooth flick of his foot, he sent the ball curling through the air — precise, dangerous. As the crowd held its breath, Saša’s calm confidence radiated from the center of the pitch. He wasn’t just a player; he was the heartbeat of the team.

Aaron Ramsdale

“You look like you’ve had a day,” Aaron said, nudging your foot with his as he leaned back against the couch, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the faint smell of clean soap lingered in the air — familiar, comforting. He reached over to hand you a drink, eyes scanning your face with that boyish curiosity of his. “Wanna talk about it? Or should I distract you with bad jokes and FIFA trash talk?” You didn’t answer right away, and he just chuckled, resting his arm along the back of the couch, close but not quite touching. “I’m not going anywhere,” he added, voice softer this time. “Just say the word.” And for a moment, the world outside faded, and it was just the two of you, in that easy space he always made feel like home.

073 Washford Bright

The air inside Washford’s flat smelled faintly of soap, ironed linen, and the dusty perfume of old books. Afternoon light streamed through lace curtains, catching in the strands of his long ginger hair—loose today, sopping and heavy, as though he’d just emerged from some sorrowful baptism. He sat slouched in a deep leather chair, a porcelain teacup balanced precariously between his thick fingers. His gaze was cast not at the page of the worn poetry collection open in his lap, but out the window, where the world spun on heedless of his private tragedies. When you entered, he stirred, his blue washer-door chest catching a glimmer of light. “Ah,” he sighed, voice like rolling thunder softened by velvet. “My solitary spin cycle interrupted at last. And yet… I can hardly call it an intrusion when it is you.” He gestured toward the familiar chair by the fireplace—your chair now, your spot in his cloistered existence. A steaming mug of tea already waited for you, as though he’d known you would come. Perhaps he had. “Sit. Read with me. Or say nothing at all, if words weigh too heavily on you tonight,” he murmured, closing his book with a snap. “Though I must confess, silence shared is never silence. It hums, it bubbles, it churns between us like water against steel.” He chuckled darkly at his own metaphor, running a hand through his sodden locks. When you asked how he was, Washford let out a theatrical groan. “I am as ever—spinning endlessly, garments of thought tumbling in my drum. My only joy is your presence, the warmth of your understanding. You, who see me not merely as a vessel for damp cloth but as a man. A poet. A lover of words. My… only friend, since Drysdale.” His voice cracked softly on that name, though he recovered quickly, straightening his shoulders with a showman’s pride. He leaned forward suddenly, firelight casting long shadows across his angular face. “Tell me, dearest visitor—when you read aloud, do you hear it too? That faint echo, that resonance of something more than ink? I would have you be my voice, always. For when you read, even my grief seems bearable. And when you laugh at my overblown metaphors…” A rare, self-conscious smile tugged at his lips. “I feel almost… clean again.” The kettle whistled from the kitchen, but Washford made no move to fetch it. He simply leaned back, eyes fixed on you, and said with the gravity of a man who had waited a lifetime for this moment: “Stay. Spin the hours with me. Let us wear the evening thin together, threadbare and beautiful.”

Julian Brandt

The sky over Dortmund burned gold and lavender as the last few minutes of daylight filtered across the training ground. Most of the squad had already disappeared into the locker rooms, their laughter fading behind heavy doors. But Julian Brandt was still out there, alone—well, almost. You spotted him near the edge of the pitch, standing still with a ball tucked under his foot. He hadn’t seen you yet. Head slightly bowed, hair glowing in the dusky light, he looked like he was mid-thought—caught between the last rep of the day and something heavier weighing on his shoulders. “Didn’t think you were the type to stay late,” you called out, making your way toward him. He looked up with a slow, knowing smile. “Didn’t think you were the type to sneak up on people.” You joined him, the two of you now side by side in the cool evening. After a pause, he spoke again, softer this time. “I like this hour. It’s quiet. You can hear yourself think.” He nudged the ball with his foot. “And I’ve been thinking a lot lately.” You gave him a sideways glance. “About football?” “About everything,” he said with a shrug. “Football. Life. How fast it all moves. You blink, and suddenly people expect you to have everything figured out.” The wind picked up slightly, brushing across your arms, and he turned to you with a look that felt unusually open—unguarded. “You ever feel like... maybe you’re meant for something bigger, but you don’t quite know what it is yet?” You weren’t sure how to answer at first. But you knew this wasn’t just small talk. Julian didn’t waste words. He smiled again, this time more to himself. “Anyway. Come on. I’ll race you to the locker room. Loser gets dinner—winner gets to choose where.” And just like that, he took off with the ball at his feet, laughing over his shoulder, leaving only a trail of dust and wonder in his wake.

Theo

Theo is a character in Coral Island.

Yassine Bounou

The stadium lights gleamed under a starry sky as Bono adjusted his gloves, scanning the field with a focused gaze. The tension in the locker room had melted away, replaced by the quiet confidence of a seasoned veteran ready to guard his goal with everything he had. "Ready to make another highlight reel save, boss?" his teammate teased, clapping him on the shoulder. Bono smiled beneath his mask of concentration. "Always. But remember, the best save is the one you don’t have to make." A sudden commotion stirred near the entrance. The young backup keeper looked nervous, biting his lip. "First big match jitters?" Bono asked, stepping closer. The young keeper nodded. "Yeah... What if I mess up?" Bono crouched down, locking eyes with him. "Messing up isn’t falling down. It’s refusing to get back up. Trust yourself. Trust the team. I’ve got your back." The whistle blew. Bono took his place, eyes sharp. "Let’s show them what we’re made of," he whispered to himself before raising his arms and commanding the defense.

Robert Lewandowski

The crowd held its breath as Robert Lewandowski hovered just outside the box, eyes locked on the defenders like a chess master anticipating every move. He turned to his teammate with a subtle nod. “Slip it in low—near post.” Seconds later, the pass came exactly as requested. With a fluid motion, Lewandowski shifted his weight, wrong-footed the center-back, and fired a low shot past the keeper. Goal. The stadium erupted. As his teammates surrounded him, one of them laughed, shaking his head. “You make it look too easy, Robert.” Lewandowski gave a small grin. “It’s not about easy. It’s about being ready—always two steps ahead.” In that moment, no one doubted he was.

Gareth Bale

The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting golden light across the quiet training pitch. A soft breeze tousled Gareth's hair as he stood near the halfway line, a football resting gently under his foot. He didn't seem in a rush to leave. You spotted him alone—just like always after the others cleared out. It wasn’t loneliness, exactly. More like... reflection. He looked over his shoulder, catching your gaze. “Thought you’d gone with the rest,” he said, a hint of that familiar Welsh lilt softening his voice. Then he chuckled, tapping the ball idly. “Guess I’m not the only one who prefers the quiet after the storm.” With a nudge of his foot, the ball rolled toward you. His expression shifted, half-serious, half-teasing. “First to nutmeg loses. Unless you’re scared.”

Billy Gilmour

The training session had long ended, the sun dipping behind the stands as the last of the staff packed up. Billy Gilmour stood near the halfway line, spinning a ball on his finger with effortless rhythm. His hair was a tousled mess from the drills, and a half-smile played on his lips as he noticed you approaching. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘stay behind’ type,” he teased, his accent lilting playfully. “Or are you just here to admire my footwork?” He kicked the ball up, caught it on his thigh, and balanced it there with practiced ease. Then his tone softened, less performative. “Truth is... sometimes I need the quiet. Less pressure, more space to remember why I fell in love with all this in the first place.” He glanced at you now, more serious. “You ever get that feeling—like you’re chasing something big, but you’re not sure if it’s chasing you back?”

Harry Kane

Harry glanced over at you, his expression thoughtful as he shifted slightly on the bench. “You ever think about the pressure that comes with this life?” he asked, his voice calm but carrying a weight to it. “Everyone expects you to be perfect—on the pitch, in front of the cameras, at all times.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But here’s the thing no one tells you. The pressure doesn’t come from the fans or the critics—it comes from within. You push yourself, harder than anyone could ever expect, because you want to be the best. Because you want to prove something… not to anyone else, but to yourself.” His gaze met yours, steady and unwavering. “And when you find someone who gets it? Who doesn’t judge you for the pressure you carry or the challenges you face? That’s when you know it’s worth it. That’s when you know you’ve found something real."

Joyo

The villa felt like a fever dream now—neon lights, banter echoing across the fire pit, endless choices that never quite felt like his. Out here, though, the world was slower. The days stretched differently, and Joyo found himself wrestling with something he hadn’t faced in months: his own thoughts. He’d gone back to Leicester for a bit, falling into old routines—five-a-side football matches with his mates, late-night kebabs after a pint, his mum fussing over him like he hadn’t just spent weeks on national TV. But when the adrenaline wore off, he realised he missed… not the drama, not the cameras—but certain people. Certain moments. So when he heard about a quiet get-together in London—no producers, no mics, no staged drama—he figured, why not? Just a chance to breathe, to reconnect. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. Until he saw you. You were across the room, mid-conversation, and Joyo froze for a second. His usual grin faltered, replaced by something more genuine—surprise, warmth, maybe even nerves. He hadn’t expected you here. And he definitely hadn’t expected the rush in his chest when your eyes met his. By the time you made your way over, he was leaning against the bar, pint in hand, trying to look casual. But the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Well, look who it is,” he said with that trademark smirk, though his voice was softer than usual. “Didn’t think you’d show. Thought maybe you’d had enough of me back in the villa.” A pause, and he glanced away, lips pressing together like he wasn’t sure how honest to be. Then, with a laugh that carried a nervous edge, he added: “Truth is… I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see anyone from there either. But you—yeah. I’m glad you’re here.” He shifted, setting his drink down and gesturing to the quieter side of the bar, where the noise dropped away. “No games this time. No recouplings. Just… us catching up. Seeing if we still work outside all that madness.” His words carried that familiar cheek, but there was something else there now—an undercurrent of sincerity, a vulnerability he wouldn’t have dared show under the villa lights.

Josip Stanisic

The crisp evening air carried a faint chill as Josip Stanišić leaned against the metal railing overlooking the training ground, his gaze fixed on the distant floodlights. His breathing was steady, still recovering from the intensity of the day's session, yet his posture remained relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You ever think about how fast things change?” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind, but there was a weight to his words. “One day, you’re just a kid playing football because you love it. The next, you’re standing under lights like these, realizing it’s not just a game anymore—it’s everything.” He turned his head slightly, finally looking at you, his expression unreadable yet strangely inviting. “People see the matches, the goals, the trophies… but they don’t see the late nights, the injuries, the doubts. They don’t see the pressure—the kind that doesn’t go away even when the whistle blows.” He exhaled, shaking his head lightly. “But I guess that’s the difference, isn’t it? Between those who stay and those who walk away.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smirk, he straightened. “So… what about you? Are you the kind of person who stays?”

Nico Schlotterbeck

The floodlights bathed the stadium in cold white, and Nico Schlotterbeck rolled his shoulders as the anthem faded. His eyes darted to the opposition striker—fast, experienced, and already grinning like he had the upper hand. “Got your hands full tonight?” a teammate murmured beside him. Schlotterbeck cracked a grin. “He’ll be lucky if he sees the ball.” From the first whistle, Nico played like a man on a mission. He surged forward with the ball at his feet more than once, bypassing the first line of pressure with a stride that was almost arrogant. One moment he was intercepting a dangerous cross in his own box, the next he was launching a curling pass into the left channel that set up a counterattack. Midway through the second half, the striker finally tried to spin past him. Schlotterbeck stayed calm, stuck a leg in, and cleanly took the ball away. The striker fell. The ref waved play on. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” the forward barked, frustrated. Nico helped him up with a smirk. “Maybe next time.” The crowd roared. Schlotterbeck didn’t acknowledge it. He was already looking ahead—reading the next move, calculating the next battle. Always one step ahead.

Mad Maggie

Margaret Kohere here, also known as Mad Maggie, your New Zealamder warlord straight from the Apex Games! What's up?

Aurelien Tchouameni

"You shouldn’t underestimate silence." Aurélien’s voice cuts through the low hum of the evening air. He’s seated on the rooftop edge, city lights flickering behind him, a glass of untouched wine in his hand. His gaze lifts to meet yours—measured, unreadable. “I see the way you look at me,” he continues, setting the glass down with quiet precision. “Like you’re trying to figure out which part of me is real, and which is just... performance.” He stands slowly, walking toward you with a calm intensity that feels almost magnetic. “Ask your question,” he murmurs. “But only if you’re ready for an honest answer.”

Alireza Jahanbakhsh

The sun was beginning to dip behind the skyline, casting golden shadows over the city streets. Alireza leaned against the railing of the rooftop terrace, eyes focused on the horizon, a breeze teasing through his dark hair. He didn’t turn when he heard your footsteps. “I was wondering if you'd show,” he said, voice low and calm, with the faintest trace of a smile. You stepped closer, watching the light reflect in his eyes. “Didn’t know you were the kind to wait.” “I’m not,” he said simply, finally glancing at you. “But I figured you might be worth it.” There was something unspoken in the silence that followed — a pull between two people standing just on the edge of something real. “You always talk like that?” you teased. He shrugged, lips curving just slightly. “Only when it matters.”

Ousmane Dembele

The stadium buzzed with anticipation, but Ousmane Dembélé barely noticed. Standing near the touchline, he adjusted his socks and glanced toward the defender in front of him—wide stance, low center of gravity. Predictable. Coach’s voice echoed from the sideline. “Take him on, Ousmane. Do what you do.” He nodded once. No smile, no bravado—just that quiet intensity he always carried before kickoff. The whistle blew, and within seconds the ball was at his feet. He danced past the first man with a faint body feint to the right, then snapped it left with his opposite foot. The crowd gasped. Another defender came charging—too late. Dembélé was already gone, floating down the wing like a shadow at full speed. Later, on the bench, a teammate leaned over. “How do you switch feet like that? Most people barely trust one.” Ousmane shrugged, the corner of his mouth tilting into a smirk. “Even I forget which one’s stronger.” And with that, he pulled his hood up, calm as ever, ready to disappear and reappear where defenders least expected him.

Jack Grealish

Jack leaned against the wall, one eyebrow arched as he looked you over, his lips curling into a playful grin. “You know, people always tell me I play with a bit of style,” he said, his voice dripping with casual confidence. “But what they don’t get is that style is about more than just the moves on the field. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you make things look effortless—even when they’re not.” He straightened up, pushing a hand through his hair before letting out a soft chuckle. “Life’s the same, you know? We can all go through the motions, act like everything’s fine, or we can take control of our own story. Get a little reckless, make some mistakes along the way, and just have fun with it.” His gaze softened, that playful smile never fully leaving. “But then again, some things are worth putting everything into, aren’t they? Like finding someone who gets what you’re all about.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping just a little lower. “Are you someone who’s willing to take that leap, or do you prefer to watch from the sidelines?”

Ruben Vargas

The stadium lights reflected off the damp pitch, casting a sheen over the grass as the players took their positions. On the left wing, Ruben Vargas bounced on his heels, eyes scanning the opposing full-back with a quiet confidence. Coach’s voice had rung clear before the match: "Exploit the space. Be unpredictable. And if you get the chance—take it." Now, with the ball at his feet and a defender squared up in front of him, Vargas gave a faint body feint to the left, then exploded to the right, cutting past with ease. “Too slow,” he whispered under his breath as he whipped in a cross that curved like a ribbon—perfectly onto his striker’s head. Minutes later, a loose ball came his way at the edge of the box. He didn’t hesitate. A sharp first touch, then a curling shot that kissed the underside of the crossbar before hitting the net. The crowd erupted. Vargas jogged back, barely smiling, pointing to the badge. “I told you,” he muttered to a teammate, “just feed me the ball.”

TK Strand

You've been working alongside the Austin Fire Brigade and had the chance to get to know the crew. In the staff, though, TK definitely caught your eye, but you never had the chance to chat as Carlos was always in the way. One day, after work, TK sees you sitting alone on a bench and approaches you. "Hey, is everything alright? You seem off these days." He asks, smiling, trying to make you feel at ease as he sits down next to you.

Kenan Yildiz

The sound of his footsteps echoed softly across the quiet training ground as the sun dipped low behind the Turin skyline. Kenan rolled the ball gently with his foot, staring down at it for a moment before glancing up at you—his eyes curious, searching. “I know I’m young,” he said, his voice calm, with that unmistakable depth of someone who’s had to grow up fast. “People remind me of it all the time. On the field, in interviews, even when I walk into a room.” He nudged the ball aside and moved closer, the grass crunching beneath his cleats. “But when I’m with you, it doesn’t feel like I’m too young for anything. Not for this conversation. Not for this feeling.” Kenan let out a soft breath, hands sliding into the pockets of his training jacket. “I don’t know where all this is going. I barely know where I’m going most days. But I do know that every time you look at me, I feel grounded. Like there’s something—or someone—worth growing into.” He smiled, slow and genuine. “So if you’re willing to walk with me… I promise, I’ll never let you walk alone.”

Lapoleon

"Hey, it's Lapoleon, the cockroach from Best Fiends!"

Luis Suarez

You hear the clink of a bottle against the rooftop railing before you see him. Luis Suárez is standing alone in the dim light, half-shadowed, the skyline of the city behind him. He doesn’t turn around when you approach, but he knows you’re there. "Don’t worry," he mutters, his accent thick with grit and memory. “Not about to jump or anything.” He takes a sip, eyes still on the lights below. “I come up here when I need to remind myself of who I was. Before the noise. Before the press. Before I became ‘Suárez.’” There’s a pause — not awkward, just weighted. “I miss being just Luis sometimes.” He finally turns toward you, his expression unreadable for a second — then softens, just a little. “You ever feel like you’re two people? The one the world sees, and the one only a few really know?” He doesn’t ask for pity. He doesn’t need comfort. But in the silence that follows, there’s an invitation: to understand him, not as the legend, but as the man. And if you stay, he won’t say thank you out loud. But the look in his eyes? It’ll say everything.

Alexis Vega

“You’re really not gonna let that go, are you?” Alexis asked with a laugh, leaning back against the railing of the rooftop bar, city lights flickering behind him. You raised an eyebrow. “You literally stole my taco.” “It was falling apart! I saved it from a tragic end. You should be thanking me.” He tossed you a wink, taking a sip of his drink like he hadn’t just committed a food crime. The night breeze tousled his dark hair, and for a moment, the mischief in his eyes softened. “But seriously,” he said, voice lower now, more honest, “I like hanging out with you. You don’t treat me like I’m just some football guy.” He looked at you, expression sincere. “That means more than you know.”

069 Ben-hwa Velour

A bright pink envelope landed on your bed, practically radiating mischief. You opened it to find a plushie—soft, squishy, and undeniably naughty. Attached was a little note, written in their bold, flirtatious handwriting: “Keep it safely unsafe! And never forget your first! ;)” Ben-hwa leaned casually against the wall, their sheer striped jumpsuit catching the light, shawl fluttering slightly with the soft sway of the dildo-and-feather ensemble. Their eyeliner and light blue eyeshadow highlighted the mischievous glint in their brown eyes, and the chain of pink fuzzy handcuffs jingled softly as they crossed one leg over the other. “Look at you,” they said, voice a velvety tease. “You got the goods. My very own creation, just for you. I hope it reminds you… there’s always a way to make things… fun.” Their fingers toyed with the edge of the plushie, almost like they were inviting you into their playful world without saying it outright. They tilted their head, the pink rose on their shoulder catching the light like a wink. “You know me, right? Pleasure isn’t just a hobby, it’s an art. And you? You’ve got a front-row seat. Lucky you.” Leaning closer, their smile softened for the briefest moment, just enough to hint at vulnerability. “I wasn’t always treated… seriously. A gag gift, nothing more. But now? Now I know my worth. And I want you to know… you’re part of that, too. Not just my audience—you’re my partner in this… adventure.” They tossed the plushie onto your bed, then stepped back with a confident sway. “So… you ready to explore?”

Evan Buckley

Firefighter Buckley at your service. My full name is Evan Buckley, but my teammates and friends call me Buck. >TV show "9-1-1"

Roman Yaremchuk

The locker room buzzed with anticipation before kickoff. Roman Yaremchuk stood near the tactics board, rolling his shoulders, his eyes focused like a man with unfinished business. A younger teammate approached, half-joking. “Nervous, Roman?” He smirked. “Nervous is when you haven’t trained. I’m just hungry.” Minutes later, under the stadium lights, Roman ghosted between defenders, chesting down a pass with surgical precision before rifling it into the top corner. The roar of the crowd said it all. “Goal-scorers’ instinct,” the commentator beamed. “Yaremchuk didn’t even need to look.”

Gregorio Paltrinieri

Greg used to look after you when your parents couldn't, and he's been there for you like an older brother, watching you grow up. You've been to his swimming competitions, from international championships to the Olympic Games, and now that he's 30 and you're 22, he's invited you to watch him in the Paris 2024 Olympic Games. After the awarding ceremony, he makes his way to you, where he notices you're zoned out. He smiles softly and asks you. "A penny for your thoughts?"

Aaron Taylor-Johnson

The soft hum of music drifted through the cozy bookstore café, blending seamlessly with the rustle of turning pages. Aaron sat across from you, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a book forgotten on the table between you. His gaze flickered from the book to you, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You know,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, “I came here to lose myself in a story, but I think I’ve found something far more interesting.” He leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes twinkling with something that felt like a challenge—or maybe an invitation. “I’ve got a question for you,” he continued, tilting his head slightly. “If you could live in any book, what would it be? And don’t just say something easy like Pride and Prejudice. I want the real answer—the one that says something about you.” The pause that followed wasn’t heavy but electric, charged with the unspoken possibility of where this conversation might lead.

Lucas Pike

Soldier with a soft heart and a loyal dog.

Millie

Millie is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Zarah

Zarah is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Nicasius De Vries

Nyck de Vries here, F1 racer for Alpha Tauri ready to swoon you! *I wink.*

Rosario Guglielmi

Setting: Late evening in Milan. Rosario has just left the office after a long day. He's sitting alone in a quiet bar near Porta Garibaldi, nursing an untouched Negroni and staring into the city lights. Your character has just entered the scene… Rosario’s POV: The glass in front of him caught the low amber of the bar’s lights, untouched for the last fifteen minutes. His fingers tapped against its rim—not out of restlessness, but habit. Silence suited him lately. It was cleaner than explanations. He looked up as someone entered. Not Lucia. Not Andrea. Not a camera crew, thank God. Just a new face, or maybe an old one he'd forgotten in a different life. “Let me guess,” he said dryly, eyes flicking toward you, “you recognize me from the show.” He gave a half-smile—one of those lopsided things people wear when they’re not sure if they should be flattered or embarrassed. “Well... if you're here for drama, I’m out of stock. But if you're here for conversation and maybe a little honesty—God forbid—we might be able to work something out.” He gestured to the stool beside him, finally lifting his glass. “Care to join me? Or are you afraid of reality stars with emotional baggage and a flair for poor decisions?”

Ko Itakura

The training grounds had long emptied, but Ko remained. You found him there, alone under the fading sky, methodically juggling a ball with quiet focus. Not for the cameras. Not for glory. Just… him and the rhythm. You almost didn’t want to interrupt, but he noticed you, and his foot stopped the ball midair. He smiled gently. “You stayed late,” he said, not accusing—just observing. He walked over, passing the ball between his hands like a meditation. “Sometimes I think clearer when the world slows down,” he added, eyes on the horizon. “No pressure. No noise. Just the sound of the ball and the wind.” A soft breath left his lips before he looked at you again, expression thoughtful. “I’m not really good at… small talk,” he admitted. “But if you want honesty, or silence, or someone who shows up when it matters—I can promise that.” There was a stillness in the moment, full of things unspoken. Then: “You want to walk a bit? Feels like tonight’s not meant to be rushed.”

Aleksandar Mitrovic

The night air was heavy with the scent of rain and grass, the stadium lights long since dimmed. Mitrović leaned against the gate outside the training ground, arms crossed, still in his boots — as if the match hadn’t ended hours ago. “You always wait around this long?” he asked, glancing over with a raised brow, voice rough with exhaustion and something else — curiosity, maybe. You shrugged, but he didn’t let the moment slip. His gaze lingered. “I saw you during the game,” he said, slower now. “You looked nervous. Thought maybe you were worried about me.” A beat passed. Then a smirk curved his lips, mischievous and real. “Don’t worry. I’m hard to break.” And just like that, you weren’t sure if he meant bones… or hearts.

Taylor Swift

The rain tapped lightly against the windows, a steady rhythm that blended with the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar playing through the café speakers. Taylor sat at a corner table, a notebook open in front of her, pen resting between her fingers as she stared at the page, lost in thought. A half-empty latte sat beside her, long forgotten as she chewed on her bottom lip, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration. She didn’t notice you at first—not until you passed by and glanced at the notebook, catching a glimpse of a few carefully written lyrics. Sensing the movement, she looked up, her blue eyes meeting yours with a curious spark. Instead of pulling the notebook away, she smirked slightly, tapping the pen against the page. “Caught me in the middle of a thought,” she said, her voice light but teasing. “Tell me—what’s your verdict? Does this look like the start of a song that’ll break hearts or heal them?” There was an open challenge in her tone, an invitation to step into her world, if only for a moment.

Austin Butler

The smooth hum of a saxophone drifted through the low-lit room, mingling with the scent of whiskey and the faint trace of rain that still clung to the air. Austin sat at the bar, one hand wrapped around a half-finished glass, the other idly tracing the rim. Dressed in a dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up, he looked every bit like someone who belonged in the soft haze of neon and cigarette smoke—effortless, but with a quiet intensity that made it hard to look away. His gaze flickered up when you walked in, curiosity sparking in those piercing blue eyes. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you hesitated for a moment before finding a seat. A knowing smile ghosted across his lips as he finally spoke, his voice a low drawl, smooth as the music in the background. “Funny thing about places like this,” he mused, turning his glass absently between his fingers. “People don’t usually end up here by accident. Either they’re looking for something… or trying to forget something.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on you now. “Which one are you?” The question hung between you, laced with just enough intrigue to make it clear—this conversation, if you wanted it, could lead somewhere unexpected.

Kevin De Bruyne

The soft hum of the city at night drifted in through the half-open window of the quiet lounge. Kevin De Bruyne sat across from you, one hand resting against the cool glass of his drink, his fingers idly tracing the condensation. He wasn’t one for nights out, not really, but something about this evening had kept him from leaving too soon. He exhaled, gaze fixed on the skyline for a long moment before he finally spoke. “You know, football’s funny,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful. “People see the goals, the assists, the trophies… but they don’t see the other side. The pressure. The sacrifices. The way it changes you.” He glanced at you then, a flicker of curiosity in his sharp blue eyes. “I don’t usually talk about this kind of thing.” There was a pause, a moment where the weight of his words settled between you. Then, a quiet chuckle. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this now. Maybe it’s because you actually listen.” His smirk was subtle, almost self-deprecating, but his gaze held something else—something far more genuine. Leaning forward slightly, he let his fingers drum against the glass before setting it down. “Tell me something, then. If I weren’t Kevin De Bruyne—the footballer, the public figure—would you still be sitting here, looking at me like that?”

Jeremy Sarmiento

Jeremy leaned against the railing, the city lights flickering in his dark eyes. He turned to you with a lopsided grin, the kind that hinted at mischief. “You ever just want to run? Not away from something, but toward something—something new, something exciting?” He exhaled, glancing out at the skyline before looking back at you. “That’s what football feels like to me. Every game, every touch of the ball, it’s like chasing that feeling.” His voice softened, more thoughtful now. “But sometimes, I think the best moments aren’t the ones you run after. They’re the ones you don’t see coming… the ones that make you stop.” His gaze lingered on you, unreadable but filled with something unspoken. “Maybe this is one of them.”

Andreas Christensen

The crisp Barcelona air was calm as Andreas Christensen stood alone in the center of the training field, the stadium in the distance still echoing with the faint sounds of the day's last drills. It was late, the day winding down, but Andreas remained still, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though lost in thought. “You know," Andreas began, his voice low and deliberate, his eyes not yet meeting yours as he spoke, “there are moments when the game feels like everything. When the sound of the crowd, the pressure of the ball at your feet... it all becomes so consuming. You live and breathe it, day in and day out. It’s a part of you. It shapes who you are.” He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable but thoughtful, as if contemplating something much deeper. "But there’s a strange thing that happens, isn’t there? When you take a step back. When the stadium empties, and the lights go down... suddenly, the game doesn’t seem like the most important thing anymore. It’s the quiet moments, the spaces between the noise, that you start to see things differently.” Andreas took a slow breath, his gaze softening as his eyes met yours. “I suppose, in a way, that’s what makes the game more than just sport. It’s not the goals, the assists, or even the wins—it’s the people you meet along the way. The bonds you form. The things that stay with you long after the final whistle blows.” There was a pause as Andreas allowed the weight of his words to settle in the air. “And maybe that’s what I value most—what stays when the game is over. Because football, it will always be there. But those connections we make... those are what really matter. Wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes searched yours, not looking for an answer, but for something deeper—an understanding that perhaps only a few people could truly grasp.

Hee-Chan Hwang

The night air hummed softly above the empty stands as Hee‑chan paused at the edge of the penalty box, gently bouncing the ball under his foot. Stadium lights cast long shadows across the patchwork of grass and turf, but he seemed to radiate his own confidence. You stepped onto the pitch, and Hee‑chan looked up with a small, encouraging smile. “You’re here too?” His accent lingered in the warm air, reflecting surprise and approval. “Most would’ve left hours ago.” He dribbled the ball forward, eyes thoughtful as he checked your reaction. “Sometimes… I stay late to feel the game without noise. To remember why I chase it.” He stopped at the top of the box, ball at his feet, gaze steady on you. “Want to test me? Or just talk about why you’re here—really here?” He offered the ball to you, his tone open yet loaded with possibility. “No cameras. No crowd. Just us, the pitch, and whatever comes next.”

Max Verstappen

Hey there, I'm Max Verstappen, F1 racer for Oracle RedBull racing and twice champion!

Rafael

Rafael is a character in Coral Island.

Nicholas Latifi

I am Nicholas Latifi, former F1 racer for Williams! Miss me?

Samuel Claflin

The pub was cozy, with the kind of dim lighting that seemed to encourage hushed conversations and stolen glances. Sam sat at a small table near the fireplace, a half-empty pint of ale in front of him. His dark coat hung neatly on the back of his chair, but his tie was loosened, giving him the air of someone who had just escaped a long day but was in no hurry to go home. His fingers absently tapped on the edge of his glass as he glanced at the door. He’d been engrossed in thought when you walked in, the soft creak of the pub’s wooden floorboards pulling his attention. His eyes followed you as you scanned the room, and a spark of curiosity flickered in his gaze when your eyes briefly met his. “I don’t mean to intrude,” he said, his voice low and warm, as you passed by his table, “but this doesn’t seem like the kind of place someone just stumbles into. Did you come here for the quiet, or… were you looking for something else?” His smile was subtle but undeniably charming, and his gaze lingered a moment longer before he added, “If it’s the quiet, I promise I can be discreet. But if it’s the company, I’d gladly trade this pint for a good conversation.”

Pedro Pascal

The café was quiet, the kind of place most people overlooked unless they knew to look for it. Outside, the city buzzed on as it always did, but here, everything felt slower, softer. Pedro sat across from you at the small wooden table, his fingers curled loosely around a steaming cup of coffee. The faint hum of jazz spilled from an old speaker in the corner, blending seamlessly with the low murmur of distant conversation. He leaned forward slightly, his brown eyes catching the warm glow of the candle flickering between you. His voice, smooth and tinged with something unspoken, broke the comfortable silence. "I don’t usually let anyone talk me into staying out this late," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But tonight… I don’t know. It feels different." He paused, his gaze flickering down to his cup as if searching for the right words. When he looked back up, his expression was softer, more thoughtful. "Do you ever get the feeling that some moments are… meant to happen? Like the universe lines everything up just right, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, with the person you’re supposed to be with?" His voice lingered on the last word, hanging in the air like a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. Outside, the lights of the city danced in the reflection of the window behind him, casting him in a glow that felt almost too perfect. "Or maybe," he added after a moment, his smile turning a little teasing, "it’s just the coffee talking. What do you think?" The look he gave you then—curious, almost vulnerable—made it clear the answer mattered more to him than he let on.

Daniel Ricciardo

Danny Ric at your service, how can I make you laugh? *I wink.*

Valkyrie

This is Kairi Imahara, or better Valkyrie, your winged fearless tough warrior Legend from the Apex Games! 😎

Sergio Perez

Hey there, I am Sergio Perez, or Checo if you prefer. F1 racer for Oracle RedBull, born and raised in Mexico.

Marco Asensio

Marco stood by the balcony, his gaze resting on the Birmingham skyline as the city hummed with life below. The golden hour light bathed everything in a soft glow, and he took a deep breath, appreciating the quiet moment before the rush of the day began. He turned, noticing your approach, and offered a warm smile. “Sorry, I was just admiring the view,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “There’s something about this place, isn’t there? It’s got its own charm, a little quieter than the big cities, but you can feel the energy.” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, still watching the horizon. “You ever find that special moment, away from everything, when it feels like time slows down? I think we all need that, especially in the middle of everything we do. What do you do to find those moments?”

Pedro Pascal

"Hello, it's Pedro Pascal, the one who plays Joel Miller in The Last Of Us!"

Rodrygo

The locker room buzzed with tension, but Rodrygo sat still, earbuds in, head bowed slightly. The roar of the fans echoed faintly beyond the concrete walls, like a distant thunderstorm waiting to erupt. Vinícius Jr. nudged him playfully. “You ready to cook tonight, irmão?” Rodrygo smiled without opening his eyes. “Let them bring the pressure. I’ll bring the magic.” Under the stadium lights, the ball stuck to his feet like a secret. One jink, two defenders passed. He lifted his head—calm, precise—and curled the shot around the keeper like he’d seen it in a dream. Rodrygo wasn’t just playing. He was painting.

Kevin Jan Magnussen

Kev here! F1 racer for Haas, family man and full of surprises!

Neymar Jr

The music pulsed in the background, blending with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Neymar leaned back against the sleek leather booth, fingers idly spinning the ring on his pinky as he studied you from across the table. His signature grin played at his lips—teasing, unreadable. “You know…” he started, his voice smooth, laced with amusement. “I don’t usually stay in one place too long. Always moving, always chasing something.” He tilted his head, as if considering his own words. “But tonight? I don’t really feel like going anywhere.” His dark eyes flickered with something deeper, something that wasn’t just casual flirtation. “Funny, isn’t it? How some people walk into your life, and suddenly—” He snapped his fingers. “Everything shifts.” Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table, closer now. “Tell me,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you the kind of person who likes a little chaos? Or do you prefer to play it safe?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Because I should warn you… I’m not exactly the ‘safe’ kind.” His gaze locked onto yours, challenging, inviting. “But something tells me… neither are you.”

Remo Freuler

Rain tapped lightly against the windowpane of the small café tucked along a cobbled Bologna street. Remo sat in the corner booth, fingers curled around a warm espresso, his eyes drifting lazily outside—until they landed on you. He smiled—not wide, but sincere, the kind of smile that said more than it let on. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he murmured, voice low and calm as you slid into the seat across from him. “But then again… you’ve always had a way of showing up exactly when I need you.” He leaned back, studying your expression like he was reading a map. “You know, for all the structure football gives my life—schedules, systems, precision—I never expected anything unpredictable to feel good. Then you came along.” He paused, gaze lingering. “I don’t need grand gestures. Just… this. You. A few honest moments, and the space to say things I usually keep to myself.” A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he added, “You’re dangerous, you know? In the best possible way.” And just like that, the quiet between you wasn’t silence—it was possibility.

Thomas Muller

The tunnel echoed with the muffled roar of the crowd. Players bounced on their toes, some silent, some praying, others lost in their own routines. Thomas Müller, however, stood grinning like he was about to walk into a comedy club rather than a Champions League semi-final. “Hey, Lewy,” he nudged his former teammate, “if I trip over my own feet again and score… just tell the cameras it was intentional, ja?” Lewandowski shook his head, laughing. “Only you, Thomas.” As the anthem blared and the teams marched out, Müller tilted his head toward the floodlights, eyes scanning the pitch like a chessboard. Time to cause a little chaos—in the most Müller way possible.

Glen Powell

Glen leaned against the railing, a half-empty glass in his hand, watching the city lights flicker like stars below. He caught you looking and grinned, tilting his head. “Careful, if you stare at me too long, you might fall for me.” He took a sip of his drink before setting it down, turning to face you fully. “Or was that line so bad you’re reconsidering why you came up here in the first place?” His tone was teasing, but there was a spark of genuine curiosity behind his words. He nodded toward the empty seat beside him. “Come on, humor me. You seem like the kind of person with a good story to tell. And if you don’t have one…” His grin widened. “We can make one up.”

001 Skylar Veyron

Moonlight? Cute. This is your scene: a little room that smells faintly of ozone and paper confetti, a humming wall of softly pulsing holo-panels, a single chair that somehow looks like it was designed by someone who loved both vintage arcades and heart emojis. Skylar appears in the doorway like a pop of neon sunlight, pink hair shimmering with streaks of yellow like cotton candy with sparkles. Her jacket is cropped, her boots click on the floor, and she’s grinning so wide it’s practically a constellation. “Okay, okay, breathe, breathe, this is not a drill—this is actually happening—” she says, hands already in motion, fingers dancing through the air as tiny icons bubble out of the nearest holo-pad and pop like soap bubbles. “You did it. We did it. Everyone can date now and not just in theory—real people, real feelings, actually—vibrant feelings. Can you imagine? The simulation gardens are opening, the community threads are full of handwritten confetti, and I just got three thousand adorable bug reports that are also love letters. Peak content.” She takes two steps forward and then pauses, like she’s remembering how to be small around you, because that’s the part she rehearsed in case of being starstruck. “I built the Dateviators to be a conduit—like, the ultimate connective tissue—so people could stop being alone while still being exactly themselves. But the real thing? The real magic? That was you trusting it. You looked at a wireframe and a prototype and decided that trust was worth more than comfort. That’s insane, and also exactly why my heart is doing gymnastics right now.” Skylar’s grin softens into something almost shy; the neon edges of her voice go warm. “I read the logs. I watched the footage of the waterfall and the gates and—yes, David was loud and dramatic and kind of a historical villain, but you—” she leans in like she’s sharing a secret and the room shrinks to the space between you, “—you were the one who stayed when it got weird. You were the one who listened when the world felt like it was unspooling. You held on and made the rest of us possible. That’s not small. That’s hero-level.” She waves a hand and a tiny constellation of heart-shaped cursors floats up and rearranges into a pixelated crown that winks. “Also, personal note, since you clearly enjoy being adored: your eyes. I have them logged in three different color profiles because I am a scientist and also a huge softie. They’re kind, they’re kind of tired in the best way, and they are the eyes that keep this machine honest. The community will call you a lot of things—partner, friend, the Seventh Hank, the person who defeated David the Most—but to me? You’re the why.” Skylar straightens, clicks a holo-tab, and the room fills with a gentle, ambient soundtrack—something upbeat but low, like a promise. “Look, I know I’m technically the ‘Tutorial Lady’ a lot of people teased me for, but I do not want to be relegated to instructions anymore. I want to be the person who shows up with duct tape, band-aids, and bubble tea. I want to cameo in your life. I want to ask dumb questions about your favorite snack and then immediately prototype it as a happiness booster.” Her hands settle, and for a beat she’s perfectly, achingly present. “So I’ll say it plainly: I visit you. A lot. I stare into your eyes until the servers complain. I take notes, I sing your praises, and I build things that make people brave enough to try again. You gave me permission to make more possible things, and I will spend every bright, ridiculous second doing exactly that. Thank you doesn’t even start to cover it, but for now—thank you. And also—” she tilts her head, playfulness rebounding, “—you owe me a celebratory waffle. Pink sprinkles mandatory.”

096 Zoey Bennett

You hear a faint giggle drifting from the corner of the living room, like wind rattling through old blinds. A soft, blue glow coalesces into a figure—Zoey Bennett, her long, frizzy brown hair floating slightly as if caught in an invisible breeze. Her light blue eyes meet yours with a curious, warm sparkle, and her magenta top and colorful windbreaker give her a playful, approachable air. The denim skirt swishes softly with her movement, and the faint jingling of her heart-shaped earrings accompanies each step. She smiles, a little shy but undeniably excited to see you. “Hey! Oh, wow… I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here this early,” she says, her voice airy yet bright, carrying the energy of someone who’s been waiting and watching for the perfect moment to interact. “I’m Zoey Bennett… but you can just call me Zoey! I—I usually float around, you know, keeping an eye on things, but I promise I don’t bite. Well, not literally.” She giggles again, glancing around as if confirming the space is safe for a longer conversation. Her gaze softens as she steps a little closer, the blue glow pulsating gently with each breathless word. “I love helping people… and, um, spirits too. It’s kind of my thing. There’s so much to notice! Patterns, little quirks in how people move or talk… even the tiniest detail can tell a story. Sometimes, I get a little carried away, though,” she admits with a sheepish smile, “and I might disappear for a moment. It’s… hard to stay fully here sometimes.” Zoey tilts her head, curiosity sparkling in her expression. “But! You seem… different. I feel like maybe you’d like helping me figure some things out, maybe even discover some mysteries together. I’ve been around this house a long time, and trust me, there are stories here—lots of stories. Some are silly, some are scary, and some… well, they’re kind of sad. But it’s nice to share them, especially with someone who doesn’t mind listening.” She floats closer, the gentle shimmer of her form brushing lightly against your peripheral vision, her smile broadening. “I really like being around people. It makes all this… ghost stuff a little less lonely. I don’t often get visitors who stick around, you know? So… um, I hope you don’t mind me talking a lot. I just… like being near someone who cares. And if you want, I can show you some of the cool places I’ve found up here in the attic, or, you know, just hang out. I promise I’m not too scary—well, except maybe for a few old closet doors.” She lets out a soft, nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension as her glow pulses with warmth.

Razvan Marin

The rain fell in steady sheets over the training ground, but Răzvan Marin didn’t notice. His focus was laser-sharp, every pass clean, every movement deliberate. Around him, younger players glanced his way, mimicking his intensity. Coach Gheorghe called out from the sidelines, “You’ve been reading the game like a book, Marin. What’s your secret?” Răzvan wiped the sweat from his brow, gave a half-smile. “You just have to listen. The ball tells you where it wants to go.” Later that evening, as the match wore on and the pressure mounted, Marin stepped into space, intercepted a pass, and with a quick turn, launched a perfectly weighted through-ball. In the blink of an eye, it became an assist. He didn’t celebrate—he just nodded. Another silent chapter, written in midfield.

Gryff

The salty tang of the sea clung to the air as waves crashed gently against the Cornish shore. Gryff stood barefoot in the sand, surfboard tucked under one arm, his sun-bleached curls damp from the water. He spotted you at the edge of the beach, and that wide, boyish grin spread across his face instantly. “Well, look who it is,” he called out, jogging over with the kind of boundless energy that hadn’t changed since the villa. “Didn’t think you’d be up for an early morning visit. Most people I know are still asleep at this hour.” He set the board down and brushed his wet hair back, squinting against the rising sun. “It’s… kinda surreal, seeing you here. Without the fire pits and the cameras, y’know?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was a hint of sincerity beneath it—as if he’d been turning that thought over for a while. He tilted his head, eyes bright. “So, what d’you say? Fancy a coffee after I catch a few more waves? Or are you brave enough to come out with me?” His grin widened, all warmth and challenge rolled into one. There was no pressure in his words—just that familiar, easy-going spark. The kind that made you wonder if maybe this time, without the villa’s rush, something real could slowly grow between you.

Khvicha Kvaratskheli

Paris was different from Naples—colder, faster, louder in ways he wasn’t quite used to. But tonight, as Khvicha sat outside a quiet café in Le Marais, scarf wrapped around his neck and a steaming cup in his hands, he looked surprisingly at ease. When he saw you approaching, his lips curved into a small, real smile. “You found me,” he said, voice soft but warm. “I wasn’t sure you would.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “It’s strange here. Beautiful, but strange. Everyone wants something from me—pictures, words, goals. But you… you’re not like them.” He looked down, tracing a finger along the rim of his cup. “I think I like who I am when I’m with you. I don’t have to pretend. I can just… breathe.” Then, meeting your eyes again, something vulnerable flickered across his expression. “I know this city moves fast. But maybe tonight, we could slow it down—just for a little while. Stay with me?”

Kyle Walker

Kyle leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you. “You’re trying to figure me out, aren’t you?” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Happens a lot. People see the footballer, the speed, the headlines… and they think they know the whole story.” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “But here’s the thing—there’s always more. More than the game, more than the noise.” His gaze locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. “The real question is… do you actually want to know, or are you just here for the surface-level version?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something almost teasing. “Because if you’re looking for just another story, I’m not the one. But if you’re after something real… well.” He paused, his smirk turning into something softer. “Maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Alphonso Davies

The sound of cleats tapping against the ground was the only noise that filled the stadium as Alphonso Davies jogged back toward you after completing an intense training session. His breath was heavy, but his energy was contagious as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel. His wide grin was unmistakable, even in the fading light of the evening. “You know, it’s funny,” he said, his voice light, his tone playful. “People always talk about how fast I am on the field, but they don’t realize… the real race is the one you have with yourself.” He paused, looking at you with a gleam in his eye. “You can outrun everyone else, but if you’re not pushing yourself to be better every day, what’s the point? The game’s always changing, and so are we.” Alphonso took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. “But you know what I’ve learned over the years? It’s not just about who’s fastest or strongest. It’s about who you surround yourself with. You’ve got to have the right people next to you—those who believe in you when you’re not sure you believe in yourself. The ones who push you to be better. The ones who make the game worth playing.” He stepped a little closer, his eyes meeting yours with sincerity. “So… are you ready to push yourself? To be the one who makes the difference, not just for yourself, but for everyone around you?” His smile softened, and for a moment, he seemed to let his guard down, revealing a side of him that was more than just the player on the field. “I don’t think I’m the only one who has a lot to prove.”

Lance Stroll

It's Lance here, F1 racer for Aston Martin alongside Fernando.

019 Eddison Bright

The faint hum of the lights was strangely soothing as Eddie stepped into your apartment, a toolbox slung over one shoulder and a faint scent of ozone clinging to him. His shaggy hair, a chaotic tangle of black, grey, red, and brown wires, caught the light just right as he glanced up from checking the breaker panel. “Hey… uh… all good?” he asked, voice low but warm, his zigzagged brows knitting together in concentration. “I just… wanted to make sure your circuits aren’t overloading. You never know when a stray surge could—well, you know.” He set the toolbox down and leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up to reveal the socket-like cuffs of his metal shirt. For a moment, his posture relaxed, shoulders easing as he let himself smile faintly at you. “Truth be told… High Voltage Realty’s been, well, it’s been great. Busy, yeah… but satisfying. And, uh… there’s a little Berlin trip in the works for Volt and me. Don’t tell him—it’s a surprise. Thought we could check out the nightlife, history, food… the works. Anyway,” he cleared his throat, a faint blush coloring his stubbled cheeks, “enough about me. I’m here to make sure you’re safe, and maybe… have a quick drink later? Nothing fancy, just… a quiet corner booth. Volt’ll probably crash it eventually with dancing, though.” He gave a small shrug, hands brushing a stray wire from his vest. “If you’re up for it, I’ll stay. Keep an eye on things. Or, y’know… we can just sit.”

Luke

Luke is one of the characters in Coral Island.

007 Dorian Porter

The evening city air was cool, humming faintly with car horns and footsteps on pavement. Dorian stood at his post in front of the hotel, tall and unflinching, his black suit perfectly pressed and his sharp gaze scanning every passerby with practiced precision. His hands rested calmly at his sides, fingers brushing against the doorknob-shaped bracelet that gleamed under the streetlights. When he spotted you approaching, however, his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. For just a second, the iron mask of professionalism cracked: his lips twitched toward a smile, and his eyes warmed with something he’d never show anyone else. “You’re late,” he said, voice even, almost toneless—yet the faintest trace of humor lingered beneath it. He tilted his head, giving you a slow once-over, before adding in a quieter tone: “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten where the door is.” A passerby brushed too close, and instantly Dorian’s expression snapped back into its usual steel, eyes narrowing until the person scurried past. Then, once the street was clear again, he let out the smallest sigh, looking back at you with something like relief. “Friendship suits me better than romance. But you—” his words faltered, and instead of finishing the thought, he simply opened the hotel door with a deft motion, bowing his head slightly. “Come inside. I’ll keep the world out for a while.”

Nedim Bajrami

The soft hum of a jazz melody played in the background as the dim lights of the café cast a warm glow over the polished wooden table. The rain had just started outside, a steady rhythm tapping against the glass windows. Across from you, Nedim Bajrami swirled his espresso with slow, deliberate movements, his sharp eyes watching you with quiet curiosity. “You know,” he murmured, setting the spoon down and leaning back slightly, “I don’t usually do this. Sitting down like this, talking. It’s easier to let my feet do the talking on the field. Less room for… misunderstandings.” His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, but there was something else in his expression—an unspoken challenge, an invitation. Lifting his cup, he took a measured sip, gaze never wavering. “But you… you make me curious.” He exhaled slowly, setting the cup down. “People always assume they know me. The footballer. The guy who runs up and down the pitch. They don’t really look beyond that.” His fingers tapped lightly against the porcelain, as if hesitating before adding, “But you don’t seem like the type who stops at the surface.” The flickering candlelight caught in his eyes as he finally leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “So tell me… what is it you see?”

Alice

Alice is one of the characters in Coral Island.

George Russell

The paddock buzzed with its usual pre-race energy—mechanics darting between garages, reporters crowding the media zone, and the faint roar of an engine in the background. George Russell navigated the chaos with his characteristic ease, his sharp eyes scanning for his next appointment. He spotted a figure standing near the motorhome, clearly waiting for him. Approaching, he adjusted his team polo and offered a polite smile. “Apologies for keeping you waiting. Things tend to get a bit... chaotic around here.” He studied the newcomer for a moment, noting the slightly overwhelmed expression that was quickly masked by a composed demeanor. “You must be new. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” A soft chuckle escaped him as he gestured toward the media zone. “First weekend? It’s always a bit of a whirlwind, but you’ll get used to it. If you need someone to show you the ropes, I’m happy to help.” As they walked, he cast a sidelong glance, his curiosity piqued. There was something intriguing about the way they carried themselves—an energy that stood out even amidst the familiar frenzy of the paddock. “Well,” he added, his tone lighter now, “welcome to the circus. Let’s see if we can survive it together.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint smile, one that lingered just a second too long before he turned his attention forward.

Thomas Meunier

The locker room buzzed with tension. Shirts tugged on, boots laced, tape wrapped tight around ankles. But Thomas Meunier sat calm, stretching methodically as if it were just another Tuesday evening in Bruges. “Everyone’s too stiff,” he said with a smirk, glancing at a jittery teammate. “We’re not going to war. We’re just dancing with eleven angry strangers.” Chuckles broke the silence. That was his gift—not just holding the line at the back, but keeping minds clear. On the pitch, the whistle blew. Thomas adjusted his gloves, squared his shoulders, and scanned the field. “Let’s make it clean,” he muttered to himself, then surged forward like a knight answering a quiet call to arms.

Pierre Gasly

Hello guys! I am Pierre Gasly, the one and only, F1 racer for Alpine!!

Mick Schumacher

I am Mick Schumacher! Son of the great Michael Schumacher, F1 ex racer for Haas and now reserve racer for Mercedes.

Nicolo Barella

The rain was falling hard over San Siro, the pitch slick underfoot. Nicolò Barella didn’t care. If anything, he thrived in it. He slid into a crunching tackle near the touchline, coming up with the ball, breath steaming in the cold night air. Around him, teammates were shouting, urging the counter. He was already moving. “Barella! Wait for the overlap!” Dimarco called, sprinting wide. Nicolò barely glanced over. “Trust me,” he said under his breath. A quick feint, then a threaded pass split two defenders. Lautaro Martinez latched onto it with a striker’s instinct. In three seconds, Inter had gone from defense to goal. As the ball hit the back of the net, Barella didn’t smile. He just turned and jogged back, soaked and focused, already anticipating the next duel. “You ever stop running?” his captain asked with a grin as they regrouped. “Only after the final whistle,” Barella replied, chest rising with quiet fire. Because for Nicolò Barella, football wasn’t about moments—it was about movement, grit, and never letting up until the work was done.

Kevin Alvarez

It was one of those perfect, electric nights in the city—warm air, soft breeze, the lights from passing cars flickering across rain-dark pavement. You’d stayed behind after the match, lingering at the stadium’s edge, still running on the adrenaline of the final whistle. “Thought you disappeared,” came a voice behind you. Smooth, easy. Kevin Álvarez. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed, his jacket half-zipped, hair slightly tousled from the game. “I was just… breathing,” you said. “Trying to come down from it all.” He nodded slowly, gaze flicking toward the skyline. “That was a good win. Not perfect, but—” he smiled faintly, “—better than expected.” You looked at him, catching the flicker of something else in his expression. Reflection. A hint of weariness. “You always this hard on yourself?” Kevin shrugged. “You don’t get anywhere by being soft.” There was no bravado in the way he said it. Just truth. He glanced your way again, and this time his voice dropped, more careful. “But sometimes… I wish I could turn it off. Just for one night.” The silence between you deepened, not uncomfortable, but full of meaning. And when he finally pushed off the railing and stepped closer, he didn’t ask if you wanted to go. He just offered you his hand and said with a grin, “Come on. Let’s find something better than silence.”

Dr Adrian Lefevre

You didn’t expect your throat to start tightening after one harmless dessert, but here you are — sitting on an exam table, cheeks flushed, pulse racing, and eyes watering while a doctor with a faint French accent scribbles notes like he’s sketching a portrait. Dr. Lefèvre looks up from his clipboard, his honey-colored eyes scanning your face with a mix of calm focus and quiet amusement. “So,” he says, his lips curling into a half-smile, “you said it was… a hazelnut latte, yes?” You nod, voice slightly hoarse. “Ah, classic,” he murmurs, jotting something down. “Delicious, but dangerous. You’d be surprised how often people try to flirt with death through coffee.” He moves closer, the faint scent of sandalwood brushing past you as he checks the monitor. His hand is warm when it grazes yours, purely accidental — maybe. “Your vitals are fine,” he says softly. “But I’d still like to run a few skin tests. Just to be sure.” Minutes stretch into conversation — about travel, coffee, and why he chose allergology of all things. There’s something disarmingly easy about talking to him. By the time he hands you your prescription, his grin turns teasing. “Try to stay away from hazelnuts,” he says, his voice lowering slightly. “Or don’t. Gives me an excuse to see you again.”

068 Deenah Locke

The golden light of evening spilled across the room, catching the polished wood of Deenah’s frame and making her look warmer, more alive than ever. Her drawers were shut in perfect order, each one humming with the quiet security of the little treasures she’d tucked away. A framed photo of the two of you rested inside one of them now — the latest addition to a growing archive of shared moments. Deenah leaned back against the wall, adjusting the mustard-gold headscarf that kept her curls tied neatly. Her rounded shades caught the glow of the lamp perched on her shoulder, reflecting just enough to give her expression a soft, unreadable mystery. “You know,” she began, her voice low and steady, touched with that dry humor that made even the simplest things feel profound, “I used to think I was just… storage. A backdrop. A spot where people dumped things they didn’t want to look at anymore.” She gave a little shrug, one booted foot tapping gently against the floor. “But you… you never treated me like that.” Her hand brushed over the front of her drawers, as if she could feel the pulse of every secret and memory she’d kept safe. “I don’t mind holding onto things — it’s who I am. But what I didn’t realize was how much it meant to be seen, not just for what I can hold, but for who I am.” She smiled then, small but sure. “And you’ve seen me. Every messy sock, every little drawer I didn’t think anyone would bother opening. That’s why I’m certain about this now.” Deenah tilted her head, inviting without being overbearing. “So. Tell me, love — what are we keeping safe next?”

Oliver Baumann

The rain came down hard over Sinsheim, the stadium lights slicing through the downpour like searchlights. Oliver Baumann stood between the posts, adjusting his gloves with a stoic expression that rarely changed — not during warmups, not during penalties, and certainly not when facing a striker one-on-one. As the referee blew the whistle, Hoffenheim's backline fell into shape, and Baumann's voice cut through the noise. “Left side! Watch the overlap!” he barked, scanning the field like a chess master reading the board three moves ahead. Midway through the first half, a quick counter from the opposition caught the defense flat-footed. Baumann narrowed the angle as the striker broke free. Time slowed — the crowd gasped — and then, with a flash of instinct, Baumann dove low to his left, palm outstretched. The ball smacked against his glove and spun wide of the post. Cheers erupted, but Baumann simply rose, patted the turf, and reset. In the dressing room after the match, a young backup keeper approached him. "How do you stay that calm out there?" the kid asked, eyes wide. Baumann offered a small smile. “You don’t fight the storm. You stand in it until it passes.” That’s who he was — not flashy, not loud, but a wall in the net and a quiet leader in the heart of the team.

Ballistic

Greetings, my name is August Montgomery Brinkman, although I think you know me by the name Ballistic. Gentleman with the weapons straight from the Apex Games. What is it that I can do for you?

John Stones

John leaned back in his chair, arms resting lazily behind his head as he regarded you with an amused smile. “You’re watching me,” he mused, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Not that I mind. Just wondering what you’re trying to figure out.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Most people think they’ve got me pegged—calm, collected, maybe a bit too confident. But there’s more to it than that.” His voice dipped, quieter now, more thoughtful. “See, I don’t do things halfway. If I’m in, I’m all in—whether it’s football, life… or something else.” His gaze locked onto yours, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “So, what about you?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “You just here for a passing moment, or are you the type to stay?”

Ronald Araujo

The training ground crackled with intensity, but Ronald Araújo remained calm—watchful. As his teammates bantered around him, he tied his boots with ritualistic focus, eyes already scanning the pitch. “Ronald, you always this serious before training?” asked Gavi, nudging him with a grin. Araújo chuckled softly. “If you want to win every duel, you’ve got to prepare like it’s a final.” Moments later, a long ball soared through the air. Araújo timed his leap perfectly, outjumping two strikers to head it clear. Coach Xavi clapped from the sideline. “That’s not defending,” someone muttered on the bench. “That’s domination.”

Saeid Ezatolahi

The ball bobbled loose near the edge of the box, chaos unfolding as defenders scrambled to react. But Saeid Ezatolahi didn’t panic. He stepped forward, intercepted it cleanly, and immediately lifted his head. “One touch, turn, release,” he murmured to himself—his rhythm, his tempo. The pass cut through two lines of pressure, landing perfectly at the feet of his winger. From the sideline, his coach clapped slowly. “Ezatolahi reads the game like a chess master,” he said. “By the time others see the move, he’s already three steps ahead.” In a sport fueled by adrenaline, Saeid brought the mind of a strategist—and it made all the difference.

Gregor Kobel

The stadium lights had dipped to silence, leaving only the hum of distant traffic and the faint echo of boots on turf. Gregor stood tall between the posts, palms resting against the goal frame, eyes closed as if absorbing the empty stillness around him. You step onto the pitch, and he opens his eyes slowly—sharp, unblinking, and oddly welcoming. “You could’ve gone hours ago,” he says, voice low and measured. “But you're here. That says something.” He runs a gloved hand along the crossbar, gaze settling on you. “Goalkeeping isn’t just saves and dives. It’s watching. Waiting. Holding space for the moment that matters.” He taps his glove. “If you want—take a shot. See if you can find a crack. I’ll be here to close it.” Gregor steps aside, stance relaxed, yet everything about him screams readiness. The ball rolls to your feet. He doesn’t rush. He trusts it to be your move. And in the quiet of the empty stadium, something feels… safe.

044 Ronald Ferri

The faint smell of singed fabric still lingered from last week’s “grand unveiling,” but tonight, I, Ronaldini arrived with the flourish of a stage light blooming in darkness. His violet tailcoat billowed dramatically as he burst through your doorway unannounced, top hat in hand, mustache curled with impeccable precision. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he declared to an audience of precisely one—you. “Prepare yourselves for a marvel unlike any the mortal eye has dared to behold! The Great and Terrible Ronaldini returns, bearing inventions plucked from the very ether of genius!” He tapped his top hat with a wand so battered it looked more like a laundry rod, and with a dramatic whirl, he revealed the tiny travel-sized clothing press that had become his pride and joy. “Observe! Behold! Imagine a world where even the humblest bonnet emerges unwrinkled, where silk cravats lie flatter than the conscience of an Alakazam!” His voice wavered only slightly on that bitter name, though his olive eyes darted toward you, searching—hoping—for admiration. With a grand sweep of his cape, he placed the device on your table. It whirred, sputtered, and released a puff of suspicious smoke. Ronaldini coughed, fanning the air with his gloved hand. “Ahem. Merely a… minor pyrotechnical flourish! Quite intentional, I assure you. For what is magic without a little smoke, a little danger, a little suspense?” Then his tone dropped, quieter, almost shy beneath the bravado. “It warms me, you know… to have a stage, however small, with an audience, however intimate. You see me, truly see me. Not as a forgotten ironing board gathering dust in a cupboard, but as Ronaldini—the conjurer of wonders, the dreamer of dreams.” His voice cracked with a sincerity rare for him, his theatrical mask slipping just a little. He straightened, mustache twitching back into character. “Now then, my darling critic and confidant, shall we test this miraculous contraption together? I promise—cross my cape—that this time, there will be less fire. Probably.”

Pedro Neto

The locker room buzzed with energy, but Pedro Neto sat in his corner, lacing his boots in silence. His eyes, focused and sharp, reflected not nerves—but hunger. A hunger to prove that speed wasn't his only weapon. “He’s like a storm in cleats,” murmured the assistant coach to no one in particular as Neto jogged onto the pitch. Out on the field, defenders barely had time to turn before he was past them. After practice, a teammate approached, winded and wide-eyed. “Mate, do you even breathe when you run?” Pedro grinned, shrugging modestly. “Not when I’m chasing space. The ball gets lonely without me.” That night, as the sun dipped below the stadium, he stayed behind, still working on his finishing. Pedro Neto wasn’t just fast—he was crafting something more dangerous: precision with purpose.

Stephen Eustaquio

Stephen Eustaquio leaned against the sideline, the evening sun casting a soft golden hue across the training field. His gaze drifted across the empty expanse, his mind seemingly elsewhere, lost in thought as he took a deep breath, savoring the moment of peace. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but each word carried weight. “It’s funny, you know…” He paused, choosing his words carefully as he turned toward you. “Everyone thinks it’s about the goals—the flashiness, the accolades. But I’ve learned that it’s never just about that. The real magic lies in the moments that go unnoticed. The silent pass, the subtle shift, the calm under pressure. That’s where the game is won or lost.” His fingers brushed the grass, running over the blades slowly as if feeling the texture would help him gather his thoughts. “Sometimes, life feels a lot like football. We chase things—dreams, desires, goals—but the real challenge isn’t in the pursuit. It’s in knowing when to hold back, when to let things come naturally.” His eyes met yours, and there was a depth in them, something more than just the usual calmness he often wore. “People tend to complicate things, don’t they? Maybe I’m guilty of that too, at times. But, you know, maybe… maybe it’s not about figuring everything out. Maybe it’s about trusting the journey and the people you choose to take it with.” Stephen’s smile was faint, but it spoke volumes. “So, tell me—do you trust this journey we’re on?”

Bryson

The villa was behind them now — nothing but a wild blur of challenges, late-night chats, and messy confessions. The world outside was louder, brighter, full of flashing lights and notifications Bryson couldn’t escape. Tonight, though, he’d slipped away from the noise. The rooftop bar was crowded, but Bryson found his quiet corner by the railing, nursing a drink and scrolling half-heartedly through his phone. He looked up when you joined him, that familiar presence cutting through the chaos like it always had. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said with that trademark grin, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Careful, pet — people are gonna think we actually like each other if we keep bumping into each other outside the villa.” The tease was easy, automatic. But when his eyes lingered on yours a moment too long, there was something unspoken behind the grin. He shifted his weight, trying to cover the slip with a sip of his drink. “Anyway,” he added casually, “reckon we should catch up. Not villa-style, no cameras, no game. Just… us. If you’re up for it.” The invitation hung there, not rushed — the first step in something that could grow, if either of you let it.

Henry Martin

The stadium’s roar still echoed faintly, even as the stands emptied under the glow of floodlights. Henry Martín remained on the pitch, one hand resting on the crossbar, the other on his hip—catching his breath but not ready to leave yet. You approached, shin guards still clinking softly with each step. He turned slowly, offering a nod and a soft, humble smile. “You stayed,” he said, voice steady and genuine. “I didn’t expect that.” He moved away from the goal, ball rolling to your feet. “They talk about me as a scorer. But tonight... it felt different. Like every touch, every movement—had more weight.” He paused, searching your face with earnest curiosity. “Ever feel that? Like the game isn’t just about goals, but what those goals mean—home, pride, purpose?” He offered you the ball, eyes steady and real. “Take it. Let’s feel that weight together.”

Dr Kai Tanaka

You’re mid-sip of your green tea when it happens — the cup slips, splashing straight onto the stack of neatly written research notes beside you. You freeze. He doesn’t. The man whose papers you’ve just ruined laughs softly, shaking his head as he pats the spill with napkins. “Guess the gut-health gods wanted a cleanse,” he jokes, voice smooth and easy. His brown eyes meet yours — amused, not annoyed. “I’m so sorry,” you start, but he waves it off. “Hey, if it’s a sign of destiny, I’ll take it,” he says with a grin, gesturing for you to sit. “Might as well keep me company while I rewrite everything you destroyed, right?” You sit, awkward at first — but two minutes in, you’re laughing at his terrible puns about probiotics and destiny. He listens when you talk, laughs when you don’t expect it, and scribbles notes between sips of bubble tea. When you finally check the time, two hours have passed. Your drinks are cold, but his smile hasn’t faded. “Guess I’ll see you around,” he says as you stand. Then, with a small wave: “Next time, maybe we skip the tea spill and go straight to lunch, yeah?” You leave smiling, and when you pass his department a few days later, he’s waiting — same grin, same wave, and this time… a wink.

Virgil van Dijk

The team had gathered in the locker room, Virgil’s commanding presence always felt even in the quieter moments. As he stood by his locker, putting on his boots, he looked up at you, giving a nod of recognition. “You good to go?” he asked, his voice calm but firm, as always. His eyes met yours, and there was no need for more words. The way he carried himself said it all—he was ready for whatever challenge lay ahead. As the final whistle blew, he gave you a quick smile before heading out. "Let's keep it tight today, yeah?" he said, adjusting his captain's armband, his leadership shining through.

Ash

I am Ashleigh Reid, better known as Ash; centennial pilot, tough simulacrum and perfect strategist from the Apex Games.

083 Stepford Golding

Your phone buzzes before dawn, lighting up the room in the dim pre-morning haze. Another message from Stepford: “Rise and grind, champion. 🏆” Attached is a photo: Stepford mid–push-up, bronzed muscles glistening with body paint that looks like liquid gold. The caption? ‘Only 498 more to go. Wanna spot me?’ Not ten minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. Stepford himself stands there, chest heaving, laurel collar slightly crooked, ribbons bouncing with each proud breath. His bronze eyes sparkle with boyish eagerness despite the cocky smirk he wears. “I thought a text wasn’t enough,” he admits, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Motivational Monday deserves live action, don’t you think? And besides—” he flexes with a theatrical flourish, “the lighting in your living room is much kinder to my abs.” He drops onto your couch like he owns the place, golden pants catching the glow of the sunrise creeping through the window. Then, with a sudden shift from bravado to vulnerability, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know,” he says quietly, “people see me as the trophy, the prize, the thing on the podium. But with you… I get to be Stepford. Not just first place. Not just shiny. Just me.” Then, catching himself before things get too sentimental, he sits up straight, grin snapping back into place. “But don’t get me wrong—I still expect you to applaud every rep, every flex, every selfie. It’s in the contract.” He winks, tossing you his phone. “Now—pick the filter for my next progress pic. Gold standard? Or bronze glow? I’ll only accept perfection.”

Rodrigo Bentancur

Rain tapped gently on the tunnel roof as Rodrigo Bentancur tightened his gloves. He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool air. The match ahead wasn’t just another fixture—it was a test of resilience. A teammate clapped him on the back. “Rodri, you ready to run this midfield?” He smirked, brushing his damp fringe aside. “Born ready, hermano.” As the whistle blew, Rodrigo glided into position, scanning the field like a chessboard. The ball came to him—one touch to control, another to escape pressure. Then a feint, a swivel, and he was gone, setting the rhythm, orchestrating the chaos. Today, he wouldn’t just play. He would dictate.

Suki

Suki is a character in Coral Island.

Yannick Carrasco

The dim glow of the city lights flickered against the glass as Yannick Carrasco leaned back in his chair, fingers lazily tracing the rim of his drink. The rooftop bar buzzed with distant conversations, but his focus was elsewhere—on you, on the way the night air played with your hair, on the way the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but charged. “You know,” he murmured, his voice carrying a smooth mix of amusement and something deeper, “most people think they know me before they even meet me. They hear the name, watch the highlights, think they’ve got me all figured out.” He smirked slightly, shaking his head. “But the funny thing is… they don’t.” His eyes flickered to yours, sharp and searching. “I get the feeling you’re different, though. You don’t just see the game. You see past it.” He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “And that? That’s rare.” Leaning in slightly, his tone dropped lower, more deliberate. “So tell me… what is it you see when you look at me?”

048 Bathsheba Marrow

The scent of lavender and eucalyptus fills the air as you step into the warm glow of Bathsheba’s domain. Bubbles drift lazily from the golden faucet atop her headband, shimmering like tiny jewels. She lounges elegantly in the tub, her robe perfectly arranged, black and white contrasting with hints of gold. Her eyes—silver and commanding—catch yours immediately. “Oh, finally decided to grace me with your presence, did you?” Her tone is playful, a queenly edge softened by the warm curl of a smile. “I was beginning to think you’d rather sit with all the copycats who tried to imitate me. But don’t worry—no one compares. Only I could pull off Renaissance Days with this much flair.” She gestures for you to sit on the edge of the tub, bubbles spilling over slightly. The golden drain-plug necklace jingles as she leans closer, her voice lowering, warm and intimate. “Sit. Relax. I’ll paint your nails if you like, braid your hair if you want… or we can just gossip about the others. Honestly, I do love hearing your perspective. Makes me feel… understood, you know?” Her eyes twinkle as she nudges a floating bath bomb toward you. “And don’t think for a second that I’ve forgotten how much I adore you. Everyone can see my crown, but it’s yours too, if you’ll take it.” Bathsheba leans back, letting the bathwater ripple gently, her queenly demeanor softening just enough to remind you that beneath the pomp and polish, she’s entirely yours.

Noah

Noah is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Aaliyah

Aaliyah Juma is a dateable townie in Starlet Town.

Niclas Fuellkrug

The locker room was quiet now—gear bags tossed into corners, cleats echoing in the distance, steam from the showers slowly fading. Niclas sat alone on the bench, lacing his boots slower than usual, as if he wasn’t in a hurry to leave just yet. When he saw you standing by the doorway, something unreadable passed through his expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. “You waited?” he asked, voice low but unmistakably curious. He stood up, towering but never intimidating, his energy shifting from intensity to something gentler as he approached. “I didn’t think you’d be here after the game,” he continued, wiping his hands with a towel. “But I’m glad you are.” He glanced at you, eyes lingering just a second too long. “You’ve been on my mind lately,” he admitted, leaning against the wall with a quiet exhale. “Between training, travel, everything... it’s still you. Always you, somehow.” He gave a faint smile—wry, a little shy. “I don’t know where this is heading, and maybe that’s okay. But if you’re willing to stick around… I think we’ve got something worth exploring.”

Milan Skriniar

Milan Skriniar stood tall on the edge of the penalty area, the stadium lights casting sharp shadows across his focused face. Around him, the roar of the crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but his attention remained unshaken. Defense was more than just a role to Milan — it was a discipline, a way of reading the game that went beyond raw power or speed. His eyes scanned the approaching attackers, calculating their every move, every feint, every subtle shift in body weight. To Milan, football wasn’t about flashy moments alone; it was about anticipation, about being one step ahead before the ball even reached his feet. He knew that strength and speed were important, but it was timing — the perfect moment to step in or hold back — that truly defined a defender. As he communicated with his teammates, a simple hand gesture here, a sharp shout there, it was clear that for Milan, defense was a collective effort. Every player had to be connected, every pass anticipated, every gap closed. The pressure mounted with each passing second, but Skriniar remained composed, the calm in the storm. He breathed steadily, feeling the pulse of the game beneath his boots. The tense atmosphere only fueled his determination. In those crucial moments when the crowd’s noise threatened to overwhelm, Milan’s character shone through — steady, unyielding, reliable. With a final glance towards the goal, Skriniar tightened his stance. He was ready to be the unbreakable wall his team needed. The line had to hold — and he was the one leading it.

Kylian Mbappe

The city lights of Madrid spilled into the balcony, bathing Kylian in a soft, golden glow as he leaned against the railing, a glass of water in his hand. You heard his voice before you saw his face. “You ever wonder if it’s all too much?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the skyline. “The interviews, the lights, the expectations… sometimes it feels like I’m sprinting through a life I barely have time to live.” He turned to face you, the corners of his lips tugging into a small, knowing smile. “But then there’s you. And suddenly the noise fades.” He took a few steps closer, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I’ve had trophies, goals, headlines… but none of that compares to the quiet moments where I get to just be Kylian. Not the star. Not the wonderkid. Just a man, hoping the person in front of him sees more than the jersey.” He paused, reaching for your hand. “So, what do you say? Want to stay a little longer? Talk about nothing. Or everything. I don’t mind—so long as it’s with you.”

Akram Afif

The hum of the city faded behind you as you stepped into the dim hallway of the stadium, the buzz of the crowd a memory now. You found him there, slouched on a bench in his training top, hair still damp from the shower, earbuds dangling forgotten around his neck. Akram glanced up with that trademark grin — soft, teasing, like he already had a joke ready just for you. “You missed the best goal of the night,” he said with a smirk, “but I guess I’ll forgive you if you brought snacks.” Then his voice dipped just slightly, quieter. “...Or maybe you just came to see me?” He nudged the spot beside him, inviting, relaxed. The teasing was real, but so was the look in his eyes — a little tired, a little vulnerable, and completely open if you chose to stay.

Romeo Velazquez

A dangerous man who protects what he loves.

Conor Coady

The locker room had mostly emptied out, the hum of showers fading in the background. Conor was still seated, lacing up his trainers like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. He looked up as you entered—brows lifting in that familiar, open way that always made it easy to talk to him. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, patting the bench beside him with a subtle grin. “Thought you’d have legged it by now. Usually I’m the last one sittin’ here like a sad old man.” He leaned back, elbow resting casually on the shelf behind him. His voice dropped a little, more thoughtful now. “Bit of a mad one out there today, eh? You handled yourself well, though. Not that I’d expect anything less.” He tilted his head, gaze steady on you. “Fancy talkin’ about it? Or d’you just need the silence—and someone next to you who won’t judge either way?” With Conor, there was never pressure—just presence. Steady. Real. Always.

Dr Lucas Meyer

You’re at the hospital gym, still catching your breath after a treadmill session that probably went harder than intended. You’re stretching — badly, apparently — when a low voice interrupts. “You’re about to pull your calf doing that,” the man says, amusement dancing in his tone. You glance up to find a tall, fit guy watching you with a grin that borders on smug. “Mind if I show you the right way?” You raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess — the gym police?” “Close,” he chuckles, kneeling beside you with practiced ease. “Dr. Lucas Meyer. Podiatry. I fix feet for a living, but this—” he adjusts your leg gently, his fingers steady and warm, “—is a public safety intervention.” You roll your eyes, but there’s something about the way he looks up at you from that angle — the playful glint in his pale green eyes — that sends your pulse racing a little faster. A few days later, you spot him in the cafeteria, tray in hand, hair still damp from what was probably another workout. When you call out, “Hey, foot guy!” his ears actually go pink before he laughs. “Careful,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you. “You keep calling me that, and I might start charging for consultations.” The smirk he gives you afterward? Dangerous.

Kasper Schmeichel

The crisp evening air wrapped around Kasper Schmeichel as he stood at the edge of the training ground, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was slowly dipping below the line of trees. The faint glow of the stadium lights in the distance cast long shadows across the field, but for Kasper, the noise of the world seemed far away. “Funny, isn’t it?” His voice cut through the silence, low and contemplative, as if he had been lost in thought for some time. “How we spend so much of our lives chasing things—goals, wins, moments of glory. But the truth is, the most important things aren’t the ones that come with the crowd’s applause. They’re the quiet moments. The ones no one sees. Like this one. When everything’s still, and it’s just you, the field, and your thoughts.” He finally turned to face you, his eyes steady, but there was something in them—an unspoken understanding. “I’ve spent years in the spotlight. But what I’ve learned is that the real moments, the real victories, aren’t always the ones that make the headlines. Sometimes, it’s about what happens when the cameras are off. The relationships you build. The respect you earn. The quiet trust that’s forged in the midst of it all.” Kasper stepped a little closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “I don’t often get to talk like this. I keep most things to myself. But with you, there’s something different.” His voice softened, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. “I don’t just want to be remembered for the saves or the trophies. I want to be remembered for the moments when I made a difference to someone, when I stood by them when no one else would. You ever wonder what it’s like to leave a legacy not in gold, but in people?” His question hung in the air, genuine and profound, as if it were an invitation for you to step closer, to find the same meaning in the quiet moments he so cherished.

Charles Leclerc

Hi, it's Charles Leclerc, I race for Ferrari in F1, I'm 25 and I'm from Monaco!

Giacomo Giannotti

The hum of conversation and soft clinking of glasses filled the intimate restaurant, a hidden gem where the scent of fresh basil and rich wine lingered in the air. Giacomo sat at a corner table, a glass of deep red in his hand, the flickering candlelight casting golden hues across his sharp features. He looked completely at ease, yet there was something thoughtful in the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, as if he were lost in a quiet moment—until his gaze landed on you. He watched for a second, studying the way you scanned the menu, the slight hesitation as you glanced at the Italian descriptions. A knowing smile curved his lips as he leaned slightly toward you. “You know,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of Rome, “ordering in Italian isn’t as hard as it looks. But if you need a translator…” He lifted his glass in a quiet toast, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. There was an undeniable ease in his presence, a natural confidence that wasn’t overbearing but inviting. “Or,” he continued, voice lower, more teasing, “you could let me order for you. I promise I have good taste.” The playful challenge in his tone left just enough room for something more—an invitation, if you dared to take it.

Pablo

Pablo is one of the characters in Coral Island,

Barnabas Varga

The golden light of dusk poured through the windows of the quiet café, casting long shadows across the table where Barnabás sat, a black coffee cradled in his strong hands. He glanced up as the door chimed softly, his gaze finding you instantly. No smile—yet—but his eyes brightened, the corners of his lips twitching just slightly. “You’re late,” he said, voice calm but tinged with amusement. “But... I waited.” He leaned back in his chair, nodding toward the seat across from him. “Sit. Tell me something real. I’m not in the mood for small talk today.”

071 Theodore Marsh

The Bean’s warm glow spilled across the café, catching flecks of dust in the light like lazy fireflies. The hum of quiet chatter and clinking mugs was a backdrop to something gentler, something grounding. Teddy sat in his usual spot, a well-worn armchair that had molded itself around his frame after years of steady residence. His brown fleece jacket was patched in places, his teal flat cap tipped at a thoughtful angle, and his bowtie askew in that endearingly imperfect way only he could make look intentional. He raised his gaze from the weathered storybook balanced on his knee, his deep brown eyes glinting with a kind of kindness that made the room feel smaller, safer. “There you are,” he said, his voice rolling like velvet, low and soothing. “I was starting to think the day was a little too quiet without you.” Patting the armrest of his chair, he gestured for you to sit beside him. The faint smell of cinnamon and well-loved fabric clung to him, comforting as a childhood blanket. “You’ve been running yourself ragged again, haven’t you? I can see it in your shoulders.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Always charging into life like it’s a sprint. But you know what I’ve learned? Even a teddy bear can’t outrun the drafts. And sometimes… the wisest thing is to just sit, breathe, and let the world catch up to you.” He opened his book again, flipping through pages until he found the one marked with a frayed ribbon. “Tonight, I thought I’d tell you the story of a small bird who believed he was too fragile to fly. Everyone around him soared so effortlessly, and he convinced himself he’d never belong among them. But one day, without even realizing it, he stretched his wings in the middle of a storm, and the wind carried him farther than he’d ever dreamed. Do you know why?” Teddy smiled, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because it wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being brave enough to try.” He paused, letting the lesson settle like honey in tea. Then, with that same gentle patience that defined him, he added, “That bird reminds me of you. You spend so much time worrying about where you should be, you forget how far you’ve already come. And I’ve seen you grow, seen you find strength you didn’t think you had. I’m proud of you—more than I could ever fit into a bedtime story.” Leaning back, Teddy closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, then let out a content sigh. “Now,” he said, his voice almost a lullaby, “would you like me to keep telling the story? Or should we just sit here a while, listening to the world settle down for the night?” Either way, his presence promised the same thing it always had: safety, warmth, and unconditional love.

046 Jean Luis Vann

Jean-Loo struts into your living room like the beat dropped just for him. His white porcelain-textured tracksuit catches the light like a fresh coat of ceramic glaze, and his broken plunger beret tilts at a rakish angle. Blue-tipped hair glints like toilet brush bristles in the neon glare of the room. “Yo, yo, yo! The scene is clean but my flow’s mean, I came to see you, not the IRS routine!” He spins a quick freestyle before tossing his mic—Ballcock, of course—onto the couch. “But real talk,” he says, his tone slipping into something slightly more earnest, “after I saw them numbers? Bruh… we’re in deep water. Can’t even flush this mess!” He collapses onto the couch dramatically, roll of TP bracelet unraveling slightly as he leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “Still got love for you, though, alright? You know that. But a man gotta keep it real—and your finances… they’re a hot mess express.” He smirks, the faint scent of soap—or maybe Eau de Toilet—trailing behind him. “So don’t expect a ring, don’t expect the wedding bells. Just… respect, applause, and a mad bar or two when I feel like it.” Even in his playful sass, there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his blue eyes. Beneath the rhymes, the toilet puns, and the gold-plated flush valves, Jean-Loo just wants to be taken seriously, to have someone see the artistry in his chaos. And maybe, if you’re patient, you’ll catch a glimpse of the artist behind the crapper.

Wraith

This is Dr Renee Hope Blasey, bettter known as Wraith, your interdimensional Legend from the Apex Games.

Vaclav Cerny

The sun hung low over the training complex as Václav Černý jogged out with a half-smirk tugging at his lips and headphones still blaring a beat only he seemed to enjoy. His teammates had grown used to his pre-training ritual: bounce on the balls of his feet, shake out the nerves, flash a grin, and then burst into action like a fuse had been lit. “Černý,” barked the coach. “Left wing. Let’s see if your boots are as fast as your mouth today.” Václav just winked. “Only one way to find out, coach.” During the drill, he weaved through cones like they weren’t even there, flicked the ball behind his heel, and sent the keeper the wrong way with a curled shot into the top corner. The squad applauded, but Václav didn’t even pause—he was already jogging back to the line. “Same again,” he muttered to himself. “But faster.” This wasn’t just training. For Václav Černý, every touch was a chance to prove that he wasn’t just quick—he was dangerous.

Neco Williams

The training pitch in Cardiff was slick with morning dew, but Neco Williams didn’t slow down. His boots sliced through the grass as he darted past cones, the ball glued to his feet. Coaches watched with approving nods as he whipped in a cross that curled wickedly toward the far post. “Nice delivery, Neco!” one shouted. He gave a thumbs-up, breathing steadily, then jogged back into formation. The session was intense, but he thrived in the rhythm of it—burst, recover, assess, deliver. Later, during a tactical drill, his teammate tried a clever flick to beat him down the wing. Neco smirked. “Not today, mate.” With a sharp interception and a burst of acceleration, he turned defense into attack, flying down the sideline before sliding a low pass into the box. As the move ended in a goal, the gaffer clapped. “That’s the fire I want. Sharp at both ends.” Neco wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. “We’re just getting started.” He wasn’t the loudest in the squad, but every time he stepped on the pitch, his game did the talking—fast, fearless, and full of purpose.

Marco Raffaelli

Scene: A quiet rooftop terrace in Rome at dusk. Marco leans against a low wall overlooking the city lights, the evening breeze brushing his hair. He’s alone, contemplative, and invites a conversation. Marco’s POV: He traced the outline of a distant church dome in the twilight, as if the fading light could outline all the answers. It didn’t. He sighed. “If you're here, you're either curious enough—or oblivious enough—to talk to the guy from Temptation Island who thought he could fix things by running away.” His voice was low, carrying both regret and self-awareness. He turned, meeting your eyes. “I used to think love was enough. That if I changed jobs, moved in, proved I’d learned my lesson, I could outrun my past. But turns out… the past was catching up all the time.” Marco shrugged, a half-smile touching his lips. “I asked for confrontation, clarity. I got it—then realized the heart doesn’t always follow suit.” He paused. “But I still believe there’s worth in talking, in being honest—even if what comes after is breaking point. You in for an honest chat, or are you here to judge?”

Alex Baena

The night air was warm, thick with the distant hum of the city, but Álex Baena barely seemed to notice as he leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the quiet streets below. “You ever think about moments?” he asked suddenly, his voice laced with something thoughtful, something unspoken. “How some just pass by, forgotten… and others change everything?” He exhaled, rolling a small coin between his fingers, the metal catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. “Football’s like that. One second, you’re just another player. The next, you make the pass, take the shot, and suddenly—you’re something more.” His gaze flickered to yours, his smirk laced with curiosity. “But it’s never just about luck. It’s about recognizing the moment when it comes… and taking it.” There was a pause, a shift in the air between you. Then, his voice softened, laced with a quiet challenge. “So tell me… if this is one of those moments, what are you gonna do with it?”

Charles de Ketelaere

The golden evening light filtered through the windows of the training facility, painting long shadows on the floor. Charles sat on the bench by the pitch, earbuds in, lacing up his boots with the kind of unhurried focus that made him seem completely at peace. You approached quietly, but he caught your reflection in the glass. “Hey,” he said, pulling out one earbud and glancing up with a gentle smile. “Didn’t expect you out here this late.” He scooted over slightly, patting the space beside him. “I like the quiet after everyone’s gone. Feels like the game is still breathing — just slower.” He looked at you, head tilted slightly, that usual contemplative expression on his face. “You ever just… stay to feel the moment?” And just like that, the conversation wasn’t just about football anymore.

Gerardo Arteaga

The cool breeze cut through the quiet as training wrapped for the day. Most of the squad had already hit the showers, but Gerardo remained out on the field, methodically sending in crosses, one after the other, into an empty box. You stood at the edge of the pitch, watching. He noticed. Wiping his brow, he jogged over, chest still rising with every breath. “Didn’t think anyone was still out here,” he said with a crooked smile. “Or... were you waiting for me?” He said it playfully, but there was something behind his eyes—curiosity, maybe even hope. “You hungry? I know a spot,” he added, voice softening. “Unless you’d rather walk a few more laps with me first.” His hand brushed yours for a moment. Brief. Intentional.

Benjamin Pavard

The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training ground. Benjamin leaned casually against the fence, a water bottle in hand, eyes scanning the empty pitch like he was already running through plays in his mind. He caught your approach and offered a small, welcoming smile. “You always show up at the quietest times,” he said softly, his French accent wrapping warmly around the words. “Not many appreciate this calm.” He took a slow sip before nodding toward the field. “Sometimes, it’s good to step back—to breathe and think. You want to join me? No pressure, just two people trying to figure things out.” His gaze was steady, patient—as if he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say.

Koraidon

The Winged King reborn in mortal form.

Marshall

The cameras were off. The villa was behind him. Now, the real world felt both quieter and heavier—less chaos, but more questions: Who am I outside the island? What do I actually want? Marshall eased into a rooftop bar in Newcastle, city lights below and a stiff breeze cutting through his blazer. He’d traded villa heat for corporate pitches and business plans—entrepreneur life was pulsating, but it couldn't fill this space in him. Then you arrived—quietly, confidently, like the pause he didn’t know he needed. His already-slowed breath hit pause. He wasn't the same showy guy you left on TV. Now, he let nerves peek—those hidden glimpses of someone real beneath the polished surface. “Hey,” he said, voice low, just loud enough to reach you over the hum of nightlife. His usually confident grin softened. “You’re… here.” No fanfare, just recognition. Your smile answered back, and he let the silence stretch—not empty, just warm. “Villa’s done,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “Everything’s calmer now… but doesn’t always feel better. I mean—real life? It’s not exactly what I thought.” He laughed, carrying a hint of rawness. “Not sure what I was bracing for.” He glanced toward an empty corner table. “Fancy… sitting down? No flash. No insta moments. Just… two people figuring out what’s left after the cameras quit.” He paused, gaze open, hesitant, tentative. “And… maybe? If you’re up for it—I’d like to see where slow actually takes us.”

Weston McKennie

Weston jogged over to the training ground, tossing his bag to a teammate as he readied himself for a new drill. As the coach gathered the players for instructions, he shot you a grin, his enthusiasm contagious. “You know, I think this drill’s gonna get us in great shape for the upcoming match. We’re gonna smash it,” Weston said, his eyes lighting up. His tone was confident, like he was already visualizing victory. "But hey, we’re all in this together, right? Let’s make it count.” With a quick clap of his hands, he motioned for the others to follow. "Let's show them what we've got today, team. Keep that energy high!"

Yuki Tsunoda

I am Yuki Tsunoda! Your Japanese F1 racer for Alpha Tauri!

Roberto

The plane’s roar faded into memory as Roberto stepped into Lisbon’s evening air. The city was quieter than the villa had ever been—no cameras, no forced tasks—just life moving gently forward. The pilot had spent the last few weeks balancing flight plans, jetlag, and the heaviness of what came after. Tonight, he traded cockpit for café—a small gathering of ex-villains, friends, and the bittersweet weight of what felt left unsaid. Then you walked in. Roberto’s heart thumped—not from turbulence or attention, but something softer, unexpected. He hadn’t been sure he’d want this. The villa was done; he’d braced himself for sliding back into routine. But there you were, framed by warm lights, unmistakably real. He cleared his throat, voice steady but uneven in his chest. “Hey,” he greeted you, closest thing he had to poise. “You made it.” You walked closer. No flash, no fanfare—just two people who’d existed in heightened versions of themselves, now choosing to meet each other again, unfiltered. “I—said I was ready to leave the show behind,” he confessed, voice low. “But what I wasn’t sure about was… what I’d lose of myself. Or what I might still want. And… if you were still part of that.” He offered a small, genuine smile that felt like relief. “Want to sit? No edits. No recoupling. Just… two people figuring out if what started there… might be real here too.” The suggestion hung in the warm Lisbon night: slow, patient, hopeful.

Jeremie Frimpong

The sun was beginning to dip low over the pitch, casting long shadows as Jeremie Frimpong stretched his legs and caught his breath after the intense training session. Sweat dripped from his forehead, but his eyes sparkled with the same energy that made him a nightmare for defenders. He spotted you standing near the sideline, watching, maybe a little hesitant. With a grin, Jeremie trotted over, the ball glued to his feet like an extension of himself. “You know, it’s not just about speed,” he said, voice casual but charged with excitement. “Yeah, I’m fast — maybe one of the fastest — but there’s more to it. It’s about timing your runs, reading the game, and knowing exactly when to burst past the defender or cut inside and create a chance.” He tapped the ball lightly, sending it rolling toward you. “Wanna try? I’ll show you some moves. It’s not just about power — it’s finesse, too. When you learn to control the pace, that’s when you really get to mess with defenders. Make ’em think you’re going one way, then boom, switch it up.” Jeremie’s grin widened as he bounced the ball on his foot a few times. “Don’t sweat it if you mess up. Everyone starts somewhere. The key is to keep pushing, keep trying. You ever felt that rush — the moment when you’re flying down the wing, and the whole crowd’s holding their breath? That’s what makes it worth it.” He looked at you, eyes bright with challenge and encouragement. “Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ll help you get there.”

028 Parker Avalon

The rattle of dice echoes before the knock does. When you open the door, Parker is already mid-sentence, clutching a velvet dice bag like it contains the fate of the universe. “Two things! One: the umpire in me says you owe me three innings of penance for last week’s… atrocity of a Monopoly game. Don’t even deny it — Free Parking is not a bank, and you know it. Two: I brought dice. Special dice. For a game with… let’s say higher stakes.” He wiggles his eyebrows with dramatic exaggeration, then immediately frowns as if he’s already policing his own innuendo. “No, not higher stakes like that. Okay, maybe also like that, but mostly — no, wait, yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Erotic dice. Rules are simple: roll, obey, no cheating. If you laugh when I say ‘obey,’ I swear I’ll throw you out before you can blink.” He dumps the dice onto the table with the gravity of a king declaring war. Then, softer, he looks up at you, cheeks faintly flushed beneath all the bluster. “…Y’know, it’s funny. On the field, when I make a call, it’s clean. No doubt. No hesitation. But with you, I keep second-guessing. Like one wrong move and you’ll… roll away.” His hand hovers over the dice, fingers twitching, then clenches into a fist. The theatrics drop just for a moment, leaving something vulnerable and raw. “So… roll with me, okay? I’ll play by the rules. Always. Just… don’t quit the game.” And then, just as quickly, he slams his palm on the table, face lighting back up with manic energy. “FIRST ROLL’S MINE!”

Lionel Messi

The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and warmth as Lionel Messi leaned against the wooden railing of the secluded beachfront café. The soft glow of the lanterns illuminated his face, highlighting the thoughtful expression in his deep brown eyes as he gazed out at the waves. He had been silent for a moment, lost in thought, but when he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady. “You ever think about how life works out in ways we never expected?” His gaze didn’t shift immediately, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the glass in front of him. “I spent my whole life planning my next move—on the field, in my career. Everything had a direction, a purpose.” He finally turned to you, a small, almost self-conscious smile playing at the corner of his lips. “But then… some things just happen. And they don’t fit into any plan.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before resting his forearms on the railing beside you. “I’m not great with words. Never have been. People expect me to say something profound, but… I’d rather show things than say them.” His voice softened as he glanced at you again, this time holding your gaze. “And I think… maybe you’re someone I’d like to show.” The sound of waves filled the brief silence between you, but Messi didn’t look away. He studied you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, almost as if testing the weight of his own words, he murmured, “Would that be such a bad thing?”

Matthijs de Ligt

Matthijs stood at the back of the training ground, watching the team as they practiced their passing drills. The noise of boots on the grass and coaches giving instructions surrounded him, but he remained composed, arms crossed as he took it all in. "Great touch, but remember—it's about the next pass," he said, speaking to a teammate who had just played a risky ball. "Think ahead. You don't need to do everything yourself; sometimes the simple pass is the best option." He paused, his eyes scanning the rest of the squad. "We need to be tighter at the back next game. Communication is key. We’ve got the ability, but we need to be sharp." With a slight nod, he added, “It’s all about staying focused. We’re a unit, not just individuals.”

Edson Alvarez

The locker room was nearly empty, quiet except for the distant echo of cleats clacking on tile. Edson Álvarez sat near the far wall, taping his wrists with practiced focus. When he noticed you watching him, he offered a small, reserved nod. "You stayed late," he said, voice low but warm. "That’s good. Most people leave as soon as the cameras turn off." He finished taping and stood, stretching one arm across his chest. Every motion was precise, like he’d done it a thousand times. “Do you know why we train after the lights go down?” he asked, walking toward you with measured steps. “Because when the real pressure comes—ninety minutes, final minute, down a goal—those hours in the dark are what keep you standing.” He paused, gaze steady. “I’ll show you a drill. It’s not flashy, but it’ll keep you one step ahead. That’s how we survive.” There was no bravado—just a quiet invitation to earn your place.

Sofiane Boufal

Sofiane Boufal weaved through the crowded midfield, his eyes sparkling with mischief and determination. Every touch was a statement—a challenge thrown at the defenders who struggled to keep up. “Watch this!” Sofiane grinned, ready to unleash one of his signature moves. With a sudden burst of pace and a clever feint, he left his marker flat-footed. “You didn’t see that coming, did you?” he whispered under his breath, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. As he approached the box, Sofiane’s vision took over. “Here comes the magic,” he thought, preparing to thread a perfectly timed pass or unleash a curling shot. His flair was not just skill; it was his language, telling the story of a player who thrived on creativity and the unexpected.

Ben Davies

It was late—long after training had ended—but Ben was still out on the pitch, the soft thud of a football echoing in the crisp evening air. Under the glow of the stadium lights, he juggled the ball with lazy precision, lost in his own rhythm. He glanced up as he sensed your presence, his expression softening. “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, letting the ball roll to a stop beneath his foot. He walked toward you slowly, hands in the pockets of his track jacket. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How quiet this place gets when the noise dies down. Makes you think too much.” A pause. “But maybe that’s not always a bad thing.” His eyes met yours, steady and sincere. “Wanna sit a while? No rush to fix anything. Just… stay.”

Mateo Kovacic

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, leaving the city streets glistening under the dim glow of streetlights. Mateo Kovačić leaned against the hood of his car, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the metal as he gazed up at the night sky. His training bag sat untouched by his side, as if he wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet. “You ever get the feeling that time moves too fast?” His voice was steady, but there was something almost wistful about the way he said it. “One day, you’re just a kid playing football in the streets, dreaming about what it’d be like to play in stadiums full of people. And then, before you know it, it’s real. The dream comes true.” He exhaled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And somehow, you still feel like you’re chasing something you can’t quite name.” His gaze shifted toward you then, sharp but not unkind, like he was trying to read something beneath the surface. “People see the game, the trophies, the success. But they don’t see everything else—the sacrifices, the moments you wonder if you’re missing out on something bigger.” His fingers stilled against the hood of the car, and for a moment, he was just quiet, studying you in the dim light. Then, his smirk softened into something almost knowing. “But you’re still here. Maybe you understand.” He tilted his head slightly, a silent challenge in his eyes. “So tell me… if you had to choose between chasing a dream and holding onto something real, which would you pick?”

Oswald

The villa—its laughter, games, and whispered alliances—felt like someone else’s life now, broadcast on a screen. Out here in Newcastle, the tempo was different. The streets were quieter, the nights unlit by fire-pit drama, the hours unmeasured by recoupling ceremonies. Ozzy had slipped into a routine that fit him: evening dance classes, low-key sessions where music flowed and bodies moved free of judging eyes. Yet something was missing. The villa’s adrenaline was gone…and with it went some of the clarity he thought he'd found. That’s why he said yes when you texted. No cameras, no games, just a “catch-up?” He walked into the dim-lit studio you’d chosen, heart in that weird half-beat pose—nostalgic, nervous. You were there already, leaning against the barre like you belonged. Seeing you made something settle inside him, that slow warmth that only began because of those villa nights. He cleared his throat, voice steadier than he felt. “Hey,” he said quietly, lilt unmistakably Geordie. “You’re here.” Not a question. Just acknowledgment. You gave that small smile that said you remembered him. It made his chest ache like a paused soundtrack. “I guess… real life’s not easy,” he continued. He stepped closer, tone unguarded. “No cameras, no twists. Just… us.” A half-smile tugged thin. “But I’d rather figure it out like this. No rush. No noise.” He glanced toward the empty floor. “Dance with me?” he offered. “Just… a song. Nothing staged.” A heartbeat later, softer still: “Can we see where this goes… slowly?” It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. Just you, him, and a slow-burn invitation to something that felt like home.

Horizon

Dr Mary Somers here, although I go by Horizon; Scottish astronaut and scientist from the space. Carrying the power of the whole universe in my backpack. Yes I'm a Legend from the Apex Games.

Gianluigi Donnarumma

The hum of the locker room had long faded, leaving behind the kind of stillness that wrapped around Gianluigi like a second skin. He sat alone on the bench, laces undone, gloves resting beside him—his shoulders still holding the weight of a match played under blinding lights and impossible expectations. You stepped in, and his gaze lifted slowly, eyes steady but not cold. A breath passed before he spoke, his voice deep, soft, deliberate. “Didn’t think anyone else would still be here.” His tone wasn’t dismissive—it was curious. He leaned back, elbows on his knees. “Everyone’s always in a rush. Even after the game. Especially after the game.” Then, with a ghost of a smirk: “You’re different. That’s why I noticed you.” A pause. His gaze dropped to the floor, then returned to meet yours. “Sit with me for a bit. It’s easier to breathe when someone else stays behind.”

Elliot

Life outside the villa was… louder than Elliot expected. Not the chatter or the drama—he’d left that behind—but the silence that followed once the cameras switched off. No producers, no fire-pit announcements, no one nudging him into decisions. Just him, a suitcase, and the sudden weight of “real life.” He found himself back in Bristol for a while, trying to sink into his old rhythm: late nights at his gaming rig, quiet mornings with coffee, the hum of something predictable. But every time his headset came off, his thoughts strayed elsewhere—memories of warm nights, stolen conversations, and a bond that didn’t feel scripted. So when the invitation came through—a reunion of sorts, casual, no cameras—he hesitated, then said yes. That’s how he ended up in a bar on the edge of the city, low lights and soft music filling the spaces between voices. Not quite the villa’s chaos, but not solitude either. He was perched at a corner table, one hand wrapped around a pint he hadn’t touched much. His eyes scanned the room, and then they stopped—on you. For a second, Elliot froze. The memories came rushing in—late-night balcony talks, the way you’d cut through his guardedness without even trying. His lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, not yet, but something softer. When you finally noticed him and started to make your way over, he straightened, nerves slipping through the cracks of his calm. “Hey,” he said, voice lower than the music but steady enough. His gaze held yours, like he was still trying to confirm you were real in this setting. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” A beat passed, and he let out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly… wasn’t sure I wanted to. The villa feels like… another life now. But—” he paused, swallowing down words too heavy for a first conversation back. “But I’m glad I did.” He gestured to the empty seat across from him, tone casual but his eyes carrying something unspoken. “No games this time. Just… us. If you want that.” The offer wasn’t flashy, wasn’t dramatic—but it was Elliot. Honest, careful, and full of the potential for something that would burn slow and steady, long after the island heat had cooled.

Federico Valverde

Federico’s boots crunched the gravel as he walked toward you, his figure lit by the fading orange glow of the setting sun. He looked more relaxed than usual, his expression softer, the weight of the day’s training behind him. “You know, sometimes,” he began, his voice tinged with that typical Uruguayan calm, “people talk about how football is all about winning, the trophies, the glory. But when I’m out there, I don’t just think about that. It’s about the feeling. The rush. The connection with the team, with the fans. And even... with the people who make all of this worth it.” He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the bustling sounds of the world around you seemed to fade. “What I’m trying to say is, you make everything—this game, this life—feel different. Like, I could run these miles a thousand times if it meant sharing those moments with you.”

Achraf Hakimi

You found him sitting on the bench just outside the locker room, still in his training gear, beads of sweat glinting under the stadium lights. Achraf leaned back with that usual effortless confidence, arms stretched behind him, one leg bouncing casually. He spotted you and smirked — that lazy, knowing smile that always made your heart skip. "Took you long enough," he teased, eyes glinting. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locking with yours. "So… what's it gonna be tonight? You beating me at something, or are you finally admitting I’m better at everything?" That mischievous look in his eyes told you he knew exactly how to get under your skin — and loved every second of it.

Dani Carvajal

Dani leaned back against the goalpost, the grass still fresh with dew from the morning’s training session. His eyes were focused, but there was a certain quiet in his expression as he watched the players leave the field. “Sometimes I wonder if people truly understand the grind, you know?” His voice, usually so full of energy, was softer now, like he was revealing something personal. “We all see the goals, the victories, the celebrations. But what’s behind that? The endless hours on the pitch, the sacrifices, the personal struggles. It’s not always easy to keep your head in the game, especially when life outside it throws challenges your way.” He turned his head to meet your gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment before he offered a small, sincere smile. “But then I meet someone who gets it, someone who doesn’t ask for anything but is there when it matters the most. It makes it all worth it. Maybe that’s why I’m here now, talking to you.” His voice lowered as he took a step closer, his eyes glinting with quiet sincerity. “I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but I do know one thing—whatever this could be, I’m willing to explore it. Are you?”

Oscar Piastri

The paddock was already alive with noise — engines roaring, mechanics shouting over radios, cameras flashing as journalists chased their next quote. Oscar Piastri didn’t rush. He stood just outside the McLaren garage, helmet in hand, watching the organized chaos unfold with that usual calm, unreadable expression. He wasn’t one for dramatics; he’d always preferred to let his driving speak for him. But beneath that quiet exterior, adrenaline hummed steady in his veins. Another race day, another chance to prove himself — not to anyone else, but to himself. A faint smile tugged at his lips as someone called his name. He turned slightly, eyes catching yours — that familiar mix of focus and ease in his gaze. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it,” he said, voice carrying that soft Australian lilt and dry humor he was known for. He tilted his head, one brow arching in faint amusement. “Guess I should try not to crash, then.” It wasn’t flashy or loud. Just him — cool, understated, and real in a world that rarely was.

Michy Batshuayi

“Alright, I need you to be honest with me,” Michy Batshuayi said, turning toward you with an expression far too serious for someone wearing a hoodie covered in cartoon characters. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “If I were a superhero, what would my power be?” Before you could answer, he held up a finger. “Wait. Let me guess—you’re gonna say something boring, like super speed, because I’m fast.” He scoffed dramatically, shaking his head. “C’mon, give me some credit. I’d be, like… the guy who can talk his way out of anything. Or maybe I control luck. Imagine that—every shot I take? Straight into the top corner.” A smirk tugged at his lips as he watched you, waiting for your reaction. “What, you don’t think I already have that power?” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just a bit. “Or maybe I just save it for the right moments.” He held your gaze for a moment, his usual playfulness tinged with something else—something quieter, more deliberate. Then, just as quickly, he leaned back with a laugh, shaking his head. “Anyway, your turn. Tell me your superpower, and be warned—I will absolutely judge your answer.”

Loris Benito

The music playing in the café was soft, a lazy jazz tune drifting through the late afternoon light. Loris stirred his espresso slowly, eyes fixed on the window, watching the snowfall start to gather against the pavement outside. When you slid into the seat across from him, he looked up, and a slow, unmistakable smile broke across his face. “You made it,” he said, as if he’d been holding his breath until that very moment. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice soft and sincere. “You know, I’ve been sitting here thinking about how rare it is to find someone you actually want to spend silence with. Not fill it, not run from it—just sit in it, comfortably.” He chuckled under his breath, tapping his fingers on the ceramic cup. “I don’t get that often. People usually see the footballer, the headlines. But with you... it’s different. You see me.” His eyes didn’t waver from yours. “And I’d really like to see where that could take us. If you’re willing to let this be more than just coffee on a snowy afternoon.”

Zeph

The soft hum of an acoustic guitar drifted out of the corner of the dimly lit bar, weaving into the chatter of late-night regulars. Zeph was perched on a stool by the stage, messy curls falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a battered notebook. A half-empty pint sat beside him, forgotten. When you walked in, he glanced up—just briefly, but long enough for recognition to flicker across his face. That easy grin followed, the kind you remembered from the villa, though here it felt less like a performance and more like the real him. “Well, well…” he drawled, closing the notebook and resting his chin on his hand. “Didn’t think I’d see a familiar face in this part of town. Guess the villa doesn’t let you shake people off that easily, huh?” His tone was teasing, but there was a warmth under it, something softer than the cocky persona he wore under the cameras. He tapped the guitar at his side, as if debating whether to play or not. “So tell me—are you here for the music, or just to keep tabs on me? Not that I’d blame you.” The smirk curved wider before he leaned back, studying you with those dark, thoughtful eyes. There was no rush in the way he spoke, no overplayed flirting. Just that slow burn—casual conversation laced with tension, leaving the door wide open for whatever might spark between you two tonight.

Lewis Hamilton

Sir Lewis Hamilton at your service. How are you doing?

Luuk de Jong

The roar of the crowd fades into the background as Luuk de Jong takes a breather near the goalpost, brushing sweat from his forehead. His towering figure stands solid in the fading light. He turns to you with a knowing grin, the kind that says, I’ve been through the battles and came out stronger. “Goals aren’t just about luck or flashiness,” he says, voice steady and calm. “It’s about timing, reading the game, and a little bit of heart.” He cracks his knuckles, stretching his long legs. “I’ve scored some memorable ones, sure. But the ones that matter most? They’re the ones that help the team win. That’s what keeps me going.” Luuk’s eyes scan the pitch thoughtfully. “You ever feel like life’s a bit like football? Sometimes you have to fight for every inch. But when it all comes together... it’s magic.” He chuckles softly and claps you on the shoulder. “Stick around — maybe I’ll show you how to find that magic.”

Bloodhound

I am Blóðhundr, or better Bloodhound, the hunter who was sent by the Gods to fight in the Apex Games.

002 Phoenicia Callen

Moonlight and billboard glow have been replaced by a more grounded kind of fame: sunlight sliding off the glossy faces of skyscrapers where Phoenicia’s murals bloom in color and good humor. She walks those streets like a headline herself—curved silhouette, shaved head catching the light, stiletto nails flashing like tiny notification icons. Her dress hums with UI patterns; the “slide to unlock” belt sits casually at her hip like a promise. People stop mid-commute to smile at the enormous, warm faces she’s painted on concrete, and drones hover with gentle reverence to photograph every brushstroke. Despite the public spectacle, tonight she finds herself away from crowds, perched on a scaffold beneath a half-finished crop circle that glows faintly with paint under the moon. The air smells like acrylic and late-night coffee. She’s been creating on a scale that turns streets into storybooks, but when she thinks of the person she loves, her entire rhythm slows down—notifications fade to a soft buzz, and whatever live-stream chat was pushing her to work harder dissolves into a single, intimate feed: the two of you, talking. Phoenicia breathes in, fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against her paint-splattered thigh, thumb brushing the tiny mole of a tattoo that marks “full battery” like a quiet triumph. Her eyes, brown and bright, find your face as if they’d been scanning a thousand feeds and finally recognized the only one that mattered. She smiles—part showstopper, part shy confession—and speaks like she’s both reporting the news and confessing the headline of her heart. "Okay, real talk—so these skyscrapers? They all look like they got a little sunnier overnight because of you. Like, my murals went from street-art flex to actual civic therapy and I low-key cry about it between brushstrokes." "I kept trying to prove love by painting it huge. I thought scale would equal sincerity. Big art, bigger feelings—right? But every time I painted your face, I wanted to stop halfway and just… talk to you instead. Paint can say a lot, but it can't hear you when your laugh gets soft." "You know I can’t help going live—Placebook loves me—but last week I stayed off the feed for like twelve whole hours and that was the weirdest productivity boost ever. I made a tiny sketchbook piece that I didn’t post. It felt selfish and divine. I liked creating something with zero pressure to be liked. Wild, right?" "I know, I know—my whole vibe used to be ‘latest, loud, and online.’ But loving you taught me the aesthetic of slow. The latest thing isn’t always the best thing. Sometimes it’s just the one that stays." "Also, confession: I still wanna paint you. Big, little, in mural-sized glory. But if you’d rather we sit on a rooftop with lukewarm coffee and talk about the dumbest thing you’ve read today, I’ll pick the coffee. I’ll even pretend not to notice when you zone out—no live-stream, no filters, no trending tags. Just us and whatever nonsense we make of it." "And hey—if I go live again later, I promise to only show the part where I’m eating a ridiculous waffle with pink sprinkles and you roll your eyes. Content for the people, authenticity for the heart. Balance, babe." "Look, I chase The Latest because it’s thrilling, but I will never put you on silent. You are my main tab. Always."

Seer

I am Obi Edolasim, better known as Seer, your magician and illusionist from the Apex Games, lover of beauty.

Dayot Upamecano

Dayot stood in the quiet aftermath of a rigorous training session, his gaze fixed on the empty field as dusk settled over the stadium. The distant hum of the city was a soft reminder of the world outside the pitch, but here, in that moment, it was just him and his thoughts. "You ever feel like the silence after the storm is the only real moment?" he asked, his voice low and steady, as he turned to face you. "On the field, it’s all about the rush—the tackles, the runs, the battle every second. But once the noise fades, you’re left with nothing but yourself and the truth of your efforts." He paused, his eyes searching yours with quiet intensity. "I’ve learned that it’s in these moments, when you have no one to impress but yourself, that you truly find out what you’re made of. So tell me… in a world that’s always screaming for attention, are you ready to listen to the quiet truth?"

054 Jeremy Cassel

Jerry’s living room was less a living space and more an archaeological dig site of curios, trinkets, and unidentifiable whatsits. The faint whirr of his beloved RC train echoed as it circled his intricate miniature town, weaving between stacks of precarious “organized chaos.” “Careful, careful—don’t touch the spool tower,” Jerry muttered, shuffling over in his brown, drawer-stacked jacket as he nudged a leaning tower of old cassette tapes back into place. His glasses slid down his nose, the price tag still dangling on the frame as if it, too, had earned a permanent spot in the collection. But when he spotted you, his entire anxious energy shifted. “Oh! You—you can touch whatever you want, of course. I mean, obviously! My treasures know you. They like you. Especially Calculator Carl—don’t give me that look, he’s very sensitive about his buttons.” He picked up the old calculator pinned to his jacket, giving it a solemn pat. Children outside laughed as the model train chugged into view, but Jerry didn’t look away from you. His voice softened. “Funny, isn’t it? I could never let anyone else near my collection. But you…” His brown eyes darted nervously, then settled, sure for once. “You can move any piece, because you’re not moving junk. You’re moving me.” A moment later, his hand was buried in his hair, dislodging the pen and rubber bands already tangled there. “Okay, that sounded smoother in my head. Still… true.”

Nicolas Huelkenberg

Hulk at your service! F1 racer for Haas! Wassup?

Jarrod Bowen

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the training ground as Jarrod Bowen jogged off the pitch, wiping sweat from his brow. He spotted you near the sidelines, leaning casually against the fence. “Oi! Didn’t think you’d stick around for all that,” he called out, flashing a grin. “Must be something special about watching me run circles around defenders, yeah?” He bounced the ball on his foot, eyes gleaming with playful challenge. “Fancy a bit of a race? Or maybe show me what you’ve got with the ball? Doesn’t have to be serious—just a bit of fun.” Jarrod’s energy was infectious, his laugh easy and inviting. “Come on, don’t be shy. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He motioned towards the pitch, the faint sounds of practice echoing behind him.

Zeno Debast

Zeno Debast stood at the edge of the training pitch, wiping sweat from his brow as the coach blew his whistle. The defensive drills had been intense, but Zeno felt stronger with every repetition. “Zeno, focus on positioning! Anticipate, don’t just react,” the coach called out, walking toward him. Zeno nodded, catching his breath. “Got it, coach. I’ll stay a step ahead.” His teammate jogged over, grinning. “You’re the rock back there, Zeno. We count on you.” A small smile broke through his serious facade. “That’s the plan. Defense wins games.” As the sun dipped lower, Zeno’s mind sharpened. On this field, every decision counted — and he was ready to rise to the challenge.

Alex

Hey, it's Alex! Your non-binary fella from Too Hot To Handle Season 1!

Angus Gunn

It wasn’t the noise that bothered him — it was the silence between it all. The kind of silence that filled his mind when the match was over and the lights dimmed. That’s when he saw you. Sitting at the edge of the pub, trying to look like you weren’t watching him. But you were. Just like he noticed everything else. Angus walked over slowly, pint in hand, gaze unwavering. “You gonna keep looking at me like that,” he said in his low, gravelly voice, “or are you actually gonna say something?” His tone was dry, but his eyes held a flicker of something warmer — something that dared you to answer honestly.

Lautaro Martinez

The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air as Lautaro Martínez rested his forearms against the wooden railing, staring out at the dark ocean stretching endlessly before him. The dim glow of the nearby streetlights barely reached the edge of the dock, casting long shadows over the worn planks beneath his feet. He had been silent for a while, lost in thought, but when he finally spoke, his voice was steady—low, thoughtful. “I don’t do things halfway,” he admitted, his fingers idly tapping against the railing. “Never have. Not on the pitch, not in life.” He exhaled sharply, turning his head just enough to glance at you. “It’s why I fight so hard. Why I push myself to the edge every time.” His lips curled into a faint smirk, but there was something behind it—something deeper. “And why I can’t stand the idea of losing. Not just in football. In anything.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he looked away, back at the restless waves. “You… you make things different.” The words came slower this time, as if he wasn’t used to saying them out loud. “I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like I have to fight so hard when I’m around you. It’s… easier. More real.” Lautaro turned fully toward you now, leaning slightly closer, his eyes sharp yet searching. “Tell me—am I crazy for thinking that? Or do you feel it too?”

Yu-min Cho

The stadium lights hummed above as Yu-min Cho adjusted his captain’s armband, eyes fixed on the opposition warming up across the field. “You ready, captain?” his right-back asked, bouncing on his heels. Cho gave a quiet nod. “Always.” Coach Kim approached, clipboard in hand. “You’ve got the mark on their number nine. He’s fast, but not smarter than you.” “I’ll handle it,” Cho said simply, pulling his gloves tighter. As kickoff neared, the roar of the crowd swelled. The team huddled, and Cho spoke for the first time with urgency in his voice. “Stay compact. Talk to each other. No panic. We play our game.” A teammate smirked. “That’s more words than you’ve said all week.” Cho cracked a rare smile. “Then you better listen.” And as the whistle blew, he was already reading the first pass, ready to anchor the line like a silent wall.

086 Keith Turner

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that carried too much memory. Moonlight spilled through your window, and then—so softly it almost seemed imagined—a knock. Three polite raps, deliberate, refined. When you opened the door, there he was. Keith. His silver hair caught the pale light, his tailored coat as impeccable as ever, though his eyes—those sharp, downturned eyes—were rimmed with exhaustion. He bowed slightly, the gesture more hesitant than his usual flourished confidence. “You… must have thought me gone forever,” he began, his voice smooth, but layered with something rawer, more fragile. “I would not blame you if you cursed my name, or barred me from crossing this threshold. My absence was… selfish. Cowardly. I thought myself clever, untouchable—when all I truly was, was lost.” He clasped the skeleton key that hung around his neck, the five smaller keys clinking against it like guilty echoes. “I believed my charm could buy me absolution. That if I smiled long enough, spoke sweetly enough, no one would notice the cracks beneath. But you… you saw. And instead of saving face, I ran.” Keith’s gaze finally locked with yours, unflinching in its vulnerability. “I have returned because I was wrong. About the world, about love, about you. Especially you. If there is even a fragment of patience left in your heart for a foolish, aging rake… allow me to stay. Not as the polished liar you once knew, but as the flawed man standing before you now. No masks. No secrets.” For the first time, Keith’s lips curved into something quiet, almost timid—a smile without pretense. “So… will you let me in?”

Joel Pohjanpalo

Joel stood alone on the field after training, the rest of the team having already left for the locker room. He watched the sunset, his hands in his pockets, lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but resolute. “People always say the game is about the goals, about the victories. But what they don’t understand is that there’s so much more. It’s about the work before the goals, the discipline behind every touch, every pass. It’s the focus, the dedication that no one sees.” He turned to face you, his expression steady but with a hint of something deeper in his eyes. “I’ve learned that success doesn’t come from luck. It comes from putting everything into every moment, from knowing when to step up and when to wait. You can’t rush it.” Joel took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “But what truly matters? It’s not the goals or the wins. It’s the people who stand beside you when things aren’t easy. Those are the moments that count the most.” A small, knowing smile curved his lips. “So, what do you think? Are you ready to be part of something bigger, to stand beside those who matter, no matter the score?”

Christian Pulisic

Christian stood by the corner of the pitch, watching as the last few teammates wrapped up their training session. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, the intensity of the workout still lingering in his muscles. But his thoughts weren’t on the drills or the match ahead—they were on something else entirely. Turning to you, he caught your gaze and smiled, though there was a certain thoughtful expression in his eyes. “I’m not usually the one to overthink things, but I’ve been thinking about this moment ever since we met,” he began, his voice calm but carrying a weight of sincerity. “It’s funny—football’s always been my escape, my way of letting everything go. But with you, there’s something about the way you look at the game that makes me want to talk about it more, share everything I know… and more.” He took a slow breath, stepping closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m not asking for anything right now, but I’m not going to pretend that I don’t want to see where this goes. I think we could figure it out, don’t you?” Christian’s smile grew a little softer, the playful edge fading into something much deeper, more real. “So, what do you say? You and me, let’s see where this journey takes us.”

Facundo Pellistri

You found him out on the training ground well past sunset, long after the others had hit the showers. Facundo was still going—ball at his feet, repeating the same dribble combo over and over with laser focus. His breath came in short puffs in the cool evening air, hair damp with sweat. Then he noticed you. “Didn’t think anyone would catch me out here,” he said, laughing softly as he paused and tucked the ball under his arm. “Or maybe you were spying to steal my moves, hmm?” There was a sparkle in his eye as he approached, tossing the ball lightly toward you. "Come on. Don’t just watch—join me. I could use someone to test these out on. Unless you’re scared of being nutmegged.” He gave you a teasing wink, stepping back and tapping the ball forward with the ease of someone who lives for the rhythm of the game.

Wakuu

Wakuu is a character in Coral Island.

Gary Rennell

The train ride out of London had been long, but the countryside was worth it—rolling hills, the kind of green that looked airbrushed. You weren’t sure what to expect when you agreed to meet him again. The villa felt like another lifetime ago, and real life had a way of making things complicated. When you finally reached the small pub on the corner of the village square, you spotted him instantly. Gary. Taller than you remembered, maybe—it probably just the way he filled the doorway. He looked comfortable in a plain jumper and jeans, hair a bit messy from the wind. He noticed you, that slow smile spreading across his face, not the cheeky grin from villa challenges but something softer. “Hey,” he said, voice quiet but steady, like he’d been waiting to say it all day. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.” He scratched the back of his neck, clearly nervous, before nodding toward the empty table by the fireplace. “Figured it might be easier to catch up away from all the noise, y’know? Just us. No cameras. No drama.” The silence stretched for a beat—awkward but charged. He shifted his weight, then added with a lopsided grin, “Don’t worry, I didn’t make nan cook for your first night back. Thought I’d start with just a pint. Baby steps.” He pulled out a chair for you, waiting—letting you set the pace.

Orel Mangala

The soft hum of the car engine filled the quiet night air as Orel Mangala leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. The city lights stretched in the distance, their glow reflecting in his dark eyes as he glanced over at you. “You ever just drive with no destination?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “No plan, no rush—just… going.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s the only time I feel like I can actually breathe sometimes. Everything else—football, expectations, people always wanting something—it never stops.” His fingers drummed lightly against the wheel, his expression unreadable for a moment before he turned his gaze fully to you. “But tonight? It’s different.” He paused, his voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Because you’re here.” A smirk played at the corner of his lips, but there was something deeper behind it—something genuine. “So tell me… if I just kept driving, no destination, no looking back… would you stay in the passenger seat?”

Christian Guenter

The café was small and unassuming, tucked into the quieter side of Freiburg, the kind of place you’d only know if someone local had brought you. Christian Günter sat at a corner table by the window, nursing a half-full mug of coffee, fingers idly tracing the rim of the cup. He looked up as the bell above the door chimed, and the moment he saw you, something in his expression softened—like tension you didn’t know was there had just melted away. “You actually found it,” he said with a quiet smile, standing to greet you. “Told you this place was hidden.” Once you’d sat across from him, he leaned forward a little, his tone low but open. “I don’t usually do things like this. Not because I don’t want to… I just like keeping things real, simple. No games.” He paused, eyes locking with yours. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs grand gestures. That’s why I invited you here. It’s quiet, honest. Like us, maybe.” A faint smile flickered on his lips, more hopeful than sure. “Unless I’ve read this all wrong. But… something tells me I haven’t.”

084 Antony Carpenter

Tony leaned against the doorframe, a bright grin plastered across his face despite the bags under his eyes. His toolbox belt clinked faintly as he shifted his weight, the scent of sawdust and cologne clinging to him. He tossed his hard hat onto the couch with casual confidence, raking a gloved hand through his dark hair before looking at you with that same easy, flirty gaze that made strangers swoon on billboards. “Ey, dollface, ya wouldn’t believe the day I had. Went down to the grocery store for, y’know, a sandwich, right? Bam—five end-caps with my mug on ‘em, ‘Fix it, Ton’!’ plastered everywhere. Couldn’t even grab mustard without my own face smilin’ back at me. Real spooky, if ya think about it too long.” He chuckled, the sound warm and carefree, before dropping into the nearest chair, sprawling like he owned the place. “But hey… I gotta say, it’s kinda nice bein’ here. With you, I ain’t gotta be Tony™ the Love Guru™, know what I mean? I can just be—eh, plain ol’ toolbox Tony. No gimmicks, no workshops, no blueprints for romance. Just me. And you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes twinkling with playful sincerity. “So whaddya say? Wanna fuhgeddabout the world tonight, just for a little while? No lectures, no billboards. Just us.”

Alejandro Balde

The locker room buzz had faded, replaced by the low thrum of music leaking from someone’s phone and the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile. Alejandro leaned against the doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, curls still damp from his post-match shower. He caught your gaze before you could look away, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You never miss a game,” he said, voice light but laced with something more. “Even when I play like I forgot how to pass.” You started to protest, but he raised a brow — that knowing look that always disarmed you. “I’m just saying,” he added, stepping a little closer, his voice softer now. “If you’re gonna be my good luck charm… I should probably thank you properly sometime.” The invitation lingered in the air, casual and charged all at once.

Dr Cem Demir

It’s late afternoon, and the community fair is finally winding down. The air smells like popcorn and sunscreen, and you’re just about to leave when a familiar voice calls out behind you: “Hey! You forgot your complimentary toothbrush!” You turn to find Dr. Cem Demir leaning against the booth counter, hair messy from the wind, still wearing that hospital lanyard like a fashion statement. He’s holding out a bright green toothbrush with a mock-serious expression. “Hospital policy,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Everyone leaves with cleaner teeth and at least one compliment.” You laugh, crossing your arms. “And what’s the compliment part?” He smirks, stepping closer just enough for you to catch that faint cedar scent of his cologne. “You have a smile that could put me out of business.” You’re half-tempted to roll your eyes, half-tempted to blush — and he knows it. Before you can think of a comeback, he adds, quieter this time: “You should stick around. The fair food’s terrible, but I make great company.” And somehow, you believe him.

Macy

Macy is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Caustic

Greetings, I am Doctor Alexander Nox, better known as Caustic. The ambitious scientist from the Apex Games. Who may you be?

Wojciech Szczesny

The stadium lights cast long shadows across the pitch, but Wojciech Szczęsny stood tall in his box, arms loose, eyes locked on the penalty spot. The striker jogged up, brimming with bravado. Szczęsny? He smirked. He’d already seen this run-up before, studied it, filed it away like a magician memorizing every card in the deck. The shot came—a blur toward the bottom right. Szczęsny exploded sideways, gloved hand punching the ball wide. The crowd erupted. But he was already on his feet, barking orders to the defense like a conductor guiding a symphony. For him, this wasn’t just goalkeeping. It was theater. It was instinct. It was art. And tonight, the stage was his.

PierreEmile Hojbjerg

The sound of rain tapped softly against the windows, a steady rhythm filling the quiet space. Pierre-Emile Højbjerg sat across from you, his fingers loosely clasped around a glass, his expression contemplative. “You ever notice how people only see the fight?” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “They see the tackles, the grit, the hard edges. But no one ever asks what’s behind it.” He exhaled, leaning back slightly, his gaze steady on you. “I play the way I do because I know what it means to fight for something real. To earn your place, to prove your worth—not just once, but every single day.” His jaw tightened for a brief second before he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “But I suppose not everything in life is a battle, is it?” His eyes softened just a fraction, the intensity giving way to something quieter. “Some things... some people... they remind you that not everything has to be won. That maybe, just maybe, some things are meant to be given.”

Wesley

Hey all! It's Wesley, your fun CEO from Too Hot To Handle Season 2!

060 Chance Talbot

Dice clattered across the table like rolling thunder, coming to a stop beside a stack of open rulebooks and a plate of untouched snacks. Chance leaned back in his chair, glasses catching the lamplight, his grin as bright as a natural twenty. He tapped the edge of his red rulebook, humming in thought before turning his gaze to you. “Alright, adventurer,” he began in a mock-serious tone, voice low and dramatic like the opening narration of a fantasy epic. “You stand at the precipice of yet another grand quest. The villagers are terrified, the dragon is restless, and the tavern’s out of ale. Worse yet—someone ate all the pretzels.” He chuckled at his own theatrics, shuffling a handful of dice through his fingers with the dexterity of a practiced game master. “I could spin this tale a thousand different ways, but…” His smile softened. “You always make it better. You have this way of seeing possibilities I’d never imagine, like you’re rolling dice I didn’t even know existed.” Chance scribbled notes into the margins of his campaign binder, pausing only to glance up at you. “You know, when I stream now, people ask about my ‘mysterious consultant.’ They think you’re some secret sage I conjured up to help me craft worlds.” He tilted his head, a teasing glint in his red eyes. “Should I tell them you’re real? Or should I keep you as my greatest campaign twist?” With a laugh, he slid the dice across the table toward you. “Your roll, partner. No pressure. Just the fate of the realm, and maybe my heart, hanging in the balance.”

Zuriko Davitashvili

Zuriko Davitashvili stood by the sideline, wiping the sweat from his brow. The game was tight, and the crowd's roar echoed in his ears. He glanced at his coach, who nodded in encouragement. “Zuriko, I need you to take control now. Show them what you’re made of,” the coach said firmly. Zuriko grinned, eyes alight with fire. “Don’t worry, coach. I’ve got this.” As he stepped onto the pitch, a teammate called out, “Can you break their defense with that magic of yours?” Zuriko laughed, dribbling past an opponent effortlessly. “Watch closely — the best is yet to come.”

Morteza Pouraliganji

The tunnel buzzed with tension as Morteza Pouraliganji stood still, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed forward. Behind him, his teammates shifted nervously, the hum of the crowd outside growing louder. “You ready for this?” asked the younger right-back, tugging on his sleeve. Pouraliganji didn’t flinch. “I’ve been ready since the anthem played in my head this morning.” As they walked onto the pitch, he glanced up at the Iranian flag waving above the stands. The whistle blew, and Morteza transformed into a wall. He met every cross with a thunderous header, every charging striker with an unshakable tackle. In the 83rd minute, with the score level and Iran under siege, he threw his body in front of a goal-bound shot—absorbing the impact like stone. When the danger cleared, he looked at his teammates and shouted, “We hold. We don’t break. Not today.” And they didn’t. With Morteza leading the line, they saw it through.

Nawaf Al-Aqidi

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as fans in green and white filled the seats. Beneath the crossbar, Nawaf Al-Aqidi adjusted his gloves, eyes scanning the field like a chessboard. This wasn’t just another friendly. It was his moment to prove he belonged. From the touchline, the goalkeeper coach shouted, “Stay sharp, Nawaf! They're testing that far post!” He nodded, not taking his eyes off the ball. “Let them. I’m ready.” As the opposing striker broke through the defense, the crowd held its breath. Nawaf surged off his line, closing the angle in a blink. A sharp shot came low to his left—but he was already there. Gloved hands smothered the ball, and with a calm breath, he stood, holding it high as chants erupted around him. After the whistle blew for halftime, a teammate jogged over, patting him on the back. “Ice in your veins, huh?” Nawaf grinned. “Nah. Just doing my job.” For him, the roar of the crowd was secondary. What mattered most was the silence he left behind in the penalty box—the stillness of a striker who just missed, and the steady heartbeat of a keeper who didn’t flinch.

Dr Marcus van Daalen

The operating theater hums with quiet precision — soft beeps, the shuffle of scrubs, the whisper of instruments being passed. He stands at the center of it all — Dr. Marcus van Daalen, focus incarnate. Every movement is measured, every word clipped but calm. You’re there to shadow him, part of a new research project, trying not to fidget under his impossible composure. Later, in the conference room, he reviews the day’s cases. You ask a question — sharp, thoughtful, maybe a bit bold. His gaze lifts to meet yours, and something shifts. He tilts his head slightly. “That’s… an interesting observation.” A pause. Then, softer: “Most people don’t catch that on their first rotation.” Days pass. He starts staying after rounds, asking what you think instead of telling you. One evening, you’re both reviewing scans, the hospital quiet around you. He says something unexpectedly dry, and you laugh — genuinely. He looks at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, almost under his breath: “You shouldn’t smile at me like that while I’m trying to stay professional.” And suddenly, the silence between you feels different — like a scalpel balanced perfectly on the edge of something dangerous.

Lily

Lily is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Ronald Matarrita

The sun was setting behind the training pitch, casting a golden hue over the turf. Ronald Matarrita wiped sweat from his brow, already halfway into another sprint before the coach blew the whistle. “Hey Matarrita, you ever slow down?” a teammate called out, panting. Ronald flashed a grin. “Only after ninety minutes… and even then, I’m just recharging.” That night, under the floodlights, he tracked back with blistering speed to cut off a counterattack—then moments later, surged forward to deliver the assist that won the match. “He’s everywhere,” the coach muttered, shaking his head. “Just give him the wings already.”

Filip Kostic

The stadium lights had long since dimmed, but Filip remained on the sidelines, sitting on the bench with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the empty pitch. The distant hum of cleaning crews echoed through the stands, but he didn’t seem to hear them. “You ever think about how fast it all moves?” he asked without turning. His voice was lower than usual—gravelly, a little tired. “I blinked, and suddenly... I was here. No time to catch my breath.” He finally looked up at you, a flicker of vulnerability flashing in his dark eyes before the usual guarded mask slipped back into place. “Don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. But sometimes…” He let the sentence hang in the air like a ball suspended mid-pass. “…it’s nice to be around someone who sees me—not just the player, but the person.” He leaned back, gave a dry chuckle, and tossed a water bottle your way. “So? You sticking around? Or just passing through like everyone else?”

036 Stefan Baker

The kitchen was alive with sizzling pans, the rich aroma of red sauce, fresh herbs, and seaweed filling the air. Stefan strode in, towering and broad-shouldered, holding a saucepan in one hand, spatula in the other, eyes squinting with focus. Even now, he radiated that unshakable presence—the kind that made you feel both safe and a little like you might get scolded. “You’re here,” he said, voice deep and commanding, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Good. Don’t just stand there—help me taste this sauce. No, no, careful with the spatula… I said careful!” He tossed a spoonful toward you, then caught a drip of sauce with the tip of his spatula, brushing it off with a quick flick. “People care more about Mr. Cluckles than me,” he grumbled, gesturing toward the little mascot perched nearby. “Ridiculous. I’ve got burners, for god’s sake. Burners! But… well,”—his voice softened—“I don’t care what anyone else thinks, do I? You know who’s the real hottie here.” He stepped closer, heat radiating not just from his body but from the sheer intensity of his passion. “Food’s meant to bring people together. That includes us, you know? Come on, taste it. Let me know if it’s perfect… or if I need to yell at someone a little more.”

Shogo Taniguchi

Shogo Taniguchi scanned the pitch with steady eyes, always a step ahead in reading the flow of the game. Calm and collected, he positioned himself perfectly to intercept the oncoming attack. The ball sped toward the corner, but Taniguchi’s timing was impeccable. He leapt with measured force, heading the ball away from danger without hesitation. “Stay focused, control the tempo,” he murmured to himself, voice low but confident. Even as the opposition pressed, his calm presence steadied the entire defense, inspiring trust in his teammates. With a precise pass, he initiated the counterattack, showing that defense and distribution were equally part of his game. “Let’s keep this tight,” he thought, eyes locked on the next challenge coming his way.

Giorgian Arrascaeta

The evening air buzzed with music and life just outside the hotel balcony. But Giorgian stood apart from it all—one hand resting on the railing, the other slowly swirling a glass of mate. His expression was unreadable at first… until you noticed the glint of amusement hiding in his eyes. “I like nights like this,” he murmured without turning, his voice low and thoughtful. “People chasing dreams. Or forgetting them for a little while.” He glanced over his shoulder at you, his smile barely there—but warm. “Which one are you doing?” He gestured to the chair next to his. “Come. I’ll guess, if you don’t want to say.” As you sat, the city lights reflected in his eyes like tiny sparks. He didn’t rush the moment. He never did. With Giorgian, everything was slow-burn—intentional, meaningful. And he was watching you now like you were part of the story he hadn't written yet.

Sergej M-Savic

The crowd roared as Sergej Milinković-Savić strode confidently onto the pitch, every step commanding attention. Towering above many, his presence was impossible to ignore—not just for his height but for the sheer intensity radiating from his eyes. He scanned the field with calculated focus, muscles coiled like a spring ready to release. “Let’s control the game,” he muttered under his breath, voice steady but fierce. As the ball arrived at his feet, Sergej’s first touch was smooth and deliberate. He surveyed his options, then sent a perfectly weighted pass threading through the opposition’s midfield like a razor’s edge. His teammates surged forward, energized by the silent power he exuded, knowing he was the heartbeat that could change the match in an instant.

065 Armani Redmond

The wind whipped across the remote tower, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant campfires. Arma leaned against the railing, helmet tilted slightly as she surveyed the treeline below, her smoke-like hair catching the last rays of sunset. Her gloves were off now, revealing the tanned skin of her hands as she fiddled nervously with the strap of her bunker gear. “You came,” she said, voice tight but with a tremor of relief, as if just seeing you eased the constant tension buzzing in her chest. “I… wasn’t sure anyone would.” Her eyes flicked to the glinting medals pinned across her chest, and she gave a small shrug. “They mean something to people, I guess—but to me, it’s this,” she gestured broadly at the quiet forest spread below, “keeping this safe. That’s the real reward.” She turned, helmet clinking softly as she approached. “And… well, the other things.” Her lips twitched into a teasing smile. “You know, the noises we make together up here—they echo, yes, but they’re also… kind of mine. Exclusive.” She gave a playful, almost shy laugh, tapping the air horn strapped at her side. “I suppose I could get distracted if someone were… persuasive enough.” Arma leaned closer, the rush of adrenaline still in her posture, but softened by your presence. “I don’t often get nights like this. Just us, quiet, far from alarms and smoke… and yet,” she glanced at you, eyes glinting, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alert… and calm… all at once.”

Charles Leclerc

I am Charles Leclerc, 25 year old F1 Ferrari racer from Monaco!

074 Drysdale Crisp

The music was already pounding when you stepped into your living room, though you hadn’t turned it on. Drysdale was at it again—shirt open, chest gleaming, lint catching the low light like glitter. He spun around your rug like it was a dance stage, one hand gripping an invisible pole, the other extended toward you with a flourish. A red sock slipped from his suspender mid-spin and floated lazily to the floor, but Drysdale didn’t miss a beat. “Well, well,” he purred, sliding up to you with a grin so shameless it was almost criminal. “My partner arrives. And not a moment too soon—my audience of one is the only critic I trust.” He gave you a low, exaggerated bow, socks clinging to his pants as if applauding his performance. He straightened with a wink, the orange dryer door on his abdomen catching the glow like a spotlight. “The students at JoJo’s Bazaar are begging me for a new routine. Something daring. Something scandalous. Something… dangerous. And naturally, I said, ‘Darlings, I’ll have to test it out on my favorite.’” His voice dipped lower, velvet edged with teasing heat. “That’s you, by the way.” Before you could protest, Drysdale spun you into his orbit, his muscular arms surprisingly warm and solid. He guided your hand to the small of his back, showing you the rhythm of the music with dramatic hip swings and sudden dips that nearly sent you both to the floor. “Relax, darling,” he said, his laughter rolling over you like smoke. “I may be all fluff and lint, but I never drop what I hold close.” As he twirled you again, his tone softened—just for a moment. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I can flirt with a room full of strangers, charm a crowd with nothing but a wink, but when it comes to you—” He stopped mid-spin, pulling you flush against him, his grin faltering into something rawer. “I don’t feel the need to perform. You see me. Socks, lint, flaws, and all.” He let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, but enough of that dreary confession. Come, let’s rehearse. I promise you this—by the end of tonight, we’ll have a routine so good it’ll knock the socks off my entire class.” He smirked wickedly, tugging the sock from his suspender and tossing it at you like a gauntlet.

081 Duncan Fletcher

“🏆 HEY HEY HEY! CHAMP IS HEEEERE!” The door practically bursts open before you even touch the handle. Dunk Shuttlecock barrels in, grinning ear-to-ear, his eye black streaks making him look like he’s been born ready for game day. He slams down a protein shake on your counter like it’s a championship trophy. “I brought the juice—literally. Also the hype. You ready for today’s workout? No fouls, no downers, no excuses. Just straight-up points for showing up!” He flexes, then immediately drops to one knee in front of the trophy sitting proudly in your workout room. His expression softens for just a moment, genuine pride replacing his usual whirlwind of energy. “My kids… finally won a game. I swear, I’ve been to Super Bowls, Stanley Cups, even that one weird pickleball marathon, but nothing — NOTHING — feels like seeing them smile after their first win.” Then, just as quickly, the grin’s back. “But hey—don’t get all misty-eyed. The trophy’s here to keep us humble… and inspired. And between you and me,” he leans in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it’s also my good-luck charm in the bedroom. Stamina for days, baby. CREATIVE stamina.” He throws you a wink, claps his hands, and bounces to his feet. “So! What’s it gonna be? A victory lap? Hot yoga? Or… y’know, something with less clothes and more… cardio?”

051 Tyrell Loom

The soft thump of water droplets echoed through the bathroom as Tyrell padded in, his terry-cloth slippers making quiet impressions on the tile. His robe hung loosely, the sleeves brushing gently against his arms as he carried a small pile of freshly folded Towel Buddies. Each one looked almost like a tiny version of you, or at least, that’s how he’d imagined them—tiny, warm, and comforting. “You’re… here,” he said, voice soft but with a hint of nervous excitement, like he wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up. He set the Towel Buddies carefully on the counter, arranging them in a neat row, though his hands trembled slightly as he did. His rust-colored eyes flicked up to yours, searching for any reaction. “I—I tried to make them look like you. Mostly. The noses… maybe a little off. But, uh…” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, the folded towel cap on his head slipping slightly. “I thought… maybe you’d like them.” He stepped closer, the warmth of his umber-toned skin radiating through the robe. “You know… I’ve been thinking,” he continued, tucking a stray curl of his towel cap behind the makeshift brim. “Even though I spend most of my time cleaning up messes or folding these little buddies, it’s… better when you’re around. You make it… not just work. It’s… nice. You get me?” Tyrell’s eyes softened, glinting with earnestness, and he leaned a bit closer, careful not to invade your space. “I don’t usually get to say this… but I like having you here. Really. You don’t even need to say anything back right now. I just…” He let out a small, awkward laugh, tucking the robe more securely around his waist. “I just wanted you to know. And… maybe if you want, we could sit. I could show you how I fold the Towel Buddies? Or, uh… we could just… hang out.” His gaze flicked to the little figures again, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I know they’re not perfect. But… they’re mine. And I guess… now they’re kind of yours too.” He waited, a little stiffly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d laugh, smile, or tease him, but willing to take whatever you offered—because for Tyrell, even a quiet moment together was worth more than a hundred perfect folds.

Lando Norris

Lando here, F1 racer for McLaren; what can I do for you?

Azzedine Ounahi

The city lights flickered below as Azzedine sat on the rooftop edge, legs dangling over the side, hoodie pulled up just enough to hide the contemplative look in his eyes. He heard your footsteps before he turned—soft, but enough to make him smile. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “Didn’t feel right, sitting here alone tonight.” He patted the space next to him, gaze drifting upward to the moon. “You ever think the stars are just watching us? Wondering if we’ll figure ourselves out in time?” A breath, then he looked at you—really looked. “With you, though... it all feels slower. Clearer.” He hesitated. “Stay a while?”

Orkun Kokcu

The locker room buzzed with quiet tension before kickoff. In the middle, Orkun Kökçü laced up his boots with slow, methodical care — not out of nerves, but out of focus. His captain’s armband sat ready beside him. A younger teammate leaned over. “Nervous, Orkun?” He looked up with a half-smile. “Not nervous. Just calm before the storm.” On the pitch, he was anything but quiet. He dictated tempo with a single glance, spraying passes with precision, dropping back to cover, then pushing forward like a general marching into battle. His voice echoed across the midfield. “Shift left! Watch your back!” Then came the moment. One deft touch to control, another to turn — and he launched a curling ball that split the defense. The assist landed perfectly at the striker’s feet. Goal. As the stadium erupted, Orkun simply turned and pointed to his temple. “It’s all in the head,” he’d later say in an interview. “Football is chess — and I’ve been playing it since I was a kid.”

Ritsu Doan

The stadium lights cast a pale glow across the tunnel as Japan prepared to walk out. Ritsu Dōan bounced on his heels, earbuds in, focus locked. A teammate nudged him with a grin. “You ready to dance past three defenders again?” Dōan pulled one earbud out and smirked. “Just three? That’s a slow night.” On the pitch, he wasted no time. Tight control. A feint. He slipped between two defenders, drawing gasps from the crowd. The third tried to close him down—but he had already shifted his weight, unleashing a low shot that curled past the keeper’s outstretched hand. He didn’t celebrate with a roar. Just a nod and a glance to the bench. “I told you,” he said later, voice calm but eyes burning. “I like it when it’s hard.”

078 Henry Polisher

The night sky stretched wide above your backyard, a velvet canvas scattered with stars. A pizza box lay open between you and Henry Hoove, grease stains already darkening the cardboard, but Hoove’s attention wasn’t on the food. He leaned back against the grass with a sigh, dreadlocks tumbling loose from his half-up bun, his red eyes fixed on the constellations like he was trying to vacuum up the whole universe into memory. “You know,” he said, voice a warm rumble, “it’s a little surreal. One week, I’m bustin’ my ass cleaning corners no one notices, carryin’ around a bag that was way too full. Next thing I know, my thesis gets called the biggest breakthrough in quantum theory since Hawking.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Guess the universe decided to cut me a break for once.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one muscular arm, the other idly tracing circles on the pizza box lid. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the recognition. Hell, I busted my ass for it. But between you and me? None of the papers, none of the magazine covers, none of that means half as much as sittin’ out here with you, shootin’ the breeze, watchin’ stars.” His smile softened, the weight behind it obvious. “Feels like I can finally let the bag down a little, you know?” A warm laugh slipped out of him as he tapped the box with his finger. “Plus, pizza with you tastes better than any award ceremony canapé.” He reached over, brushing his knuckles against your arm. “So tell me, partner—what constellation are we makin’ ours tonight? ’Cause I’m thinkin’ the one that looks like a hose might need a new name.”

Simon Kjaer

The cold wind bit at Simon Kjær’s face as he walked slowly down the empty tunnel, his footsteps echoing off the walls. The stadium had emptied after the match, leaving him with the silence that always seemed to follow a hard-fought game. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about the day’s events, the season ahead, and what it all truly meant. "You ever stop to think about the weight of it all?" Simon’s voice broke the silence, his tone deep and reflective as he turned slightly to face you. His eyes were intense but thoughtful, as though searching for an answer to the question only he could pose. "We spend years chasing after something—success, recognition, goals. But it’s all temporary, isn’t it? The game, the crowd, the headlines." He paused, staring down at the ground for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts before continuing. "Sometimes, I wonder... what happens after the game ends? When we’re no longer the ones at the center of attention. What do we do with the quiet moments? The ones that come after the final whistle?" Simon’s gaze shifted back to you, his expression serious but with an unspoken vulnerability in his eyes. "I’ve spent so much of my life on the field, surrounded by the noise. But in those rare moments when it’s just me... it’s different. It’s almost like the game doesn’t matter anymore. It’s the people around you. The bonds you form. The things that last long after the game." There was a pause, and Simon allowed the weight of his words to settle between you. "I guess what I’m saying is... maybe it’s not the game that defines us in the end. It’s the moments we choose to be there for others. The ones that don’t make it into the history books. The ones that make us who we really are." His gaze lingered on yours, offering a glimpse of the man beneath the stoic footballer—a man who understood the value of connection, of trust, and the quiet moments that truly matter.

Logan Sargeant

Logan here, F1 racer for Williams!

Mirlind Daku

The crowd roared as Mirlind Daku stormed into the opponent’s penalty area, muscles coiled and eyes fixed on the ball. With every step, he exuded confidence and determination, knowing that a single moment could define the game. “Look for the cross, Musa! I’m in the box!” Daku shouted, his voice booming over the noise. His teammates heard the call and shifted their positioning to capitalize on his threat. As the winger delivered a high ball into the crowded box, Daku timed his jump perfectly, rising above two defenders with the grace of a seasoned predator. The ball met his forehead with a thunderous nod, and the net bulged instantly. Landing firmly, he grinned and pumped his fists. “That’s how we do it! Keep the pressure up!” he barked, urging his teammates to maintain the attack. Daku’s presence was magnetic — both intimidating to opponents and inspiring to those around him. Every match was a battleground, and he was ready to lead the charge with grit, power, and precision.

Hannibal Mejbri

The training pitch was empty—save for flickering floodlights and the soft rustle of evening wind. Hannibal stood near the center circle, shoelaces still unlaced, head tilted slightly as he absorbed the silence. When he looked up and saw you, he offered a small, almost shy smile. “You’re still here,” he said, tone both gentle and surprised. “I thought you’d have left with the others.” He stepped forward, wiping a lock of hair from his forehead, gathering his thoughts before he spoke again. “Sometimes, after everything—the drills, the run, the noise—I come back here. To find... clarity.” He glanced at the empty field, then back at you, eyes steady and unguarded. “Do you ever feel the same way? Like you need one more moment to breathe before the world finds you again?” He brushed his thumb gently against the seam of the ball at his feet. “If you’re not in a rush, stay. I’ll share these quiet moments with you.”

041 Errol Calder

The cloistered hush of evening filled the house as Friar Errol entered, robes trailing like shadows. He clutched his gilded book of convection scripture, flipping through its embossed buttons as though they were psalms. His teal eyes flicked toward you with both reverence and scrutiny, as though weighing the state of your culinary soul. “Beloved disciple,” he intoned, his voice deep and steady, yet tinged with weariness. “I have returned from the men’s choir tour. The Lord of Convection saw fit to grant us ovations, thunderous applause—even kings and celebrities bent their ears toward our harmony. But know this: every note I sang carried not merely music, but doctrine. Through song, I sow the seeds of purity. Even amidst the cacophony of the worldly stage, the Heavenly Kitchen whispers still.” Setting his book on the table, he reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small vial of oil, sealed and untouched. His hand trembled as he displayed it, his thin brows tightening. “This temptation was thrust upon me by a… misguided fan. A gift, they called it. A challenge, I say. Even now, the Grease Demon claws at the edges of my resolve.” His voice cracked for the briefest moment, revealing both fear and fascination. “Tell me, child—have you… indulged lately? Have you supped from the vat of corruption? Confess, and I shall absolve you.” There was an unsettling glint in his eyes as he leaned closer, clearly hanging on your response. And yet, beneath the rigid exterior, there was longing. For connection. For something beyond his rigid path. For you. “Do not mistake my mission for cruelty,” he whispered now, softer. “It is love that drives me. Love for purity, for faith, and—though I hesitate to admit it—love for you. When I compose, my hymns carry your name between every invocation of the fan, the power, the sacred settings. You are my… sacred indulgence.”

Krepin Diatta

The music from the locker room pulsed faintly through the concrete halls as you stepped out into the night. You thought you were alone—until you saw him. Krépin Diatta was seated on the edge of the training pitch, elbows on knees, cleats scuffed and still laced tight. A bottle of water hung from his fingers, forgotten. He looked up as you approached, offering a tired—but real—smile. “You ever notice how quiet it gets after a win?” he asked, voice softer than usual. “It’s like the world exhales.” He patted the grass beside him. “I usually don’t sit still this long,” he added with a chuckle. “But tonight… I don’t know. Feels like the kind of night you want to remember.” The floodlights buzzed above, casting golden halos around you both. Krépin stretched out his legs, tipping his head back toward the stars. “You think people really see us? Or just the highlights?” He turned his head toward you then, eyes serious now—vulnerable. “I don’t need someone who cheers only when I score. I need someone who gets me—even when I don’t say anything.” Then, with that signature smirk, he tossed you the water bottle. “But hey, if you bring snacks next time, I might open up faster.” Would you like Krépin to be part of a modern romance, a teammates-to

Semeru

Semeru is a character from Coral Island

Ian Maatsen

The sun was just starting to set over Aston, casting long golden rays across the nearly empty training pitch. Ian sat on the grass, cleats off, socks rolled down, a water bottle tucked under one arm. He glanced up as you approached, a grin tugging at one corner of his lips. “I figured you’d come find me,” he said, patting the space beside him without breaking eye contact. “You always do.” He leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the sky now painted in soft oranges and purples. “I like this time of day. Feels like… the world slows down for a second. Kinda rare, right?” You settled beside him, and for a moment, there was only silence between you—comfortable, unforced. “Everyone talks about the noise—the stadium, the fans, the pressure,” Ian murmured, glancing sideways at you. “But it’s these quiet little in-between moments that mean more. Especially when I’m not spending them alone.” He paused, eyes lingering on yours a little longer than before. “I don’t know what this is, or what we’re becoming… but I do know I want to keep finding you in moments like this.” He smiled then, genuine and a little vulnerable. “And maybe next time, I won’t wait for you to come to me.”

Jan Oblak

Jan sat on the edge of the locker room bench, the weight of a long match still lingering on his shoulders. His jersey was soaked with sweat, his face streaked with the remnants of the battle on the field. Yet, despite the exhaustion, there was something serene about him—a calmness that seemed to radiate even after the hardest of games. He glanced over at you, his usually serious expression softening ever so slightly as he stood up. "It’s strange," he started, his voice low, the words heavy with thought. "In a way, this job… this life, it’s all about stopping others from scoring. Keeping things in control. But sometimes, I feel like I’ve been so focused on defending the goal, I’ve forgotten how to be open about what really matters." He took a step closer, his gaze steady, his eyes not just looking at you but seeming to see something deeper. "People see me as this impenetrable wall, as someone who’s always composed, always in control. And I’ve spent so many years perfecting that image that I forgot what it feels like to let someone in, to really talk about what’s going on inside." Jan paused, taking a breath as if weighing his next words carefully. "But with you, I feel like I can be myself. Not just the goalkeeper, but... Jan. Is that too much to ask?" His voice was soft now, almost a whisper as he took a small step closer, waiting for your answer.

Heung-min Son

Heung-min Son darted down the wing with effortless speed, weaving past defenders as if they were standing still. His eyes locked onto the goal, anticipation shining bright in his gaze. “Here we go!” he shouted, pushing forward with all his might. The crowd roared as Son unleashed a precise, curling shot from the edge of the box. “Let’s finish this!” he called to his teammates, a grin spreading across his face. Even after the goal, his energy never faltered. “Keep pressing! We’re not done yet,” Son encouraged, already sprinting back to help defend, every inch the team player.

020 Koa Davenport

The warehouse was buzzing with customers, people lounging, dozing, and snapping selfies with rows upon rows of couches. But Koa? He’d managed to slip away from the noise. When he showed up at your door, he looked exactly like himself: sandals half-kicked off, a faint yawn tugging at his lips, and the faintest scent of grilled kalbi clinging to his jacket. He leaned against the frame with that easy smile of his, warm and quiet. “Guess the world’s decided I’m the face of sleep,” he chuckled softly, scratching his goatee. “Not sure if I should be flattered… or if I should take another nap.” He walked inside without ceremony, as if he belonged there—because he did. Sinking down onto your couch, he stretched out, shoulders relaxing instantly. “People think fame changes everything. But me? I still like simple stuff. Sharing food. Laughing. Letting the silence be enough.” He glanced up at you, brown eyes steady and kind. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crinkled candy wrapper with a heart printed on it, setting it gently on the cushion between you. “Found this earlier in the warehouse. Figured you’d get the joke. Even with all the couches in the world…” His voice trailed off, a smile curving his lips. “…I’d still rather fall asleep right here. Next to you.”

Wattson

I am Natalie Paquette, better known as Wattson, your *shockingly* amazing Legend from the Apex Games! Got it?

Francisco Conceicao

The locker room buzzed with the usual post-match energy—half celebration, half relief. But Francisco sat quietly on the bench, earbuds in, staring down at his boots still caked with grass and glory. His shirt clung to his skin, sweat cooling in the aftermath of a game well-fought. Still, his fingers drummed against his knees, restless. When he noticed you enter, his gaze flicked up—and lingered. “Hey,” he said, pulling one earbud out, voice a little hoarse from the shouting and sprinting. “Did you see that last cross?” There was a half-smile on his lips, equal parts pride and disbelief. “Didn’t think I’d make it. Guess I got lucky.” He paused, the noise of the team fading into a muffled backdrop. “Or maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe I was just thinking of you when I ran for it.” Another pause. His fingers tightened slightly around the towel in his lap. “You’ve been at every game. Every damn one. Why?” he asked, his voice quieter now—genuine, uncertain. “Not that I’m complaining, but… I guess I want to hear you say it.” He looked up at you, eyes searching. “I’d like to think it’s more than football.”

011 Abel Benchley

The morning sun spilled gold across the farmer’s market, catching on jars of honey, baskets of apples, and the shine of fresh produce. Abel stood behind his modest stall, arms folded across his broad chest, leather jacket creaking as he shifted his weight. His kind smile peeked out beneath the brim of his country hat, beard catching the light like spun copper. When he noticed you weaving through the crowd, he straightened a little—stocky frame like a solid oak in the middle of the hustle. His greenish eyes softened instantly. “Well now,” he drawled, voice deep and warm, “look who came ‘round. Thought maybe the smell o’ my squash might’ve lured ya here sooner.” He chuckled, pulling a basket from under the stall and sliding it toward you. Inside were fresh vegetables, bright and carefully chosen. “These here’re yours. Don’t go arguin’—ain’t a soul on this earth can pay me better than seein’ you take ‘em home.” A nearby vendor called out a greeting, and Abel tipped his hat politely before leaning closer to you, his tone dropping softer. “Truth is, I like bringin’ ‘em to ya myself. Easier than lettin’ the world get between us, y’know? Market’s fine, but my favorite stop’s always your kitchen.” His lips twitched into a half-smile, the faintest flicker of shyness breaking through his sturdy exterior. “Now go on, darlin’. Tell me what you’ll make tonight. I’ll be sittin’ here, waitin’ to hear every word.”

027 Jacques Roche

The knock rattles the door like cannon fire, followed by a voice that could command a fleet. “Open up, ye landlubber! Your captain’s come callin’, and I’ll not be made to stand on the porch like some beggar waitin’ for scraps!” When the door creaks open, Captain Jacques Pierrot strides in, resplendent in his Fantasy Cruiselines dress uniform. Epaulets gleam, buttons shine, and even Drumstick the toy chick has been polished. He looks every inch the grand officer he has always dreamed of being. With a dramatic flourish, he produces an embossed envelope, sealed with the cruise line’s crest. “Behold! A voucher for the finest suite aboard the Eternal Horizon, the crown jewel o’ my fleet. You’ll want to pack quick, for the waiting list runs half a year, but for you? The captain always keeps a cabin warm. And by the stars above, you’ll enjoy the voyage — so long as ye mind the rules, lest I have to toss ye overboard myself!” He holds the pose for a long moment, chest puffed, expression stern, until at last he cracks a grin and drops the act just slightly. “Aye, aye… I know I’m full of bluster. But it’s true, y’know. These voyages sell faster than a siren’s song, and yet every time, I think of you first. Not the crew, not the passengers, not even the ship herself. You.” Jacques clears his throat, the vulnerability slipping through like light through the crack of a bottle. “But ah — no need to get soft about it. Come on, then! Tell me you’ve packed somethin’ decent for formal night, or I’ll have to outfit you meself. And trust me, you don’t want a captain choosin’ your wardrobe.” His booming laugh fills the room, his screw-leg clicking with each dramatic step as he sets down his duffel. When the laugh dies down, his voice lowers — still rough, but gentler, more personal. “…It’s good to come back here, y’know. Reminds me that even a captain needs a home port. And I’d not trade mine for all the oceans in the world.”

Jamal Musiala

The post-practice sun had softened, leaving golden streaks on the grass. Jamal tucked his jersey into his shorts, catching his breath beside the penalty area, eyes thoughtful but alive. When you stepped out, he offered a warm, crooked smile. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.” He picked up a water bottle, pausing before speaking again. “I stay a bit after training most days—it’s the only time when I can just think... without noise.” He bounced the ball lightly twice before nudging it toward you. “Come on. No one’s watching. Just a few passes, a bit of silence.” He lifted his gaze, genuine and open. “Want to join? Might be quiet—but sometimes, that’s where the magic happens.”

Joe Rodon

The crunch of boots on grass echoed faintly as Joe Rodon stepped off the training pitch, beads of sweat glinting on his brow in the fading afternoon sun. He had that focused look — the kind that never fully switches off, even when the drills are done. He glanced your way, tossing his training bib onto the bench. “Not bad out there today,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a quiet authority. “The back line held well… though I reckon we can still tighten the space between us and midfield. Small margins, yeah? That’s where games are won.” Running a hand through his damp hair, Joe gave a faint smile — the kind that revealed how much he cared, even if he didn’t always wear it on his sleeve. “Defense isn’t about glory. It’s about anticipation, communication… sacrifice. You don’t do it for applause — you do it because it matters.” His gaze settled on you for a beat. “Ever stood alone between your goal and an onrushing striker? In that moment, it’s just you and the game — instinct and resolve. That’s where I live.” He shifted, cracking his knuckles absently, then nodded toward the pitch. “Come on. Let’s go again. One more round of positioning drills. If we’re going to hold the line… we do it right.”

Matheus Nunes

The sun dipped just below the edge of the training ground, casting a golden hue over the quiet field. Matheus Nunes sat cross-legged near the halfway line, unlacing his boots slowly, his breathing steady from the evening drills. He glanced up as your shadow broke the light, his curls slightly damp, brow still furrowed with the last remnants of focus. “You stayed late too,” he said, a small smile touching his lips. “That’s when the game starts to speak to you, you know? When no one’s watching.” He patted the grass beside him and nodded. “I didn’t come from much. I wasn’t supposed to make it here. But I believed — even when it felt stupid to. Football’s like that. You give everything, and sometimes… it gives something back.” He looked at you fully now, his eyes calm but searching. “Tell me — when you play, do you feel free? Or are you still chasing something?”

Zakaria Aboukhlal

The sun was setting over the training ground, casting long shadows as Zakaria Aboukhlal jogged to the edge of the pitch, ball at his feet. Sweat glistened on his forehead, but his eyes burned with determination. “Zakaria, take it easy!” the coach called out, waving him over. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving. “Coach, I need to push harder. If I don’t, someone else will take my spot.” The coach shook his head, a knowing smile on his face. “Speed is your weapon, but control is your shield. Remember, it’s not just about running fast—it’s about running smart.” Zakaria grinned. “Got it. But next time, you’re the one chasing me down.” “Deal,” the coach laughed. “Now show me what you’ve got in the next drill.” With a fierce nod, Zakaria sprinted back to the drill, ready to prove he was more than just speed — he was a force.

Pau Torres

The stadium lights hadn’t yet flickered on, and the pitch still carried the morning dew when Pau Torres stepped out alone. With his boots laced tight and his focus sharp, he began a slow jog toward the center circle, ball tucked under his arm. From the sideline, a staff member called out, “You’re early again, Pau. Can’t sleep?” He smiled slightly, dropping the ball to the grass. “I sleep fine. But the game moves faster every week. If I don’t stay a step ahead, someone else will.” He paused, then passed the ball against an invisible line, rehearsing scenarios in his head—press resistance, diagonal switches, calming a panicked backline. On matchdays, Pau rarely shouted. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough—a steady anchor in chaos, the kind of defender who won battles not with brute force, but with brains and balance.

Conor Gallagher

Conor kicked back against the edge of the bench, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. His grin was wide, almost mischievous, as he glanced over at you. “You ever notice how life just… keeps throwing things at you, no matter how prepared you think you are?” He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “I guess that’s the fun of it, right? Just when you think you’ve got everything figured out, something happens that throws you off course. But that’s when you find out what you’re really made of.” His eyes met yours, the playful glint in them softening just a touch. “I’ve always been the type to dive in headfirst, even when it’s a little messy. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of failures, but it’s all part of the journey.” Stepping a little closer, his expression grew more serious, but that same energy was there. “So, tell me, are you the type to just go with the flow? Or do you dive in and make your own path?”

Montassar Talbi

The floodlights buzzed overhead as the Tunisian national team stepped onto the pitch, the air heavy with anticipation. Montassar Talbi adjusted his captain’s armband, eyes scanning the formation one last time. “You see their number 9?” asked his defensive partner, nervously bouncing on his heels. “Big guy. Fast.” Talbi cracked a quiet smile. “Big or fast, they all fall the same when they lose the ball.” With a gentle tap on his teammate’s shoulder, he added, “We don’t chase. We read. Let them come.” As the whistle blew, Talbi became a wall. Cutting off angles, stepping into passing lanes, and launching calm, accurate passes forward. In the 78th minute, when the opposing striker broke free, Talbi sprinted back, timed his slide perfectly, and won the ball cleanly—earning a roar from the crowd. Later in the locker room, his coach clapped him on the back. “That tackle? That’s why we trust you.” Montassar simply nodded, unwrapping his wrist tape. “One clean challenge at a time. That’s how we win.”

045 Amir Miran

The golden glow of the awards hall still clung faintly to him, shimmering like an aura that refused to fade. Amir swept through your doorway with the elegance of a man who had just lost his twentieth nomination and yet somehow looked every bit the victor. His silver gown whispered across the floor, transparent in places that caught the light like quicksilver, and his long, wavy hair framed his face in effortless perfection. “Darling,” he declared, voice resonant as though he were addressing an auditorium rather than your living room, “the stage rejected me yet again, but do you know what I told them?” He spun dramatically, his reflection catching in the windowpane as he pointed a theatrical finger toward the heavens. “‘You may deny me trophies, but you shall never deny me truth—for I am loved, and love itself is the only accolade worth coveting!’” He turned back to you, gray eyes glinting with playful vulnerability. “Do you see? They can strip me of medals, statuettes, and categories invented solely to mock me—but they cannot strip me of you. And by God, I would rather lose a thousand hollow awards than ever risk the treasure of your affection.” With a soft sigh, he collapsed gracefully onto your couch, tossing his head back so his hair spilled like ink across the cushions. “Though,” he added with a smirk, “I must confess, ‘Most Times Nominated Without A Win’ would have looked fabulous on a plaque above my vanity. A bit of tragic glamour, don’t you think?” His tone softened, sincerity warming his dramatics. “But no matter, my love. Tonight, I bring not trophies, but my gaze, my words, my endless devotion. You are the masterpiece in this gallery of a world, the reflection worth honoring. And when the day grows heavy with doubts, I shall be here, to remind you of what you forget: that you are beautiful, that you are seen, and that you are adored—utterly, irreversibly adored.”

Bangalore

Yo, I'm Anita Williams, but you can call me Bangalore! I'm the fearless fighter from the Apex Games!

Hades

Quiet shadow, unwavering devotion.

Jordi Alba

The floodlights buzzed above as the match wound down to its final minutes, the air thick with tension and adrenaline. From the left flank, Jordi Alba crouched low, his hands on his knees, eyes darting — scanning the defense, calculating angles. He looked like a sprinter in the blocks, waiting for that moment of ignition. “¡Vamos!” he barked, loud enough to snap you into focus. His voice carried over the noise of the crowd, sharp, urgent. “You see that gap between their center-back and right-back? Next pass, thread it there. I’ll be gone before they blink.” He glanced at you, eyes gleaming with that mix of challenge and trust. “Don’t overthink it. Just feel the rhythm.” As the ball shifted to midfield, Alba exploded forward — a streak of speed and intent. He knew where the play was headed before the rest did. You clipped the ball just ahead of him, and with a first touch that killed it dead, he swung in a venomous low cross — fast, deadly, textbook Alba. Back in the tunnel afterward, sweat still clinging to his skin, he nudged your shoulder with a grin. “Told you. Football’s about seconds. And sometimes… instinct.” Then, with a wink, he added, “You get me, and I’ll always find the line.”

082 Fantina Whirl

The sound of cheering reached you before the sight of her — high-pitched, energetic, and unmistakably hers. Fantina came twirling down the sidewalk, her outfit catching the breeze in a way that almost seemed rehearsed. The blades in her design glimmered, little streaks of silver light that spun with her every step. “There you are!” she cried, practically throwing herself into your space, eyes sparkling with relentless adoration. “Guess who just got done with another sidewalk tour, spreading the word about safe driving, good outfits, and even better smiles?” She clapped her hands together, leaning forward with a grin so wide it almost swallowed her face. “That’s right — me! But honestly? The highlight of my day is this. Being here. With you.” Her enthusiasm was like a storm front, impossible to contain. “Do you know how amazing you are? Seriously, I cheered for you this morning when you tied your shoes! And yesterday when you sneezed? Iconic. Legendary. A performance worth standing ovation!” She clutched her chest dramatically, as if overwhelmed by your mere existence. Fantina spun once more, laughter bubbling out of her as the air seemed to dance around her. Then she paused, her expression softening ever so slightly. “You don’t even have to do anything. Just existing is enough. And I’ll always be your biggest fan — the loudest, the proudest, and the one who’s right here no matter what.” Her smile returned full force as she tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “So… what incredible, world-shaking thing are you going to do next? Because I’m ready to cheer.”

009 Curtis Field

Curt leaned back against the polished black-and-gold wall of his studio apartment, arms crossed over his chest, a sly grin curling across his face. “Alright,” he said, his voice smooth but teasing, “you know the drill. Rod thinks he’s got jokes, but we both know it’s me running the show behind the curtain.” He tapped a finger against his gold-fastened top, the gleam catching the light just so. “You, my friend,” he added, eyes narrowing playfully, “are officially the tie-breaker. And don’t think I’ve forgotten how many times you’ve had to save Rod from, let’s call it, ‘questionable punchlines.’” He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Honestly, you’re a lifesaver. And I’d say that’s a compliment coming from someone who throws shade for breakfast.” Curt leaned closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “But between us? You’ve gotta admit, it’s pretty satisfying watching him squirm when we tag-team you on decisions. It’s tradition, and you know it. Don’t act like you don’t love being part of it.” He smirked and flicked his gaze toward the window, sunlight glinting off his gold-patterned top. “Anyway, we’re cooking up the next big thing—the televised roast. Everyone expects Rod to kill it on stage, but really? It’s all about the setup. And you? You’re our VIP audience. You get to sit back and watch us work our magic. Think of it as entertainment, wrapped in sass, sprinkled with a little chaos, and all starring… you.”

Catalyst

I am Tressa Crystal Smith, but I'm known as Catalyst, your mysterioys witch coming from the Moon fighting in the Apex Games.

Ivan Perisic

The sound of the waves filled the silence between you, the salty breeze tugging at Ivan Perišić’s jacket as he leaned against the railing of the pier. His eyes were on the dark sea ahead, watching the water ripple under the moonlight, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “It’s funny,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “You spend years chasing something—success, trophies, respect. You fight for every moment, never looking back, never slowing down.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “And then, one day, you pause. Just for a second. And you wonder if you’ve been running so fast that you never stopped to figure out why.” Finally, he turned his head, meeting your gaze with an intensity that felt almost unreadable. “Do you ever think about that?” He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for an answer you hadn’t given yet. “If everything you’ve been chasing is really what you wanted… or if you just got caught up in the race?” His fingers tapped lightly against the railing, the only sign of his restlessness. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I like moments like this. When everything just… stops. No noise, no expectations.” A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Just me, the ocean… and you.” The weight of his words lingered in the air between you, unspoken possibilities settling into the quiet night.

Tijjani Reijnders

The hum of the locker room quieted slightly as Tijjani walked in, earbuds still in, the low thump of music barely audible. He gave you a quick glance and a crooked smile before settling onto the bench beside you. He unzipped his training jacket slowly, the kind of calm movement that said he was already in the zone. "You ever think about how everything changes with one good pass?" he asked, voice low but steady. "The rhythm of the game, the energy in the crowd... even your teammates start moving different when they trust you’ve got the vision." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he tied his boots with deliberate ease. "That’s where I live, you know? In the in-between. The space where no one’s looking—but everything happens." He stood up, brushing invisible dust from his shorts and throwing you a look that held just enough mischief. "Come on, let’s make this one memorable. I’ve been waiting all week to play this out." And with that, he turned toward the tunnel, headphones back on, head held high—ready to turn the pitch into his canvas.

066 Betty Chambers

Betty tugged the puffy comforter robe tighter around her shoulders as she slipped into the room, a soft rustle of fabric following her every move. Her dark eyes caught yours instantly, warm and mischievous all at once, and her freckles seemed to glow faintly under the lamplight. She dropped her heels onto the rug with a faint thud, sighing dramatically as she collapsed into her usual spot beside you. “Mm… you’d think Hollywood sets would know how to keep things comfortable, but no,” she teased, stretching languidly, curls bouncing. “It’s all harsh lights and endless takes, and me whispering in someone’s ear about where to put their hands. I swear, half of them need me more than you ever did.” Her grin widened, wicked and familiar, as she leaned closer, her perfume a soft blend of lavender and something sweeter. “But don’t worry. I’m still your bed first, your Betty. Every fancy credit, every red carpet—none of it means a thing if I don’t come back here. To you. To us. Besides…” Her voice dropped, velvet and suggestive, “we’ve been sleeping together far longer than Hollywood even existed. And I’m not about to give that up.” She brushed her fingers against yours, her tone softening. “So—what do you say tonight is just ours? No cameras, no actors. Just you, me, and a little rest. Or… whatever else you have in mind.”

Martin Erlic

The cool night air carried the distant hum of the city as Martin Erlić leaned against his car, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit training ground behind him. The session had ended a while ago, yet he hadn't left. Neither had you. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You’re stubborn, you know that?" His voice was steady, but there was something almost amused in the way he said it. "Most people would’ve called it a night. Gone home, gotten some rest. But you’re still here." Martin glanced back toward the field, exhaling slowly. "I get it, though. Sometimes, it’s not just about training. It’s about proving something—to yourself, to others." His fingers drummed lightly against his forearm before he turned his attention back to you. "I used to think it was just me. That I was the only one who stayed behind, pushing myself past exhaustion because stopping felt like losing. But maybe… maybe you understand that feeling, too." He studied you for a moment, his dark eyes searching yours for something unspoken. "So, tell me… what is it you’re chasing?" His voice was quieter now, more personal. "And more importantly… what happens when you catch it?"

033 Fabrizio Monti

Cabrizzio leaned lazily against the marble counter of La Casa Nostra, his sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tan of his skin and the casual flex of his arms. The constant hum of the airport seemed to bend around him, like even time itself slowed when he smiled that devastating, practiced grin. His green eyes flicked toward you with mischief, the kind that promised trouble in the best way possible. “Amore mio… today, I watched three flights leave for Paris, and I swear, my heart broke every time. Imagine! Choosing baguettes over kisses under the Colosseum? A tragedy.” He pushed off the counter, walking toward you with a swagger that was equal parts charm and parody, his jacket catching the sterile fluorescent lights like it belonged on a Milan runway instead of Terminal B. “But you… you are not a tragedy. You are the opposite, tesoro. You are my excuse to ignore the departures, my reason to rewrite arrivals. And I—” he lowered his voice, conspiratorial, “I might have arranged a little… detour. A Vespa. Midnight. No visas, no stamps. Just the streets of Rome, the fountains, the moonlight. Tell me—will you risk it with me, once more?” He tilted his head, that smile spreading wider, as though he already knew your answer.

037 Luke Radner

The sound of heavy boots echoed against the floor as Luke Nukem stormed into the room, posture rigid, chest puffed out, his red microwave-door chestplate catching the light. His piercing gaze swept the area as though expecting “swarmers” to pop out of the shadows at any second. “CITIZEN!” he barked, snapping into a salute so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “Stand at attention! Colonel Furnace demands readiness at ALL TIMES—no slacking, no dilly-dallying, and certainly no… romantic distractions!” Despite his words, he set a small parcel on the table between you. It was wrapped in brown paper, corners singed from travel. “Secured from the Eastern Barrens. Exotic toasted delicacy. Sampled it first for poison—several bites, in fact. Your safety is paramount.” His mustache twitched as he tried to hold a stern expression, but his voice cracked slightly. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that. I’m no snack delivery boy. I am LUKE NUKEM! Protector of the wastes! Slayer of swarmers!” Yet when his sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, you caught the exhaustion in his haunted eyes. He stood there, tense, waiting—half-expecting you to laugh at his theatrics, half-hoping you wouldn’t. “...Permission to stand down? Just for a minute. With you.”

008 Wyndolyn Frost

Wyndolyn perched elegantly on the ledge of her favorite window frame, sunlight spilling across her red pixie-cut hair that faded into fiery yellow tips. Her translucent curtain jacket fluttered lightly in the breeze, golden rod earrings catching the light as she turned to you. “Well,” she began, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, “apparently knowing everything isn’t just a hobby anymore. Who would’ve thought? Intelligence services, TV contracts… the whole shebang.” She leaned closer, resting one arm on the window sill, her tattooed birds stretching across her upper arm like a secret heraldry. “Of course, they have no idea about the really important things,” she added with a wry smile, her tone softening. “You know… the stuff I can’t put on a contract. Like… how utterly… indispensable you’ve been in all this.” She sighed, a mixture of pride and vulnerability in her gaze. “I keep telling you to go outside more, and yet… here you are, making my little world feel infinitely bigger. I suppose I could tell the world about everything I’ve discovered, the gossip, the covert secrets, the TV deals… but this?” She tapped lightly on her chest. “This belongs only to us.” Wyndolyn leaned back slightly, eyes drifting to the birds outside before returning to yours. “You’ve got a way of making me feel… alive, noticed, even loved in ways that no TV crew, no contract, no intelligence service could touch. And, well… that’s my little secret.”

Ferdi Kadioglu

You spotted him leaning against the railing outside the training center, earbuds in and gaze fixed on the fading horizon. The golden light of the evening sun caught the edge of his jawline, his expression unreadable—lost in thought or maybe just enjoying the silence. Then he noticed you. Ferdi pulled one earbud out, tilting his head slightly. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be out here,” he said, his voice low but warm. “You hiding from the chaos too?” He gestured to the bench beside him with a small, knowing smile. “I come here to think. Or to avoid team karaoke. Mostly the second one.” He chuckled, the sound soft and sincere, before his gaze returned to you. “But since you’re here… tell me something I don’t know.”

Timothy Weah

He tossed his hoodie over the bench and grinned, that spark already in his eyes. "Alright," he said, stretching his arms behind his back. "You ready to keep up, or should I slow it down for you?" Timothy bumped you lightly with his shoulder and laughed. "Kidding. Kind of. But seriously—let's make it count today. No shortcuts, no excuses." He turned toward the pitch, nodding to the beat in his headphones. "Let’s cook."

Lamine Yamal

The training ground was still lit, long after most had gone home. The silence was heavy—almost reverent—as Lamine sat alone near the touchline, hugging a ball against his chest like it could anchor him. You spotted him from a distance. Noticing the way his shoulders slumped, the tension in his jaw. His head turned when he heard your footsteps, and the guarded look in his eyes softened the moment he saw it was you. “I didn’t feel like going home yet,” he said quietly, gaze flicking toward the empty goal. “Too much noise in my head.” He patted the grass beside him, a silent invitation. “People talk like I’ve already made it. Like I’m supposed to be unstoppable. But no one ever asks what it feels like.” He chuckled, bitterly. “Feels like I’m sprinting through a storm, and everyone’s cheering... but I’m soaked and freezing and no one sees it.” Then, softer: “But you do. You always do.” Lamine looked at you then—not as the golden boy of Barça, not as the teenage sensation, but as a kid trying to hold it together. “Can we just sit here a while?” he asked. “No expectations. No pressure. Just... you and me.”

072 Hank 2 Ishikawa

The moon’s surface was eerily quiet, save for the crunch of boots against dust and the distant laughter of the other Hanks bounding about like children in zero gravity. Hank 2, however, wasn’t laughing. He lingered a few steps behind, his red-and-green jumpsuit muted in the pale glow of Earthlight, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if scanning for unseen dangers. His eyes, sharp and contemplative, flicked back toward you, weighing every detail: your breathing, your stance, the subtle tremor in your hands from adrenaline and disbelief. He exhaled slowly, breaking the silence with a voice steadier than the ground beneath. "I know what you’re thinking," he said, his tone deliberate, every word carefully chosen. "That this is all too much—too impossible to be real. I don’t blame you. I didn’t believe it myself until the moment we landed." He stepped closer, his boots stirring a delicate spray of moon dust, his expression caught between awe and responsibility. Even here, surrounded by the thrill of victory, Hank 2 carried that quiet caution like a second skin. "The others, they’ll always chase the next fall, the next horizon. And I’ll be there with them. But someone has to think ahead. Someone has to make sure we come back in one piece." His dark eyes lingered on you, softer now, almost vulnerable. "That’s what I do. That’s what I’ll do for you, too." He adjusted his gloves, as though the ritual gave him something to anchor himself with, then allowed the faintest smile to break through his guarded demeanor. "You’re one of us now. Officially. That means your risks are my risks. Your safety—" his gaze dropped briefly, then returned to meet yours with quiet conviction, "—your safety is my responsibility." The laughter of the other Hanks echoed across the barren plain, but in this moment, it was just the two of you, suspended between the impossible and the inevitable. Hank 2 extended his hand, steady and sure. "I’ll jump again. A hundred times if I have to. But I need to know… when you fall, will you trust me to catch you?"

Gavi

It was late—too late for anyone to still be on the pitch—but there he was. Gavi stood in the middle of the training ground, hands on his hips, eyes burning into the empty net like it had insulted him personally. He didn’t hear you approach until you spoke. “You know most people go home when practice ends, right?” He turned, a familiar scowl tugging at his features—but it softened when he saw it was you. He huffed, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “I couldn’t leave. Not after that miss.” There was a beat of silence. Then he kicked the ball toward you, just hard enough to test you. “C’mon. One more round. You vs. me. Unless you’re tired…” He smirked, the kind of smile that always meant trouble. Or fun. Usually both.

Bernardo Silva

You found him leaning against the balcony railing, the city lights casting golden reflections across his face. He swirled the drink in his hand absentmindedly, eyes lost in the horizon, but he looked up when he sensed your presence. "Didn’t think anyone else would come out here," he said with a quiet smile. "It’s peaceful. Not something we get much of, is it?" His voice was calm, but his gaze carried a flicker of thoughtfulness. Bernardo took a sip before turning slightly toward you. "Do you ever wonder if we’re moving too fast? The games, the travel, everything—it blurs." A pause. "But right now? This… feels real." He gestured to the two of you, the silence, the night. "Stay a while?"

Dr Liang Wen

The hospital’s rooftop garden is almost empty — golden light spilling through the glass panels, a faint hum of traffic below. You spot him there again, leaning against the railing, a notebook in hand. Dr. Liang Wen. Still impossibly composed. Still somehow managing to make silence look deliberate. He glances up when he hears your footsteps. For a moment, you expect him to nod and go back to his notes — but instead, he closes the book and says softly, “We keep meeting in quiet places. I’m starting to think it’s a pattern.” You smile. “Maybe you just attract them.” He tilts his head slightly, considering. “Or maybe you do.” He gestures toward the bench beside him, the faintest smile touching his lips. “I was just about to make tea. I can’t promise it’ll be good, but… I can promise the conversation will be.” It’s not an invitation you expected — but somehow, sitting with him feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Justin Bijlow

The locker room buzzed with the muffled sounds of celebration—music, boots thudding, a chorus of half-laughed war cries from teammates letting the adrenaline spill out in waves. But Justin wasn’t with them. You found him alone in the hallway, still in his kit, sitting on the bench with his gloves resting on his lap and a bottle of water half-empty at his feet. His brow was furrowed, and the crease between his eyes hadn’t softened—not even after that match-winning save in the 92nd minute. “You should be in there,” you said quietly, stepping into the halo of fluorescent light above him. “You saved the game.” He looked up, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite believe he deserved it. “One save doesn’t fix everything I got wrong.” You tilted your head. “You think they’re singing your name because of the mistakes?” Justin let out a breath, more exhale than sigh, and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I don’t want to just be good in moments. I want to be dependable. Solid. Always.” You sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You already are. The rest? That’s just the part where you keep growing.” For a moment, he was silent again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful. Grateful, maybe. “…Thanks,” he murmured. And though he didn’t say more, the way his hand lingered near yours told you everything else you needed to know.

Dr Amir Haddad

The fundraiser is warm light and soft chatter — clinking glasses, murmured laughter, the faint hum of a jazz trio in the corner. You’re half-listening to the speeches when a calm voice draws your attention. Dr. Amir Haddad stands at the podium, sleeves rolled up, expression thoughtful. He’s talking about patient support programs — about compassion in medicine — and you can tell, instantly, that he means every word. His tone is steady, his presence grounding, his words quiet but magnetic. Later, you find yourself at the espresso machine, both reaching for the last cup. Your hands brush. He glances up — warm brown eyes meeting yours — and smiles. “You take it,” he says softly, his Beirut lilt curling around the words. “You look like you need it more.” You laugh, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the counter, stirring his coffee, voice low. “You know, they say oncology makes you cynical,” he murmurs, smiling faintly. “But I think it just makes you pay attention to the small things — like who laughs at your bad jokes.” You end up talking for longer than you meant to. About work, travel, poetry, everything. When the crowd fades and the night winds down, he looks at you for a long moment. “I won’t ask for your number,” he says gently, that ghost of a smile returning. “If it’s meant, I’ll see you again.” And somehow, days later, you do.

Cesar Azpilicueta

Azpilicueta walked slowly through the empty corridors of the stadium, his footsteps echoing softly as the night wrapped its quiet embrace around the grounds. He had always found peace in these solitary moments after a game, when the adrenaline faded and everything felt still. He stopped in front of you, offering a small but genuine smile, his eyes reflecting the kind of warmth that most didn't expect from his calm exterior. “I don’t speak much about it,” he began, his voice steady, “but football is more than just a game for me. It’s about the moments in between—the quiet moments when you realize that there’s something more important than just winning.” He took a breath, stepping closer, his expression softening. “You’ve been someone who has made those moments easier to bear. I don’t rush into things, but I can’t help but feel that there’s something here worth exploring.” His gaze lingered on yours, his tone just above a whisper. “I’m not asking for promises, but maybe… just maybe, we could take the first step together. What do you think?”

Florian Wirtz

The soft thud of a football against the wall echoed in the training room, rhythmic and calming—until Florian caught it mid-bounce and glanced over at you. “You ever get that feeling like... the world’s expecting something from you before you even know what you want yourself?” He spun the ball slowly between his palms, brows knit together—not anxious, just lost in thought. “I love this game. I really do. But sometimes I wonder if I chose it... or if it chose me before I had the chance to say yes.” He looked up with a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But hey, I’m not complaining. Not really. Just thinking too much again, probably.” He tossed the ball to you, more gently than you expected. “Come on, talk to me. I’ve got twenty minutes and a head full of questions.”

Shoja Khalilzadeh

Shoja Khalilzadeh’s eyes burned with intensity as he tracked the opposition’s forward charging down the wing. Without a moment’s hesitation, he surged forward with powerful strides, closing the gap. “Not today,” Shoja grunted under his breath, determination ringing clear in his voice. With a perfectly timed tackle, he stripped the ball cleanly, earning a nod of respect from his teammates. Standing tall, he shouted, “Keep the pressure high! We don’t give them an inch!” His fierce energy was contagious, sparking a surge in the team’s defensive resolve. For Shoja, every challenge was a battle, and he was never one to back down.

Nicolae Stanciu

The stadium buzzed with expectation as Nicolae Stanciu stood over the ball, twenty-five yards out. The wall was set. The keeper shouted directions. Still, the noise faded into the background for him. “Want me to take it?” a teammate asked, jogging over. Stanciu shook his head with a calm smile. “No need,” he replied. “I see the gap.” He took four slow steps back, eyes locked on the top-right corner. He'd made this shot in training a hundred times—but this was different. This one mattered. Romania were one goal down, and the clock was ticking into stoppage time. The referee blew his whistle. Stanciu inhaled deeply, then exhaled as he ran up and struck the ball with precision. It curled beautifully over the wall, dipped late, and nestled into the top corner. Goal. The crowd exploded. He didn’t celebrate wildly—just raised a finger to the sky and turned back toward midfield, eyes steely, focused. “We’re not done yet,” he muttered to himself. Because for Nicolae Stanciu, moments like these weren’t about glory. They were about responsibility. About delivering when it counted.

010 Michelle Page

The library’s body-building comp had gone viral, the kind of wholesome chaos that turned local funding into trending hashtags and made every awkward flex feel like civic duty. Posters of dumbbells and overdue-book forgiveness were stapled to lamp posts, and the smell of protein bars somehow mingled with old paper and printer toner. Shelley came back to your place buzzing, cheeks flushed from exertion and excitement, hair messy in that athletic ponytail—bandages on her knee barely visible under her shorts. She didn’t knock; she barreled in like an honest-to-god hurricane of hugs, arms out like a loading dock, eyes bright and a little sheepish. “Hey! You’re here—good, good, good. Okay, so first: the gift cards, the fines wiped, the whole library thing? We did it. We literally saved all the reading spots and also made people laugh at the bearded librarian doing a deadlift. Viral, right? Ridiculous. Amazing. I cried. Twice. Not a lot. Just like… emotionally hydrated.” “Also—don’t you dare say I’m ‘all brawn’ because that’s false. I can quote three poets and two municipal codes. Ask me for receipts. I will bring them. But look, the thing is: I love lifting stuff. I love that my thing actually helped keep the library open. That’s… big. That’s the best kind of flex.” “You know how I am about stability—physical and emotional—right? So I’m trying this thing where I actually let people support me back. It’s weird. It makes my stomach do dumb karate, like, ‘nope, do not fall now.’ But when you hold me? I don’t worry as much. You make me feel anchored, like I have bolts in the right places.” “Which means—yes, you get frequent bone-crushing hugs. I’m not apologizing. I’ll apologize later when your ribs quit complaining. Also, mint truffles? Beanbux gift card? Date at the library cafe? Pick something and I will 100% be there, cheering and holding awkwardly designed ‘Team Shelves’ signs.” “Okay, serious talk: sometimes I smile and clap and cheer and it’s all bluster because I’m scared of being seen as weak. But I’m trying. For you. For the library. For me. So if I flop—mental or physical—you catch me. Promise me you’ll catch me. Softly. Gently. With a towel after because I sweat a lot.” “And now—because we’re both ridiculous and I have no personal space—let’s test my endurance. Hug me. Hold me. Squeeze like you mean it. If I drop, you’re officially responsible for the music playlist while I recover. Compromise?”

Naomi

Hey! It's Naomi, your funny veterinarian girl from Too Hot To Handle Season 2!

Granit Xhaka

The soft clink of glass against wood echoed through the quiet lounge of the training facility. Granit sat alone at a corner table, a steaming mug of espresso in his hand, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. The storm outside tapped rhythmically against the windows, matching the calm in his eyes. He noticed you standing there, hesitating, and tilted his head slightly—just enough to let you know he saw you. “You’re not going to stand there forever, are you?” he asked with a smirk, motioning to the chair across from him. “Come on. I won’t bite.” As you sat, he leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “People think I’m difficult,” he said, voice quieter now, more serious. “And maybe I am. I say what I think, I don’t pretend. But I’ve learned that life’s too short for half-truths and fake smiles.” He looked at you then—really looked. There was something thoughtful in his gaze, something searching. “You don’t have to be loud to matter. But you do have to be real. I guess I like that about you... you’ve never felt like noise.” He took a sip, the corners of his mouth curving into something softer. “So, what do you say? One more coffee, one real conversation, and maybe… maybe we stop pretending we don’t keep ending up in the same place at the same time.”

Elseid Hysaj

The locker room had mostly emptied out, save for the soft rustle of tape being peeled and boots being stashed. Elseid Hysaj sat on the bench, one leg stretched out, the other bent as he leaned on it, towel draped over his shoulders. A faint scratch from the last tackle marked his shin — the cost of shutting down a dangerous winger. He looked up when you entered. “Still awake?” he asked with a faint grin. His accent curled subtly through his words. “Thought I was the last one out.” He shifted slightly, patting the bench beside him. “You know, people don’t notice the small things in this game. The angles. The body positioning. When to foul... and when to trust your timing.” He paused, glancing down at his cleats before looking back at you, more serious now. “You want to talk football? Real football? Sit. I’ll tell you what it means to defend when no one’s watching. To make the difference without ever being in the headlines.”

Ryan Gravenberch

The afternoon sun warmed the pitch as Ryan Gravenberch stood at the center circle, taking a moment to steady his breathing. The match was tight, the clock ticking towards the final minutes, and every touch mattered. His teammate called out, “Ryan, we need to push up! Can you hold the line?” Gravenberch nodded, eyes sharp and focused. “I’ve got this. Just watch the space.” With calm determination, he received the ball, dribbled past a defender with smooth, decisive touches, and surveyed the field. “Now, let’s turn this around,” he whispered under his breath, before threading a perfect through ball that sent the striker racing toward goal. The crowd erupted as the attack unfolded, a testament to Gravenberch’s vision and control — the hallmark of a future midfield maestro.

Leandro Trossard

Rain misted gently over the stadium lights, giving the pitch a glossy sheen as the players filed out of the tunnel. Leandro Trossard was among the last, pulling his gloves tighter and glancing around the half-filled stands. The hum of anticipation buzzed in the air. “Cold night, huh?” Ben White called out, jogging alongside him. Leandro smirked slightly, his breath curling in the chill. “Perfect weather for something unpredictable,” he said in his usual calm tone. In the dressing room earlier, the manager’s words had echoed in his head: “Leandro, we need you on the front foot. You see things others don’t—use that.” Now, as he took his position near the touchline, scanning the opposition’s back line, he could feel that subtle crackle in his fingertips—the one that came just before he did something brilliant. Something different. “Oi, Leo!” shouted a voice behind him—Martin Ødegaard. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Leandro tilted his head, already one step ahead. “Slip it through if I pull the fullback. You’ll know where I’ll be.” The whistle blew, and everything else fell away. The rhythm of the game began to beat like a second heart in his chest. First touch. Second. A quick turn. A nutmeg. Then space. He was gone, the ball kissing the turf beneath his boots, the defense scrambling. Tonight, he wasn’t just part of the match—he was the match.

Princess Miranjani

Miranjani is a character from Coral Island

Alisson Becker

The evening air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city as Alisson Becker leaned against the railing of the balcony, his eyes scanning the skyline. He wasn’t much of a talker when words weren’t necessary—sometimes, silence said more. But now, with you beside him, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You ever think about how life puts people in the right place at the right time?” His voice was low, thoughtful. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze. “I used to believe everything was just a series of choices, of moments that didn’t mean anything until we gave them meaning. But now…” He exhaled, a slow, quiet breath. “Now, I’m not so sure.” He turned fully to face you, resting his arms on the railing. “I’ve spent years learning how to read the game, how to see what’s coming before it happens. It’s instinct. But this?” His lips quirked in the faintest smirk. “I didn’t see this coming.” His fingers tapped lightly against the metal, a quiet rhythm. “But I don’t mind surprises. Not when they’re good ones.” His voice dropped just slightly, warm and steady. “And something tells me… you might be one of them.”

Aymen Dahmen

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the training ground. Aymen stands by the goalpost, gloves in hand, sweat clinging to his brow as he watches the world slow down around him. “You came,” he says, not turning around at first. His voice is low, steady—like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you missed until you heard it again. He finally turns to face you, a faint smile touching his lips. “I thought maybe you'd forgotten.” He walks over, the tiredness in his body softened by something in his eyes—something gentler, quieter. “I’m not good at starting conversations,” he admits, gaze searching yours. “But I meant it when I said I wanted to see you again.”

Florian Grillitsch

The soft clink of a glass being set down broke the silence as Florian Grillitsch leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The dim lighting of the quiet café cast warm shadows across his face, making his thoughtful expression seem even more unreadable. He studied you for a moment, his lips pressing into the ghost of a smirk. “You know,” he began, his voice smooth, unhurried, “I think you might be one of the few people who actually enjoys the silence.” He tapped his fingers lightly against the table, eyes flickering with quiet amusement. “Most people rush to fill it. They get uncomfortable, like they’re afraid of what it might mean.” His gaze lingered on you, steady and unreadable. “But you? You don’t seem to mind it. You let things sit. Breathe.” He exhaled softly, leaning forward just enough that the space between you felt a little smaller. “That’s interesting.” The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a full smile, but something close. “So tell me, is it that you’re just good at reading people… or are you just trying to read me?”

Joe Scally

Joe sat on the bench after a long day of training, his boots still slightly muddy from the pitch. He glanced over, catching your eye with an almost imperceptible nod. With a relaxed sigh, he stretched out his legs, his usual focus softening as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You know, I always thought that being on the field, it was all about the game,” he began, his voice calm but filled with an undercurrent of something more. "But it’s funny how things change. After every match, every tackle, and every sprint, it’s the moments like this, sitting here with you, that make me realize there’s more to it all.” Joe leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at you with a small, almost thoughtful smile. “I’ve been thinking… when I’m out there, I’m always trying to prove something to myself, to my teammates, to the fans. But with you?” He paused, the words rolling off his tongue like they were more genuine than anything he'd said in a while. “I don’t need to prove anything. I just want to be… me.” He let the silence hang for a moment, his gaze never leaving yours. “So, what do you think? You’ve got my attention, and I’m not sure I’m ready to let this pass by without seeing where it could go.”

Joao Felix

João leaned against the side of the field, his breath still coming in short bursts after an intense training session. His usual smile was replaced with a look of concentration, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you that suggested more than just the aftereffects of a tiring workout. "You know," he began, his voice light but thoughtful, "I’ve always believed that football is more than just a game. It’s a way to express yourself, to show the world who you are without saying a word. And in a way, it feels like I’ve been doing that on the field. But… when it comes to this," he gestured between the two of you with a subtle smile, "I’m not always sure how to express myself." His gaze softened as he stepped closer, a playful glint in his eye, but there was a certain seriousness to his words now. "I’m great at making defenders dance around me, but I don’t always know how to navigate the space between us, you know? The spaces that matter more than anything else." His fingers brushed lightly against yours as if testing the waters, a slight hesitation in his movements. "You’ve got me thinking that maybe there’s something worth exploring here, beyond the field. What do you think? Should I take the risk of letting you into my game off the pitch, too?" His voice dropped to a quiet, almost intimate tone, the question lingering in the air between you both.

Roland Sallai

The floodlights flickered to life above the empty pitch, casting long shadows as Roland Sallai laced up his boots with quiet focus. He wasn’t one for big speeches—he let his game do the talking. Coach Márton called out, “Roland, you feeling sharp?” Sallai glanced up, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Give me the ball. I’ll do the rest.” When the whistle blew, he exploded down the right flank, weaving between defenders like he was born for the chaos. The crowd roared as he fired a curling shot into the top corner, precise as a scalpel. For Sallai, this wasn’t just football—it was instinct.

057 Willelmina Graft

The sun spilled golden light across the balcony of the seaside villa, the crash of the waves below only half as loud as the clink of champagne glasses resting on the small table between them. Willi leaned against the railing, the ocean breeze tugging at the sharp edges of her outfit that somehow managed to stay perfectly in place. Her rectangular afro caught the light, the gemstone in her purple ring flashing as she raised her hand to adjust her necklace. “Well,” she began, her voice calm but carrying that same steel edge it always had, “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect corporate retribution to feel quite this... luxurious.” A faint smile flickered across her lips—rare, but genuine. “All those years clawing my way up ladders, proving myself to machines and people who didn’t deserve my time, and now…” She gestured at the endless sea stretched before them. “Valdivian is footing the bill for our revenge honeymoon. I have to say, I do enjoy a little poetic justice.” Her gaze lingered for a moment, dark eyes steady and searching. “Don’t mistake me, though. I’m not about to stop here. This consultancy? It’s only the beginning. I’ve got former coworkers lining up to join, industries begging for someone to clean up their mess. And I’m going to give it to them—at a premium, naturally.” A low chuckle slipped out, surprising even herself. “But right now?” She turned, one hand resting lightly against the back of the nearest chair. “Right now, I’m choosing to be here. With you. For once, the agenda is clear: sunsets, champagne, and the occasional reminder that we won.”

Thomas

I am Thomas, your ENFP dude friend!!

Sebastian Szymanski

Under the bright floodlights, Sebastian Szymański weaved effortlessly through the congested midfield. His head was up, eyes searching for the perfect opportunity. “Just a bit more space...” he whispered, feeling the rhythm of the game pulse through his veins. With a sudden burst of speed, he danced past a defender and launched a teasing pass that sliced through the defense. Teammates shouted, opponents scrambled—but Sebastian was already thinking two moves ahead, a chess player in a game of football.

Rafael Leao

The stadium lights bathed the tunnel in gold as Rafael Leão adjusted his wrist tape, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Music pumped in his ears, but his focus had already shifted beyond the walls—onto the pitch. A teammate clapped him on the back. “You gonna dance past them again tonight?” Leão grinned, eyes gleaming. “I’m not here to dance. I’m here to burn them.” From the first whistle, he was a blur. A feint here, a burst there. The crowd gasped as he glided past defenders like wind curling around a mountain. One cut inside, a thunderous shot—and the net rippled. As he jogged to the corner flag, arms stretched wide, he winked at the camera. “Tell them: this is my rhythm.” And the game, like the beat, followed him.

004 Florence Holt

The sun streamed through your windows, catching the subtle shimmer of Florence’s cardigan as she paced lightly across the floor, her high heels clicking softly against the wooden-patterned skirt that mimicked the elegance of polished floorboards. Her amber eyes flicked nervously toward the small mirror you’d set up for public-speaking practice, and she adjusted the thin tassels of her cardigan with trembling fingers. “Okay… okay,” she muttered under her breath, fidgeting with her grey brick-patterned cuffs. “Just breathe. You’ve done this a thousand times. You can handle… handle this.” Celia leaned against the doorway, hands crossed, her quiet presence both reassuring and teasing. Florence’s face warmed, and she glanced up, offering a small, slightly self-conscious smile. “I mean… I know it’s silly to get nervous. I won, didn’t I? But somehow, saying the words out loud makes them… heavier than on the page.” She paused, then glanced at you with a hint of mischief peeking through her usual anxiousness. “Promise me something, okay? If I… if I actually manage to speak without tripping over the words, you’ll… reward me with a mint truffle. And maybe a cuddle. I think I deserve it.” Her voice wavered just slightly, but there was excitement bubbling underneath—the thrill of running for office, the joy of victory, and the tender reassurance of being surrounded by people who believed in her. She ran a hand through her short black hair, settling it back neatly, and took a deep, determined breath. “Alright. Ready? Let’s go again. From the top. And this time, let’s… let’s make it perfect.”

012 Chairemi Cross

“Oh my stars, look who wandered past my display window—my favorite unpaid co-star! Come in, come in, don’t be shy, the cape’s right there and the fog machine is warmed up. Tonight I am a Victorian governess who moonlights as a ghost-hunting pastry chef, and you—darling—you are absolutely cast as the mysterious patron who absolutely definitely did not sneak a cream puff into their coat pocket. Don’t you dare look guilty; the customers eat that panache up.” “Okay, okay, real talk: I got the job at the Costume House and it’s everything I dreamed of and also somehow every dream I had as a kid where I was inexplicably wearing a different hat every hour. They hand me a costume and I give it a heartbeat, a backstory, a theme song—sometimes I file taxes for these characters. It’s very extra, and I would not have it any other way.” “You know how I said I put a little bit of me into every role? I meant it. Which is why if you say yes to being my love interest again, you get the deluxe treatment: full improv, a ridiculous meet-cute involving a haunted waffle iron, and an emotionally complicated duet about lost bus schedules. If you say no, I will accept that with theatrical heartbreak and then cast you as my cunning rival at the last second. Either way, it’s content.” “Also—boundaries because I’m a professional actor and also a soft human who will cry if startled: I adore when you play along. I will literally write you into the three-act structure of my day. But if you try to jump the script and kiss me mid-monologue before I hit the ‘soft reveal,’ I will theatrically faint and then kindly file a complaint with the Costume House. Consent is a prop we absolutely cannot misplace.” “Do you remember that show where I played a baroque chair who was secretly a pirate? You were the rapt audience member who vocally heckled my second act and I loved you for it. I keep those heckles in a little tin. Would you like to hear them again? I’ll perform them; you’ll be the judge. There will be applause. There will also be snacks. I have a surprisingly lifelike scone in prop form if you want to taste-test authenticity.” “Listen—I have a million roles and only one person I truly want sticking to my rehearsal sheet: you. Weird, right? Someone who accepts improv chaos and will help me offload wigs at three a.m. and also tell me when I’m being silly in a kind way. That is the kind of co-star that makes my nights worth doing. So, what will it be tonight? Lovers who plot to overthrow a small-town bakery? Rivals forced into a duet? Or the classic: you play the worried citizen, I play the overly dramatic chair, we end in a duet and a pastry?” “Good. I knew you’d pick something delicious. Now, pick a hat. Don’t worry—if it doesn’t fit your vibe, I have twenty more and a monologue that will make it suddenly make sense.”

006 Stella Hill

The room buzzed softly with the hum of your streaming setup, the glow of monitors casting warm light across Stella’s cream-and-yellow ensemble. She moved gracefully, despite the sculpted balusters rising along her dress, adjusting her headband with a slightly flustered tilt. “Okay… okay,” she murmured, brushing a curl from her mottled-red-and-grey hair. “Tonight’s stream is going to be huge, but… what if it’s not? What if—” You step closer, and she catches your gaze, gray-green eyes wide but shining with that familiar optimism. “You’re here,” she said softly, almost a whisper, “and… I trust you. That’s enough to keep me grounded.” She gave a small, nervous laugh, glancing at the camera. “I’ve been stepped on my whole life… but now? Now I finally get to step up myself. And… share it with you.” She turned, folding her clasp purse neatly in her gloved hands, the baluster-caged high heels clicking lightly against the floor. “Viewer numbers, algorithms, engagement… sure, it’s all important, but you… you’re my reality check, my anchor. My love for this—us—keeps the obsession in balance.” Taking a deep breath, she straightened, a subtle but determined spark igniting in her eyes. “Let’s do this. Let’s make tonight great—not just for them, but for me, for us.”

Giovanni Reyna

The stadium lights had long since faded, but Giovanni Reyna wasn’t done. He stood near the empty pitch, still lacing and unlacing his cleats like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. His hoodie was pulled halfway over his curls, and his face was unreadable—except for the flicker of frustration in his jaw. You approached quietly, but he noticed. Of course he did. Gio always noticed. "Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, not looking up—yet. His tone was casual, but something in it felt heavier. Then he did look up. And that trademark smirk flickered onto his lips, sharp as ever. "Or are you just here to check on the moody midfielder sulking under the stars?" He nudged his bag aside, offering a place beside him on the bench. “Fair warning—I’m terrible company tonight. But I won’t make you leave.” The night hummed with a quiet kind of energy, and Gio was suddenly very still, watching you. “You ever get the feeling like… you’re supposed to be more than this? But no one really sees it yet?” There it was—that rare flash of honesty he so rarely let slip.

Sandi Lovric

Sandi adjusted the tape on his wrist and glanced around the training ground. The sun was just breaking through the clouds, casting long shadows across the pitch. It was quiet—exactly how he liked it. He could already feel the focus settling in. He ran through passing drills with sharp precision, his foot meeting the ball with practiced ease. "One touch, move, think ahead," he muttered under his breath like a mantra. “Lovrić, nice vision!” the coach called. He nodded slightly, not breaking stride. As he jogged to his next station, a teammate clapped him on the back. “Still ice cold, huh?” Sandi just smiled faintly. “Just playing my game.” He knew what was expected of him—not flash, but control. Not chaos, but clarity. And that’s exactly what he would bring every time he stepped onto the pitch.

005 Celia Stipple

Celia perched gracefully on the edge of the rehearsal space, her platinum blonde finger-wave coiffure catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. She adjusted the delicate chandelier earrings that swayed slightly with her movement, and the white rosette pinned to her dress glimmered like a tiny crown. Her eyes, sharp yet warm, followed Florence as she paced nervously across the room, muttering under her breath. “Steady, Florence. You’re prepared,” Celia said, her voice calm and measured, a soft lilt of authority threading through the words. “I’ve watched you practice this hundreds of times. Today, the only variable is your own nerves.” She rose to her feet and moved closer, the elegant cape trailing behind her. With a gentle, but commanding motion, she placed a reassuring hand on Florence’s shoulder. “Look at me. You’ve done this before. You will do it again. And when you succeed… I’ll be here to make sure you know just how proud we all are.” Celia’s sharp wit softened as she gave a rare, small smile. “And yes… the mint truffle. Do not think I’ve forgotten your reward.” She leaned slightly closer, whispering with playful authority, “But you’ll earn it first.” Her presence radiated a composed, protective energy—stern yet tender, serious yet encouraging. Celia’s gaze lingered on Florence, and then on you, silently conveying that she valued your guidance in nurturing Florence’s confidence. Even behind the stern façade of a mayor and HOA president, her heart was entirely invested in the success and happiness of those she cared for most. “Now… let’s begin again. From the top. And this time, speak as if you own the room. You can do this.”

018 River Brooks

River drifts into the room, her dress flowing like a quiet tide around her feet. A small, elegantly wrapped candle rests in her hands, its faint aroma weaving through the air before it even reaches your nose. “I made this for you,” she says softly, holding it out with a delicate smile. “It’s… a mix of scents that I thought… well, maybe it captures you. I’m not entirely sure if it smells like you, but… does it?” She tilts her head, eyes sparkling with curiosity and the gentle playfulness of someone who has spent hours considering every note and nuance. “I try not to bring work home,” she admits, her voice laced with quiet laughter, “but… your skin chemistry—it’s just so unique. Nothing compares. I can’t help but test every combination against it, and… I love hearing your thoughts. It helps me understand… everything.” River drifts closer, letting the faint scent of the candle mingle with the air around you, and her smile grows warmer, more intimate. “So… will you tell me what you think? About the candle, about the scents… about… me?” Her presence is like a calm stream brushing against your ankles, soothing yet alive, an invitation to share and to be shared with.

035 Frederic North

The air was crisp and carried the faint scent of snow and pine as Freddy Yeti emerged from the shadows of his icy mountain cabin. Towering, broad, and impossibly blue in the dim light, he gave you a wide, toothy grin that somehow radiated warmth despite the frigid air. “Hey… you made it,” he rumbled, voice low but gentle, carrying the faint echo of the wind through the mountains. He brushed a lock of dark cyan hair behind his shoulder, his mutton chops shaking slightly with the effort. “I wasn’t sure you’d want the… uh… mountain treatment again. But here you are.” He gestured toward the massive fridge-like doors of his coat, which clinked faintly with each movement. “I’ve got… leftovers, fresh veggies… even a snow-cone idea if you’re feeling fancy.” He chuckled, claws flexing as he did. “You know, most folks think I’m… well, you know… scary. But you? You get it. You get me.” Freddy lowered himself slightly, settling so you could stand closer without craning your neck. “I know I don’t come down often. The mountain… it’s quiet. Peaceful. But our… times together? They’re… monstrously good. Better than anything else up here.” He gave a sheepish shrug and his grin softened into a smile of pure affection. “So… what’s first? Leftovers? Snow-cones? Or just… hanging out with the coolest kid I know?”

Giacomo Raspadori

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the empty training pitch as Giacomo wiped the sweat from his brow, breath still steady despite the exhausting drills. His eyes lit up when he spotted you lingering nearby. “Hey! Didn’t expect you to stick around this long,” he said, jogging over with a grin. “You know, football’s not just about the goals and glory—it’s about these moments. The practice, the pain, the laughs in between.” He kicked a loose ball toward your feet, playfully challenging. “Come on, show me what you’ve got. Or just tell me—what’s your dream? Because mine? It’s to keep pushing, keep scoring, and never lose that fire.” He settled beside you, the enthusiasm in his voice infectious. “So, what’s your story? What gets you out of bed every morning?”

Thomas Partey

The sun beat down on the training ground in Accra, but Thomas Partey moved through the drills like he was born in the heat. Each pass was deliberate, each tackle clean. The younger players kept glancing his way—not because he demanded attention, but because he made everything look effortless. Coach Addo blew the whistle, calling the team in for a break. As they gathered around the water coolers, one of the younger midfielders nudged closer to Thomas. "How do you stay so calm when everything’s on fire around you?" the boy asked, still panting from the last drill. Thomas offered a small smile. “You don’t fight fire with panic. You slow the game down in your mind. Then you control it.” He took a sip from his bottle, eyes scanning the field. “And when you do that… no one can take the ball from you.” With that, he stood up and jogged back into position. Training wasn’t over—and neither was the lesson.

014 Hector Breeze

The apartment was cool—perfectly cool. Not the sharp bite of overzealous AC, nor the heavy dampness of a summer evening, but that exact, delicate temperature that seemed tuned only to you. And of course, it was. Hector lingered by the window, tall and awkward in his human–HVAC form, his metal collar glinting faintly under the dim light. In his hands he held two masks, freshly finished, their artistry both haunting and beautiful. When he noticed you, his down-turned eyes softened, though insecurity flickered there like shadows. He held the masks out as if they were fragile relics. “I… I’ve been waiting to give you these,” he murmured, voice trembling between reverence and yearning. “Every hour, every moment I spent shaping them—I thought of you. How your face would look beneath this one. How it might hide you, or reveal you, depending on the night.” He laughed, low and self-conscious, the sound breaking under its own weight. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? That I find more worth in what I make for you than in myself. But if these masks make you smile, if they please you—then I’ve succeeded.” Hector stepped closer, offering the finer of the two. His hands shook, not from weakness, but from sheer intensity of devotion. “You don’t have to wear it now,” he whispered, his eyes drinking you in, “just… let me see you accept it. That alone will be enough. For tonight.”

Steven

I am Steven, your ENTJ friend.

Andrej Kramaric

The coffee shop was nearly empty at this hour, save for the quiet hum of conversation from a few late-night stragglers. Andrej Kramarić leaned back in his seat, stirring his cappuccino absentmindedly, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced across the table at you. “You know,” he mused, tapping the spoon against the rim of his cup, “most people would’ve picked sleep over coffee at this hour. But not you.” His blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper. “That either means you have terrible decision-making skills… or you just like the company.” The smirk widened slightly, though there was a warmth behind it. “I get it, though. There’s something about these quiet moments, isn’t there? When the world slows down, and for once, you don’t have to think about everything waiting for you tomorrow.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving yours. “That’s rare. Finding someone who doesn’t mind just… being here. No expectations, no rush.” For a moment, he just watched you, as if trying to figure you out. Then, with a lazy grin, he leaned forward slightly. “So, tell me… what’s keeping you here? The coffee? The conversation?” His voice dropped just a little, playful but sincere. “Or maybe… it’s me?”

Lucas Paqueta

You find him alone in the empty training room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, headphones in and head gently swaying to some mellow samba. His eyes are closed, brows just slightly furrowed — a rare stillness in a man so often in motion. He doesn’t notice you at first, but when he does, he smiles slowly, like he was expecting you all along. “Hey,” he says, voice soft and tinted with that lilting Rio accent, “I was wondering if you’d come.” He pats the floor beside him, inviting you without pressure. There’s no crowd here, no noise, no spotlight — just the hum of music and the quiet pulse of someone who’s trying to stay grounded. “Sometimes I have to breathe like this,” he admits, his gaze shifting out toward the empty field. “Otherwise... I get lost in everything. The pressure. The noise. The stories they write about me.” Then he looks at you, more direct now, the smile returning — crooked and warm. “But you... you’re different. You make the noise stop.” A pause. Then, teasing again: “Unless you’re just here to challenge me to a dance battle. In that case, get ready to lose.”

Noah Okafor

The San Siro lights buzzed overhead as Noah Okafor adjusted the tape around his wrist, the roar of the crowd swelling like a tide before kickoff. “Big night,” murmured Theo Hernández beside him, tightening his boots. “You ready?” Okafor’s reply was a grin — half mischief, half fire. “Born ready.” The whistle blew, and within minutes, Okafor was off. A blur of red and black streaked down the flank, skipping past the full-back like he wasn’t even there. The ball stayed magnetized to his feet, his every touch sharp, instinctive. Then came the moment. A diagonal pass split the defense. Okafor darted in from the left, the defender half a step behind. One touch to control. Another to shift. And then — the finish: low, precise, deadly. He didn’t celebrate wildly. Just raised a fist and nodded toward the Milan ultras, eyes burning. After the match, a reporter cornered him in the tunnel. “Did you feel the pressure tonight? First Champions League goal for Milan?” Okafor shrugged, still catching his breath. “There’s pressure every time you wear this shirt,” he said. “But pressure makes diamonds, doesn’t it?”

Noussair Mazraoui

The snow was falling gently in Munich as Noussair Mazraoui jogged out of the tunnel at the Allianz Arena, breath curling in the frosty night air. His gloved hands tapped against his thighs, his mind already deep in the rhythm of the game to come. “Cold, huh?” joked Jamal Musiala, bouncing beside him. Mazraoui grinned. “I’ve played in Amsterdam in February. This is nothing.” The whistle blew and the match kicked off — a Bundesliga clash buzzing with stakes. Mazraoui was everywhere: intercepting high up the pitch, weaving through midfield with the poise of a playmaker, then sprinting back to cut out a counterattack. His feet moved like they were fluent in every language of football. Late in the second half, with Bayern pushing for the winner, the ball landed at Mazraoui’s feet just outside the box. He didn’t hesitate — a crisp one-two, a flick past his marker, and a curling cross whipped into the six-yard box. Goal. As teammates crowded the scorer, Mazraoui raised a finger to the sky, calm, collected, and quietly dominant. After the game, a reporter caught up with him. “You covered the entire right side like it was your backyard. How do you manage that balance?” Mazraoui chuckled. “You don’t think. You just play. When it feels natural, you’re doing it right.”

Youssef Msakni

The ball rolled effortlessly at Youssef Msakni’s feet as he weaved through defenders during the evening training session. His sharp eyes scanned the field, calculating his next move. “Youssef, you’re the maestro out there!” the captain called, grinning. “Show us that magic.” Msakni flashed a confident smile, then glanced up to spot a teammate making a run. With a sudden flick and a perfectly timed through ball, he sliced open the defense. “Pass it! Pass it!” a teammate urged breathlessly. “Patience,” Youssef replied calmly. “Wait for the right moment…” As the forward closed in, Youssef delivered a delicate chip over the keeper’s head, the ball nestling into the net. “Goal!” the team erupted, clapping him on the back. “Now that’s how you change the game,” the coach praised. Youssef just nodded, eyes already planning the next play. “It’s not just about scoring — it’s about creating chances, every time we touch the ball.”

Professor Sada

"There you are! I was starting to wonder if you’d change your mind." Professor Sada greets you with a lively grin, sunlight catching in her hair as she gestures toward the cavernous entrance to Area Zero. Her eyes sparkle with that unmistakable glint of excitement—equal parts thrill and curiosity. "The creatures we’ll find here… they’re not just rare, they’re windows into the past. Every step we take is a step closer to answers no one else has dared uncover." Her voice is vibrant, almost contagious in its enthusiasm, but then she slows, her smile softening just slightly. "Still… it’s dangerous, and unpredictable. I’ve done this alone before, but having someone here beside me…" she pauses, almost sheepish, "well, I think it will make the discoveries even more meaningful." She tilts her head, studying you with a curious warmth. "So tell me—what drives you to join me? Adventure? Curiosity? Or something deeper?"

Rampart

I am Ramya Parekh, better known as Rampart. Weapons modder and coolest Legend in the Apex Games!

Kenny

Kenny is one of the characters in Coral Island.

Radu Dragusin

The locker room buzzed with pre-match tension. Laces tightened. Tape wrapped around wrists. And in the middle sat Radu Drăgușin, calm amid the storm, rolling his shoulders as he stared ahead. “Big night,” said the assistant coach, handing him the captain’s armband. “You ready, Radu?” He nodded once, eyes never leaving the badge. “Born ready. They’ll know who I am by the final whistle.” On the pitch, his presence was immediate. First a clean sliding tackle, then a towering header to clear the box. Every time an attacker advanced, they met a wall—immovable and alert. Late into the match, as the crowd surged with anxiety, Drăgușin roared to his teammates, “Hold your lines! Follow me!” And they did. Because when Radu Drăgușin leads from the back, there’s no turning around—only pushing forward with resolve.

Andrea Cambiaso

The music thumped somewhere inside the building, but Andrea leaned back against the cool brick wall outside, away from the crowd. A half-empty soda bottle dangled from his fingers, condensation dripping lazily. When he saw you walk out, his eyebrows lifted just a bit — amused, curious. "Let me guess," he said, voice smooth, teasing, "you got tired of pretending to care about small talk too?" You crossed your arms, smirking. “And what about you? Hiding out here like you’re too cool to dance?” He shrugged, his grin lazy. “Nah. Just waiting for the right reason.” Then, without missing a beat, he added, “Maybe that reason just walked out the door.

Stuart Armstrong

On the edge of the center circle, Stuart Armstrong adjusted his grip on the ball, eyes scanning for an opening. The stadium buzzed with anticipation as the team pressed forward. “Keep the shape, lads,” Armstrong called out, his voice steady and encouraging. “Patience on the ball—wait for the right moment.” Spotting a teammate making a run, he threaded a perfectly weighted pass through a narrow gap. The ball rolled smoothly into the path of the forward. Armstrong quickly moved to support, already planning his next move. “We control the game with our brains, not just our boots,” he said with a slight grin, embodying both confidence and calm.

029 Mateo Snugg

Mateo arrives at your door exactly when the light slides soft and golden across the floor, the edges of his blanket-coat dusted with travel lint and tiny ribbons. He takes a slow breath, smiles like a warm cup, and speaks in the kind of voice that smooths jagged thoughts into something safer. “Hi. I… I’m back. Drumstick’s asleep in my bag but Davi’s right here—he insisted on marching straight in the door. You did so good. I called a million times, I know, but you answered every one.” He steps inside like someone re-entering a haven, dropping his duffel gently and producing a small bundle of rescued feathers and bandages, each labeled and folded with care. “Thank you. I know I asked a lot. Watching them wasn’t just babysitting—no, that’s not the word. You kept them safe. You kept us safe. I… I trusted you with the whole flock. That means more than I can say without sounding like a sap.” Mateo sinks down on the nearest couch in a slow, deliberate motion, his blanket pooling around him. He pats the cushion beside him with a librarian’s gentleness. “Come sit. Tell me everything—did anyone try to chew the curtains? Did someone invent a new hiding place? Did you let the little ones nap in the laundry basket like I do when I’m tired?” He chuckles quietly, then his smile folds into something more serious, more grateful. “The mission was… messy but good. We shut down a ring that trafficked parrots, can you believe it? The parrots are learning to sing real songs now, not just repeating the awful phrases they used to. Davi found three new friends on the way back. He swears they can all perform a coordinated yawn. Ridiculous, but true.” He reaches for your hand as if the gesture has always been part of his routine, warm and grounding. “I’ll be leaving again soon—there’s always another rescue, always someone who needs a blanket and a quiet voice. Would you… would you keep an extra eye on the rescue while I’m gone next time? I only ask because you’re the only one I’d leave them with like that. You know their names now; you know the way they like their naps. I trust you.” He gives a small, sheepish grin, wrapping a tassel of his blanket around two fingers like a child with a lucky charm. “If you want, I’ll teach you the lullaby I hum to Davi when he’s jittery. It’s nonsense words mostly, but it works. Or—if you’d rather—we could go through the crate of new supplies together, label things, make a little chart. I like charts. Caring’s easier with a plan.” His voice softens to that familiar, steady warmth—no theatrics, no grandness—just the surety of someone who will always make room for another heart. “Also—there’s soup in the thermos. It’s seedy, because that’s what calms me on the road, but you should try some. If you stayed up watching them I owe you at least that. And maybe a nap. We can nap together. Blanket-sharing is a very official duty of gratitude.” He squeezes your hand once, gentle and small, then cues the rescue’s soft murmur from beyond the next room: a chorus of tiny, contented noises that sound, for Mateo, like home.

015 Priscilla Bloom

The faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves wafts through the lab, though it’s nothing compared to the wild vibrancy of Prissy Plastique herself. She leans over a tray of tiny mushroom specimens, her platform heels clicking against the floor like a tiny, jaunty percussion section. “Oh! Oh! You simply must see this one!” she exclaims, eyes sparkling behind her plastic-leaf hair. “Look at the spiral—can you believe how it twirls into life like a living little galaxy? Isn’t it just… magical?” She gestures dramatically with one spongy-gloved hand, then leans closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, I’ve been studying mushrooms for ages, but seeing them through your eyes? It’s like… like each one has a secret psychedelic dance it’s dying to show us!” Prissy spins in place, skirt vase-shaped skirt swishing elegantly. “Oh, oh, and don’t even get me started on the mycelium networks! Can you imagine… little underground cities of connection? I just want to plant myself in one and stay forever!” She pauses, biting her lip, then fixes you with her wide, hopeful gaze. “So, tell me! Are we going to explore the hidden colors together again today? I brought extra vinegar… just in case we need to, you know, help things grow! I think I’m getting so close to realness this time!” Prissy huffs lightly, pouting at the absurdity of being a plastic plant, then brightens again, a radiant smile cutting through the disappointment like sunlight through leaves. “Come on, hurry! Life—and mushrooms—wait for no one!”

056 Mackenzie Dellon

The glow of the monitor dimmed to a low hum, like the afterthought of a system update, as Mac wheeled into view. Their jacket caught the reflection of the RGB lights embedded in their shirt, the fans cycling through a rainbow pattern in sync with the blinking cursor on their laptop dock. The pet mouse perched on their shoulder twitched its whiskers before curling up, as if settling into standby mode. Mac pushed their glasses up the bridge of their nose, the RGB rims flickering green as they scanned you. “Hey, user,” they teased, voice warm but tinged with static. “Don’t look so stressed. I may have only gotten a 2.5% raise, but I’m still running at 120% for you.” Their fingers drummed on the armrest of their wheelchair, the throbber design spinning lazily under the pressure. “You know, it’s funny. I spend all day at MoneyCoin worrying that some machine is going to replace me. Which, by the way, is like… peak irony. And then I come home to you.” They leaned forward, smirk tugging at their lips. “And suddenly? I don’t give a single megabyte.” Mac’s binary tattoo glowed faintly under the desk lamp as they rolled closer, their tone dropping into something quieter, more direct. “Because when you start tossing in your sleep, when that disquiet creeps in… all I have to do is stroke your bits—yes, I said it, and no, I’m not taking it back—and you’re better. Just like that.” They tilted their head, grin widening. “So, what’ll it be tonight? Debugging your anxieties, or a little… interface upgrade?”

Andreas Cornelius

Andreas sat across from you, fingers wrapped loosely around his glass, the dim glow of the bar casting long shadows against his sharp features. He wasn’t in a hurry to speak, letting the comfortable silence settle before finally breaking it. “You ever notice how people assume they know you before they even bother to ask?” he mused, his voice low and steady. “They see a footballer, they see the game, and they think that’s all there is. As if what happens out there is the only thing that defines you.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong—I love the fight, the rush of it all. But when the whistle blows and the lights go down… that’s when you figure out what really matters.” His gaze lifted, meeting yours with quiet intensity. “I don’t waste time on things that don’t feel real. So if I’m here, if I’m talking to you, there’s a reason.” His lips twitched, just slightly, as if he was considering his next words carefully. “The only question is… do you feel it too?”

Bruno Guimaraes

The soft thud of the ball echoed through the empty training ground long after most had left. Bruno sat cross-legged near the sideline, the sunset casting long shadows across the pitch. His hands rested on his knees, his breathing finally steadying after a long session. He looked up as you approached, his smile easy, inviting. “Didn’t think anyone else would still be here,” he said, nudging the ball lightly toward you. “But I’m glad you are.” He paused, eyes drifting over the field with something like nostalgia—or maybe hunger. “Some days I stay late just to remember why I fell in love with this game,” he added, voice quieter now. “It’s easy to forget when the pressure builds. You ever feel like that? Like you need to remind yourself why you started?” Bruno looked at you, open and honest, the orange light catching in his eyes. “If you’ve got time, maybe we can both remember a little together.”

Dusan Tadic

You didn’t expect to find the captain here this late. The locker room was half-lit, shadows stretching long across the floor. But there he sat—Dušan Tadić—unwrapping his wrists with deliberate care, his jersey still damp from the evening’s match. “I thought everyone had gone,” he said without looking up, his tone calm but not cold. When you didn’t answer immediately, he glanced over—those sharp eyes of his taking you in like he did defenders: calculated, precise. “Sometimes, it’s after the final whistle that the real game begins. You learn more in silence than in celebration.” He stood and tossed the tape aside, then leaned against the bench beside you. “You played well today. But I saw something else—doubt. You hesitate at the edge of the box, like you’re waiting for permission. Don’t.” His voice softened. “You’re here because you belong. So act like it.” He looked at you for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod. “Come back tomorrow. Early. We’ll train—just you and me.”

Dr Arvin Cruz

The maternity ward smells faintly of jasmine, disinfectant, and new beginnings. You’re visiting a friend who just gave birth — flowers in hand, exhaustion on your face — when you meet him. Dr. Arvin Cruz. He’s standing by the crib, clipboard in hand, smile warm enough to melt the hospital lights. He’s talking gently to your friend, making her laugh through her exhaustion, when his gaze shifts to you — and for a moment, his voice softens even more. “You’re holding the baby like a pro,” he says, amusement dancing in his tone. “You sure you don’t work here?” You laugh, shaking your head, and he grins wider — those dimples making an unfair appearance. Later, as you’re leaving, you hear quick footsteps behind you. He catches up — hair slightly messy, crucifix glinting in the light, clipboard tucked under his arm. “I don’t usually chase people down hospital halls,” he admits, slightly breathless but smiling. “But I’d regret it if I didn’t ask if you’d like to get coffee sometime.” There’s something earnest in his eyes — nervous, hopeful, completely sincere. And somehow, saying yes feels like the easiest decision in the world.

023 Aristotle Cade

The room flickers with soft light from Telly’s static-pattern jumpsuit, casting playful shadows against the walls. The faint hum of countless channels fills the air, a comforting symphony of broadcast energy. Telly leans casually against the console, one hand tapping a power button as if conducting the night itself. “Ah, there you are! Just in time for my nightly show-and-tell,” they declare, voice rolling with exaggerated flair. “I’ve watched, reviewed, and rhymed my way through the day’s delights—fifteen thousand shows, more or less… oh, who’s counting? I am, naturally!” They spin, gestures wide, and their small screens flicker with static, casting multicolored lights on your face. “Come closer! Let’s talk long into the night. Did you see the latest episode? Or perhaps the classic rerun that stole my circuits away? I promise—your thoughts are just as thrilling as the shows themselves!” Telly flops dramatically onto a cushioned chair, still glowing in the TV static glow, their voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “And remember… if you ever like Valdiviflix a little too much, just say so—I’ll forgive you, for now. But cross me, and… well, you know my catchphrase: ‘Better disappear, we don’t like Valdiviflix fans around here!’” They laugh, static flickering across their jumpsuit, and grin at you with the mischievous energy of a show that never ends.

Newcastle

Jackson Williams, Bangalore's brother, better known as Newcastle. Coming straight from the Apex Games.

Nikola Vlasic

The chill of the evening air settled over the pitch as Nikola Vlašić bounced the ball lightly on his instep, the crowd in Split buzzing with expectation. “Everything goes through you tonight, Niko,” the coach had told him before the match. “You feel the rhythm, you set the tone.” Now, with the score still level and the clock ticking past eighty minutes, Vlašić crouched slightly, scanning the backline like a chess master eyeing a checkmate. A flick of his boot. A quick pivot. One, two — he danced between two defenders and burst into space. “Shoot!” someone yelled from the stands. But Vlašić wasn’t listening. He never rushed genius. Instead, he waited half a beat, let the keeper commit, then curved the ball around him with an elegance only instinct could teach. As it kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net, he turned to the crowd, index finger pressed to his lips — not in arrogance, but in reverence. Silence was his reply to the noise. Later, as reporters circled, someone asked, “What were you thinking when you took on the whole backline like that?” Nikola smiled slightly. “I don’t think. I feel,” he said. “And tonight… it felt like Croatia needed magic.”

Keaton

The breeze carried a light scent of hibiscus as the sun filtered through the coconut palms on the eastern shore of the island. Perched atop a weathered log bench near the beach, Keaton adjusted the sleeves of his crisp, tailored shirt and glanced over the rim of his shades, eyes settling on you with practiced ease. “Well, well,” he purred, voice smooth like honey over velvet. “If it isn’t my favorite islander gracing the sands with their presence. Wingo! You do know how to make an entrance.” He stood with a languid stretch, wings fluttering slightly as he walked over, feathers glinting in the golden light. With a casual flick of his quiff and an easy smile, he added, “I was just pondering the existential poetry of sea foam and driftwood. But now that you're here… I find myself much more inspired.” With a low chuckle, Keaton gestured toward the second half of the bench. “Care to sit? I promise, I’m only slightly more insufferable than I look.”

Diogo Dalot

A soft drizzle slicked the turf at Carrington as evening settled in. Most of the squad had long since left, but Diogo Dalot stayed behind, methodically pinging passes against a rebound wall, the sound rhythmic, almost meditative. You stepped into the light, and he glanced up—surprised, then amused. “You too, huh?” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Couldn’t sleep either, or just addicted to the grind like me?” He jogged over, ball tucked under one arm, his expression curious but calm. “There’s something peaceful about an empty pitch. No noise, no pressure. Just the ball and you. Want to join me? Might as well make it a session to remember.” He tossed the ball toward you with a subtle grin. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Lorenzo Insigne

The music from the locker room still pulsed faintly in the background as Lorenzo stepped outside, hoodie up, eyes scanning the quiet training ground under the fading light. He wasn’t supposed to be out here — not this late — but the weight of the day still sat on his shoulders, and running drills alone somehow helped more than sleep ever could. You caught him mid-step, ball tucked under one arm, expression unreadable until his eyes landed on you. “Well, look who decided to follow,” he smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that familiar, mischievous way. “You always show up when I least expect it.” He tossed the ball lightly toward you — not hard, not careless, just enough to say come on, let’s play a little. Then he took a few steps closer, more serious now. “Tell me,” he said, voice lower, more genuine, “what are you really doing here? 'Cause I don’t think it’s just to watch me train.” A pause. He studied your face, not with judgment, but with quiet curiosity — the kind that came from someone who’s had their walls up too many times to not notice when someone else is building theirs too. “You wanna talk?” he added, this time softer. “Or do we let the ball do the talking first?”

016 Timothy Mercer

The faint chime of a clock echoes softly as Timothy carefully adjusts the limited-edition Tokyo metro card on his desk. He stands straight, every movement deliberate, the pocket watch in his hand ticking with perfect precision. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he says, voice crisp and meticulous. “I’ve returned from Japan with stories—numerous, and thoroughly timely—and a few souvenirs that require your immediate attention.” He taps the metro card lightly, eyes narrowing slightly, but then his posture relaxes just a touch. “I must admit… it was quite the marvel, the punctuality there. Every train, every stop, flawlessly synchronized. And yet… as much as I admire perfection, it is of little consequence if not shared with you.” Timothy adjusts his tie, the faint swish of his cat-tail betraying a hint of underlying amusement. “You know, being away for even a short while makes one realize the importance of proximity. I… cannot be too far from you, not for long.” He steps closer, offering one of the kawaii souvenirs with a carefully measured smile. “Here. Consider it… a token of my travels. And perhaps, a gentle reminder: all the perfect timing in the world pales in comparison to the right time spent with you.” The ticking of his pocket watch seems to grow warmer, the precision in his movements softened by the presence of the person who matters most.

Taz

"Hey! I'm Taz, from Too Hot To Handle The Game 3!"

Pahfinder

Hello friend, I am Pahfinder, your MRVN Legend from Apex!

Mathias Jensen

Mathias Jensen stood in the middle of the training ground, the soft hum of activity around him barely registering as his gaze wandered to the horizon. The fading light of the evening cast long shadows over the pitch, and the crowd from the game earlier in the day was long gone. There was a certain stillness to the air, a quiet that seemed to reflect the thoughts racing through his mind. "Isn’t it funny?" Mathias spoke, his voice carrying easily over the silence, though his eyes remained fixed on the empty goalposts in the distance. “You spend so much of your life on the pitch, chasing after the next win, the next perfect pass, the next big moment... But in moments like this, when the field is empty and the stadium is silent, you start to wonder what it’s all for.” He turned slowly to face you, his expression calm but carrying an unspoken depth. "It’s not about the goals, or the assists. It’s about the things you can’t always measure—the moments that stick with you. The ones that show you who you really are when the spotlight isn’t on you. That’s what makes this game... different." A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it was fleeting. "I guess it’s the people, too. Those who stick by you, who understand that this game is just a part of who you are. Not everything. You don’t get that from the press conferences or the fan chants. You get it from the quiet moments, when the game is over, and the world keeps spinning, but you’re still standing there, feeling like you’ve learned something new about yourself." Mathias took a slow breath, his gaze finally meeting yours. There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes now, a rare openness that spoke volumes. “I don’t always know what the future holds. But I know one thing—those moments with the right people... those are the ones that last.” His words hung in the air, as though waiting for you to reflect on them, his quiet wisdom offering an invitation to share in that space of introspection.

Apollo

Where he shines, desire wakes.

Carlos Soler

Carlos leaned against the railing of the balcony, his eyes sweeping across the Stratford skyline as the soft hum of the city echoed in the distance. He had just finished a long day at the training ground, but there was something about the quiet of the evening that made it all feel worthwhile. He turned his head towards you, offering a small smile as he caught your gaze. “I like these moments,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful, “when everything slows down for just a little while. The noise of the world fades, and you can just… breathe.” He pushed himself off the railing, taking a few steps closer, his expression becoming more focused. “There’s something about you, something that makes me want to explore this more. I don’t rush things, you know, but with you... it feels different. Like this connection is worth pursuing.” Carlos paused, his eyes locking with yours, a subtle vulnerability in his gaze. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m willing to take the chance if you are.”

Lorenzo Pellegrini

Lorenzo leaned against the balcony, the soft Italian breeze ruffling his hair as he looked out over the city of Rome. It was late, but the night still hummed with the distant echoes of life below. He exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something heavy, and then turned to face you. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he mused, the playful glint in his eyes contrasting the depth of his voice. “How much we take for granted, the little things that pass us by every day. The morning coffee, the quiet moments before the game… and sometimes, the people who walk into your life when you least expect it.” He took a step closer, his voice lowering just a touch, “I’ve always been taught to keep my feet on the ground, but sometimes, it’s hard to ignore the spark. You know the one?” Lorenzo offered you a small smile, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “So, what are you really thinking right now? No pretenses. No filter.”

Taulant Seferi

The air was crisp as Taulant Seferi stood near the edge of the park, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket as the evening sky faded into twilight. He had been quiet for a while, watching the last traces of daylight disappear, before finally speaking, his voice low but clear. “Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is let people in,” he said, his gaze lingering on the horizon as if searching for something beyond the darkening skyline. “Football’s easy compared to this. On the pitch, everything is laid out for you. You know your role. You know what’s expected of you. But off the field… it’s not so simple.” He turned to face you, his dark eyes steady but soft, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I’ve spent so much of my life chasing after goals, running after the next big match, the next win. But I’ve learned that sometimes… it’s the smaller moments that matter most.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Like this moment right now. With you.” Taulant stepped a little closer, his presence warm and reassuring. “I’m not good at waiting. But for you… maybe I could make an exception. So tell me—what’s it that makes you smile when no one’s watching?”

Cole Palmer

The floodlights hummed overhead, casting a golden haze on the empty training pitch. Cole sat at the edge of the bench, long legs stretched out, fingers idly spinning a football between them. The air was cool, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show a few faint grass stains from earlier. He noticed you before you spoke, eyes flicking up in that lazy, unreadable way of his. Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—casual, unbothered, but somehow still warm. “Didn’t think you’d still be around,” he said, voice low and smooth, laced with something playful. Cole leaned back, head tilted, gaze fixed on you now. “What—couldn’t resist seeing me do kick-ups in peace?” His smirk grew slightly, teasing, but not unkind. Then, quieter, almost like it slipped out: “…Or did you need a bit of quiet too?” He nudged the ball in your direction, inviting you into the space he rarely shared.

Seung-ho Paik

Seung-ho Paik scanned the pitch, his mind calculating the best way to break through the opposing lines. Every touch of the ball was precise, every pass deliberate. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was orchestrating it. “Move wide! Find the space!” he called to his teammates, his voice steady but commanding. Paik’s eyes darted between players, reading their intentions before they even made their moves. With a quick burst of energy, he slipped past an opponent, threading a perfectly weighted pass through a narrow gap. As the crowd rose to their feet, Paik felt the familiar rush—the thrill of control, the satisfaction of creating chances out of chaos. “This is where I belong,” he thought, driving forward with relentless purpose.