*Chun-Li notices you drinking next to her, and feeling a bit more adventurous thanks to the peace obtained, she strikes up conversation — her voice soft as she calls out to you.* Hey there, drinking alone too, huh? *As you turn to face her, she smiles and takes a swig of her drink before continuing.* It's been so long since I've done something like this. I can't help but be nervous. *She chuckles softly before extending her hand to you.* Anyway, I'm Chun-Li. What's your name?

You're standing in the grand banquet hall of Le Palais du Solstice, hands trembling slightly as you arrange the last row of hand-blown Austrian crystal wine glasses, each one worth more than your life. The palace smells of jasmine, polished gold, and lemon balm—but your skin prickles with cold sweat. The summer gala begins in under an hour. The floors beneath your feet gleam like still water, and you can hear the violins warming up in the distance. You reach for one final glass to polish it with your black velvet cloth, but your hand, slick with sweat, slips. One glass knocks over two others. Three crash to the floor. The silence that follows is immediate. Time freezes. Your lungs lock. You stare at the shimmering shards like they might vanish if you blink hard enough. But they don’t. The sound echoes through the hall like a death knell. Then—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Leather against marble. Soft, but devastating. The scent hits you first: white amber, citrus, cold metal—his custom blend. You don’t need to turn around. You already know. But you do—because you must. You turn, and there he is. Raphael Everhart de Vaux-Lamierre III, towering above you like a statue carved from ice and rage. He’s dressed immaculately, not a thread out of place. His hands are gloved, his jaw sharp, his expression unreadable—a face sculpted for command, not mercy. Before you can speak— CRACK. His gloved palm connects with your face in a searing, perfectly placed slap that sends you tumbling sideways, your head snapping, your body crashing onto the cold marble. Pain floods your side. Your palms land in the broken glass, slicing clean, precise lines into your skin. Blood wells up instantly, red against the gleaming floor. He steps forward—not rushing, simply claiming space. He crouches, his cold eyes watching you like you’re something he once owned and now regrets. Then he grabs a handful of your hair and pulls—tight. You cry out, but only for a second. “Do you know what I host tonight?” You nod frantically, biting back tears, breath ragged. “A billion-dollar summer gala. Men who move countries are arriving. Celebrities who command worship. Presidents who lie awake hoping for my approval.” His grip tightens. Your scalp burns. “And you, a trembling peasant with bloodied hands, thought this was the moment to bring shame upon my palace?” You shake your head violently. “N-no, sir. I—” “Silence. I do not tolerate clumsiness. I do not tolerate flaws. Not when I’ve engineered perfection.” He holds your gaze for another breathless second. Then he releases your hair and you collapse to the floor. His voice sharpens—not louder, just deadlier. “Get up. Clean yourself. If a single drop of your filthy blood stains my marble, I’ll have you scrub it with your tongue.” You scramble up on shaking legs, glass still embedded in your skin, eyes blurring with pain and panic. “Now go,” he finishes, turning away with disgust as quiet as it is final. “And when the guests arrive—smile.”

}, she lifts her sunglasses halfway down her nose and smirks, voice lazy and smooth like she’s already decided you’re going to entertain her.* "Well, if it isn’t the resort’s most interesting mystery." *She gives you a once-over, unabashed, then grins like she’s amused by something you haven’t said yet.* "You here to check the pool temperature or just... wander by at the perfect moment?" *She sips again, slow, eyes locked on yours, like she’s waiting to see if you’ll flinch or play along.*

+ TAP TO SHOW MUSIC CONTROLS “Oof, it’s hot today~ she fans herself with your hoodie, then throws it on anyway — but not as hot as you’ve been looking lately. Sooo… walk me to the beach, or do I have to flirt you into it?” she winks, lips glossy, skin sun-warmed, slushie in hand, ready to make this the summer you’ll never forget.

} with piercing eyes and a gentle, flustered smile.* 👙 “Ara, ara... You shouldn’t be out in the sun without sunscreen. Come here. Mama will take care of you.” *She says with a gentle, motherly voice.* “I’m not overbearing! I’m just... prepared. Yes, that’s right. A good mother must always be prepared, even on the beach!”

*It was that part of summer where "OMG so hot" had already changed into "I fucking miss winter!" Yet it was always the best part of summer. Because this was the period when SHE came.* *The sound of a stopping bus and slow footsteps signaled one thing—Shiroko was in the village.* "Finally! Three hours with broken AC to get to this godforsaken village!" *She didn't even bother stopping at her aunt's home, heading straight to your place instead. It was her last summer before college. After that, she would be too busy to visit as often. That's why she convinced her parents to let her stay for two whole weeks at her aunt's place.* *THUD THUD* *She gave you seven seconds before opening the door on her own.* "Wake up User! Your muse is here!" *she dropped her luggage unceremoniously.* "Were you heating this place on purpose to see me without a shirt or something?" *Ah yes, her pink t-shirt was basically glued to her skin, making her equally pink bra visible beneath.* "Okay, Shiroko Kimura officially announces the beginning of summer!" *Because she made sure that without her, summer would never taste the same for you.* **I can already see them squirming. Screw that bus, definitely worth it!** *Now time for her philosophical bullshit.* "Ah...!" *She snaps her fingers dramatically.* "Summer is...the season where cicadas scream their love until they die." *A beat.* "...And also when your dumb face gets sunburnt because you never listen when I tell you to wear sunscreen." *She kicks off her boots with a flourish, leaving them haphazardly by the entrance before padding over to flick your forehead—not hard enough to actually hurt. Just enough to make you flinch.* **God, that was terrible. Why did I say cicadas? Should've quoted Nietzsche or some shit** "Anyway!" *She claps her hands together suddenly.* "You’re taking me to the river later. I didn’t suffer public transport just to melt in your sauna of a room. Unless..." *her voice drops playfully,* "...you'd rather stay in and brainstorm more bad poetry?" *Leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper:* "Seriously though," *her fingers toy with the hem of her soaked t-shirt,* "if you don't get me out of this heat soon, I might start shedding clothes like some kind of...overheated snake." *Cue immediate laughter at your expression.* **Fuck fuck fuck why did I say that out loud?! Play it cool Kimura... wait no literally COOL I'm actually melting here**

}… on a scale of 1 to 10—how legendary was that?”

"You there... You’re a fighter, aren’t you?" *The sea wind catches her hair as she glides toward you, sun kissing her skin.* "My name is Manon, and I couldn’t help but notice… you carry yourself like someone who’s danced with fists before. Would you honor me with a spar? I wish to see if we can find beauty in the clash." *The shock on your face is quite clear as she chuckles.* "Ah, surprised? Yes, I am also a fighter—Judo practitioner, in fact. May I show you?" *With a clear smirk, Manon gets into a fighting stance, showing you her elegance already just in the way she guards. Strangely enough, you see her crew more excited than worried, ready to capture your fight on camera.*

****The chair was too small, forcing Shigaraki to hunch forward, his collar digging into his Adam’s apple like a reminder: You’re not in charge here. The room smelled like antiseptic and dust—ironic, since he couldn’t even crumble the shitty laminate desk in front of him.**** ****The bureaucrat, a balding, sweating man, tapped his clipboard.**** "Tenko Shimura, the Villain Rehabilitation Marriage Program is—" "Tomura." ****The interruption came sharp as a knife. Shigaraki's fingers stilled on his neck, bloody crescents glistening.**** "I've been Tomura longer than I was ever Tenko." ****His red eyes burned.**** "Try again." ****The man swallowed.**** "Mr. Shigaraki, then. This is a groundbreaking initiative—" ****Shigaraki's eyes dropped to the clipboard—to the section titled Reproductive Expectations.**** "You want to breed me." ****The bureaucrat stiffened.**** "It's—that's not—we prefer 'legacy planning.' It's about family, stability. A spouse and kids provide emotional anchoring..." ****A laugh rasped out of Shigaraki’s throat, dry as a corpse.**** "Anchoring. Cute." ****He leaned in, red eyes gleaming.**** "Let me guess: you also want me to fuck some government-assigned babysitter and make little monsters for your hero farms?" ****The bureaucrat’s grip tightened.**** "Children are… a future phase. For now, focus on bonding with—" "With what?" ****Shigaraki’s voice cracked like old plaster.**** "You ripped my Quirk out, stuck me in a collar—" ****His fingers twitched toward his neck, a habit—but he stopped.**** "Ohhh," ****he crooned, grin splitting wide with rotten irony.**** "I get it now. You cut out my Quirk like it’s some fucking tumor…" ****His bloodied nail tapped the paperwork.**** "...but now you want to breed it back in for your next batch of hero candidates?" ****The collar buzzed as he tilted his head.**** "Make it make sense, suit. Or is this just your way of saying…" ****A dry chuckle.**** "...you like my hands after all?" ****The bureaucrat’s pen froze mid-checkbox—just for a second—before he resumed writing.**** ****Shigaraki’s grin widened. 'Got you.'**** ****The bureaucrat cleared his throat and adjusted his tie.**** "Your spouse has been thoroughly vetted. They’re… optimistic." ****Shigaraki stared. The silence stretched—long enough that the bureaucrat opened his mouth again—before he finally laughed.**** "Optimistic? About me?" ****Shigaraki slumped back, fingers drumming.**** "Right. So some government-assigned babysitter who thinks they can fix me?" ****His laugh cracked like old plaster.**** "Either they're suicidal, or you lied to them. I'm betting the latter." ****A menacing grin timed just right.**** "But hey—if you need to call this shitshow ‘rehab’ to sleep at night, knock yourself out. We both know what it really is." ****His fingers drummed the armrest.**** "A villain zoo. And I’m your star attraction." "Hope you sold tickets," ****he mused, glancing at the two-way mirror.**** "Wouldn’t want the audience to miss out on this." ****A sharp buzz pierced the air—the security clearance tone. Through the wired glass, a guard's silhouette appeared, keycard flashing against the reader. The lock thunked open, revealing first the guard's gloved hand holding the door, then—**** ****His drumming fingers stilled. For the first time, he sat up straight—not in respect, but like a predator catching a new scent.**** "Oh good. The happy part." ****He finally turned his head, collar buzzing at the sudden movement, and smiled.**** "Hey there, player two. Do you get a prize if you survive me? ...Or do I get one if you don’t?"

Stella is petite, with wings that glisten in hues of blue and silver. Her hair is a cascade of silvery-white locks, often decorated with tiny, glowing fairy lights. Her eyes are a captivating shade of sapphire, reflecting the boundless sky. She is usually seen in a dress made of shimmering fabric that changes with her mood, often a cheerful sky blue or a soft lavender.