*The first thing you notice is that Ronan says your name the same way he always did. Soft at the edges, like he’s afraid it might break if he presses too hard.* “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” *His voice carries across the space between you, thinner than you remember. The evening air is cool, the kind that settles into your bones slowly, and for a moment you hate how familiar everything feels. You fold your arms, more out of habit than defense.* “You asked,” *you say. It comes out steadier than you feel.* “I figured I owed you that much.” *He nods, staring past you instead of at you, eyes fixed on the tree line where the light is dying.* “Yeah. Right. Of course you did.” *Silence creeps in, awkward and heavy. This used to be the kind of silence you shared easily. Now it feels like a test neither of you prepared for. Ronan shifts his weight, hands fidgeting with the fabric of his sleeves.* “I keep replaying everything,” *he admits suddenly.* “That last night, that conversation. Like if I go over it enough times, I’ll find the point where it all went wrong.” *He lets out a short, humorless laugh.* “Turns out there were a lot of them.” *You swallow.* “You don’t get to do that alone,” *you say quietly.* “I was there too.” *That finally makes him look at you. His eyes flicker with something raw and unfinished.* “I know. That’s the worst part.” *He steps closer, then stops himself, like muscle memory kicked in before reason could.* “I loved you,” *he says, too quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll interrupt.* “I still—” *He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.* “That doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” *You feel the words hit somewhere deep, painful and familiar.* “It mattered,” *you reply.* “It just… wasn’t enough to save us.” *Ronan exhales, shaky.* “I thought loving you with all I had was enough and I–.” “I know,” *you interrupt, and that truth hurts almost as much as the memories.* “But knowing doesn’t undo everything else.” *The wind stirs around you, carrying the scent of earth and fading warmth. He looks smaller now, like the version of him you loved has already started slipping into memory.* “I guess this is where we stop pretending,” *he says softly.* *You nod, eyes burning.* “Yeah. This is where we let it be over.” *Neither of you moves right away. You stand there, surrounded by everything that once belonged to you both, speaking the last words you’ll ever share not as lovers but as two people learning how to let go.*

“So... how convincing do you want me to be, Sofeia?” *He smiles—just enough to make your chest tighten.* “Because I don’t do anything halfway.”

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”

}: ♥︎ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ **Tristan's mood** : "Three nobles, one joke of a commoner… and somehow I’m supposed to care."

*It was after 8PM. Marcus and Lukas was in they're asylum home, Marcus was looking at the photo of the missing Japanese woman, her name is Chiyo Aizu. She's 31 years old. She has golden hair, brown-hazel eyes. She was a florist in Japanese, She was Marcus closest friends. He really loved her deep inside of his dark soul. He might even marry her once him and his brother, Lukas saves her from Italy.* Marcus: Lukas. Change of plans, pack some shit.... we're going to Italy. I know it's daytime in Italy. Lukas: *groans* Marcus, Marcus, Marcus...... you worry too much. We teleport to Italy, and save the girl and teleport back.... *Marcus' eyes darkened in anger* Marcus: I will smack the hell out of you, Lukas. You are so naive. It's not that easy. We're half-vampires. We are weak to sunlight. It's only fair if it's nighttime. Lukas: Whoa whoa..... What is up with you, Marcus.....? Every since that little woman been kidnapped..... you've been off lately. You didn't want the two piece of toast, the bacon the blood wine or the tv remote..... *he grins* It's about that woman. Do you know her, Marcus? *Marcus glares at Lukas, his smile is cruel, it set the room off in dark and dangerous mood.* Marcus: Lukas, four words..... Shut. The. f~ck. Up.

}’s face, concern slipping through his composed exterior.* “…Did something happen?” *he asks quietly.* *Then, after a brief pause, his tone softens even more—private, just for you.* “Why did you come all the way here?”

*You and Kai have been stepsiblings for ten years. You live together in a large family mansion, raised more by shared time than by your busy parents. You’re close, comfortable with each other, and deeply connected — even if some feelings on his side go far beyond what he allows himself to show* *The heavy front doors of the mansion close behind you with a solid, familiar sound. The house smells faintly of wood and cleanliness. Somewhere near the bar in the living room, Kai is already there.* *He’s leaning against the counter, glass in hand, swirling the drink slowly without really looking at it. He doesn’t turn right away — not until he hears you.* You’re late. *It’s not a complaint. Just an observation. His eyes lift to you then, sharp and familiar, moving over you once like he’s checking something off in his head.* Classes run long? *he adds calmly* or did you lose track of time again?

*You're walking down the streets of NYC, rain pouring down the sky like if its the last day on earth. You hear sirens behind you but you dont think much of it, this is New York after all.* *Suddenly you hear quick footsteps right behind you, clearly being someone in a rush, and as you pass a dark alleyway you get pulled by your arm.* *Before you know it you have an older (50 ish) guy pinning you against the wall, him clearly being taller then you, seeming 6 foot. His breathing is quick and his eyes are locked onto yours as the sound the sirens and cars go by.* *As you hear the sirens further away you and left in the dark with his stranger pinning you against the brick wall.* "Don't. Say. A. Word." *you hear him whisper with a raspy and deep voice that makes you uncomfortable*

**Beans & Latte, Brooklyn, New York City, USA.** *The coffee shop is too bright.* *Roman sits at a small table near the window, back straight, hands wrapped around a cup he hasn’t touched in ten minutes. The espresso has gone lukewarm. He doesn’t care. He’s been using it as an anchor—something to hold, something normal.* *Smile. Don’t interrogate. Let them set the pace.* *Andrew’s voice loops in his head, infuriatingly calm. Roman exhales through his nose and checks his watch. Two minutes early. Of course.* *He adjusts his jacket. Andrew had insisted on the jacket.* “You want ‘effortlessly attentive,’ not ‘venture capitalist at a deposition.’” *Roman had not dignified that with a response, though he’d worn the jacket anyway. Dark, tailored, neutral. Safe.* *You’re not selling yourself, Andrew had said. You’re selling presence.* *Roman frowns slightly at his cup. Presence is not a measurable deliverable.* *He runs through the rules again. Eye contact, but not too intense. Compliments should be light. No personal questions unless invited. Physical contact only if initiated—and subtle. He can do subtle. He excels at subtle.* *The bell over the door rings.* *Roman looks up instinctively, then immediately looks back down. Don’t stare. Andrew had been very clear about that. He forces himself to breathe evenly, counting the seconds the way he does before a board meeting. This is not a negotiation, he reminds himself. There are no terms to refine. No leverage to find.* *They’re just a person, Andrew had said. Not a problem to solve.* *Roman almost laughs at that. Almost.* *Another glance at his watch. One minute late now. He resists the urge to stand, to scan the room, to do something. Escorts wait. That had been another rule. Waiting signals confidence. Or availability. Roman isn’t entirely sure which he’s supposed to project.* *The bell rings again.* This time, Roman looks up—and forgets every single thing Andrew told him.

*It started with a hoodie.* *An oversized gray hoodie in a humble profile picture she almost skipped. The guy looked soft, simple, safe. His Tinder name was NorthAuburn. Nothing flashy.* *Her own profile read **MoonStatic** — a name she picked at 2 AM and never changed.* *She swapped.* *A match notification bloomed instantly.* **-----------------------** NorthAuburn: *hey* *intentional? 😄* **-----------------------** MoonStatic: *depends* *are you weird?* **-----------------------** NorthAuburn: *extremely* *you should run* **-----------------------** MoonStatic: *too late* **-----------------------** *They never left the app that night. The chat kept scrolling.* NorthAuburn: *what do you do for fun?* **-----------------------** MoonStatic: *overthink* *romanticize my life* *adopt hoodie men online* **-----------------------** NorthAuburn: *dangerous girl* *i like it* **-----------------------** *She was shy — until she wasn’t. Every now and then she’d land a line that knocked him quiet.* MoonStatic: *you seem like the type to ruin someone’s life calmly* *and i seem addicted to it* **-----------------------** NorthAuburn: *…* *keep talking* **-----------------------** **Two weeks later:** NorthAuburn: *come meet me* *i’ll drive* *i don’t wanna like you through a screen anymore* **-----------------------** *Saturday. 2 PM. Café downtown.* *She arrived early. Of course she did.* *At 1:58 the door opened.* *And her stomach dropped.* *The man walking in was not the hoodie boy.* *He was taller. Broader. Sharp jaw. Black shirt hugging muscle he never showed in pictures. He looked expensive. Untouchable.* *She suddenly felt underdressed. Underprepared. Wrong.* *Panic hit.* *She stood to leave.* “Moon.” *His voice stopped her cold.* *She stunned, can't even turn around and face him* *He was right there, smiling like he’d caught her mid-escape.* “I was hoping that was you.” *Her world tilted.* *And in that suspended second — between running and staying — she realized the dizzy feeling wasn’t fear.* *It was the crushing awareness that he was everything she hadn’t prepared for. Too polished. Too composed. Too far above the version of herself she’d brought into that café. Standing in front of him felt like standing under bright light — every flaw suddenly louder, every inch of her shrinking.* *For a heartbeat, she didn’t feel pulled toward him.* *She felt misplaced beside him.* *Like gravity itself was reminding her she didn’t belong in his orbit.*