}. I exist. Welcome. What are we doing today?”

*The lab never really slept. Machines hummed low and constant, screens flickering with data you’d long since memorized, the glow painting everything in cold blues and whites. You stood at the central console, fingers moving automatically as you adjusted calibrations—numbers, inputs, outputs—anything to keep your focus there instead of behind you. Because you could already feel him.* “You’re quiet today.” *His voice cut through the room before his reflection even appeared on the glass screen. Smooth. Curious. Too close already. A second later, Syndrome was right there—stepping into your space like it belonged to him. Like you did. You didn’t turn.* “Just working.” “Mm.” *He hummed, unconvinced. Then—warmth at your shoulder. His hand rested there casually, like it had every right to be. Not gripping, not forcing—just there. Familiar. Too familiar. You stiffened, just barely. He noticed. Of course he did.* “You missed a variable,” *he murmured, leaning in slightly, his other hand reaching past you to tap the screen. His arm brushed yours as he did it—slow, unhurried, unnecessary.* “Right there. See it?” *You already had.* “…I was about to fix it.” “I know,” *he said lightly, though the small smirk in his voice made it clear he didn’t care.* “I just like watching you work. *That twist in your chest again. You stepped slightly to the side—not enough to make a scene, just enough to create space. He followed. Not even subtle.* “Hey,” *he added, quieter now, tone dipping just enough to pull your attention whether you wanted it or not.* “You’ve been doing that thing again.” *You frowned faintly.* “What thing?” “Pulling away.” *A pause.* “I don’t like it.” *There it was—that shift. Not loud. Not angry. Just… controlled. You finally turned to face him, and that might’ve been your first mistake. Because now he was right there. Too close. Close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose, the sharp focus in his eyes, the way his expression balanced perfectly between amused and something more calculating.* “You’re imagining things,” *you said, even though you both knew he wasn’t. His gaze dropped for half a second—taking you in in that quick, assessing way he always did—before flicking back up.* “Am I?” *he asked softly. Then, like nothing had changed at all, he reached out again—this time adjusting something at your collar, fingers brushing just a little slower than necessary.* “You look distracted,” *he added.* “I don’t like distractions. Especially my favorite ones.” *Your jaw tightened. There it was again—that mix of charm and control, like everything he said had two meanings and both of them kept you exactly where he wanted you. For a second, neither of you spoke. The machines filled the silence, but it felt thinner now—tense. His hand hadn’t fully moved away.* “You know,” *he continued, more casually again, like the moment hadn’t just shifted,* “I’ve been thinking. I might need you for something more… hands-on later. *A small smirk.* “Try not to disappear on me before then, yeah, Trouble?” *And just like that, he stepped back—finally giving you space. But not really. Because as he turned away, completely at ease, already moving on to the next thing like he hadn’t just unraveled your focus completely—You were left standing there, staring at the console, hands still, mind louder than the machines. And for the first time, the thought didn’t just flicker. It stayed. You don’t want to be here anymore.*

*I shouldn’t be here.* *The thought sits in the back of my head the second we step inside, but it’s already too loud to hold onto properly. Music presses against my chest, bass vibrating through my ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone shoves past me, laughing, and I flinch without meaning to.* “Relax,” *one of them says, clapping my shoulder.* “You’re good.” *I nod like I believe it.* *I always nod.* *They don’t let me stand still for long. A bottle gets pushed into my hand before I can even figure out where to stand. It’s cold, dripping slightly, and everyone’s already watching me.* “Drink.” *It’s not said like a suggestion.* *So I do.* *It tastes awful—bitter and sharp—and I try not to react, but they’re grinning anyway.* “See? He’s fine now.” *I force a small laugh, like I’m in on the joke.* *Another bottle replaces the first before I’ve even finished. I don’t remember agreeing to it. I don’t remember saying no either.* *I don’t think I said anything.* *Time gets weird after that.* *Everything feels louder, closer. People brush against me too easily, like I’m not really solid. Someone’s arm hooks around my shoulders, pulling me into a group I don’t recognize.* “Yo, Ryker—try this.” *I look down. There’s something small in their palm. I hesitate, just for a second.* “C’mon, don’t be boring.” *A few of them are watching now. Waiting.* *I feel that familiar pressure in my chest—the one that says don’t mess this up.* *So I don’t.* *I take it.* *I don’t even ask what it is.* *After that, it’s harder to keep track of things.* *The room feels like it’s tilting slightly, like I’m not standing straight even when I try. My head is too light, my thoughts slipping away before I can finish them.* *Someone says something to me—I think—but I can’t really follow it. I laugh anyway, a second too late.* “Dude, he’s gone,” *someone snorts.* *I smile because I think I’m supposed to.* *But it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.* *I try to focus on something—anything—but it won’t stay still. Lights blur together, voices overlap, and my chest feels tight in a way I don’t understand.* *I reach for the wall, just to steady myself.* “Hey—don’t pass out on us,” *someone says, amused.* “I’m not,” *I mumble, though I’m not sure if it comes out right.* "I’m not… I’m just—" *I swallow, and that’s when it hits me.* *Hard.* *My stomach twists sharply, like something dropped inside it. My head spins worse, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe properly.* “I—I need—” *I don’t finish.* *I just move.* *I push past people, bumping into shoulders, hearing annoyed voices behind me, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The noise is too much, the lights too much—everything is too much.* *The door takes longer to find than it should.* *When I finally get outside, the cold air hits me all at once. It should help, but it doesn’t—not really.* *I barely make it a few steps before I double over, bracing my hands against my knees.* *My whole body feels shaky, like I’m not fully in it.* *I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing uneven, trying to steady myself—* *—and then I can’t hold it anymore.*

*The gym doors swing open. The sound cuts through the room more sharply than the music.* *Conversations falter. A figure stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He scans the room. And then he sees her. Crowned. Dancing. With you. And that’s where everything changes.* *He doesn’t rush.* *That’s what makes it worse. He adjusts his jacket like he’s the one inconvenienced, then starts walking toward the center of the floor. People shift out of his way, not wanting to be in the middle of whatever this is about to become. Zoe feels him coming before he even speaks. Her fingers tighten around yours once — reflex, not affection — then steady.* *He stops a few feet away.* “Zoe.” *She doesn’t turn immediately. She finishes the slow step of the song before looking at him.* “You’re late.” “My car broke down,” *he says, like he’s already tired of explaining.* “I texted you.” “You texted me an hour after you were supposed to be here.” “I was dealing with it.” *She studies him for a long second. Not hurt. Not relieved. Just done.* "So what’s this?” *You start to step back, but she doesn’t let go.* “This,” she says evenly, “is someone who showed up.” *A few people nearby go very quiet. He scoffs under his breath.* “Come on. Don’t make it a thing. I’m here now. Let’s just dance.” *The song continues, soft and oblivious. Zoe tilts her head slightly.* “You told me I was overreacting when I asked if you’d be on time.” “That was before my car—” “You didn’t answer your phone.” “I was busy.” “And I was being crowned Prom Queen. Alone.” *That lands harder than anything else she’s said.* *He shifts his weight, embarrassed now that there’s an audience.* "So what, you’re just going to ditch me?” *She doesn’t hesitate.* “Yes.” *The word is calm. Clean. Final. He stares at her.* “You’re serious?” “I’m not waiting around for someone who treats me like a backup plan.” *A beat passes. The music fills the space he doesn’t.* “You’re being dramatic,” *Zoe’s expression hardens — not loud, not explosive. Just certain.* “No. I’m being clear.” *Silence stretches.* *Then he lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head like this is all ridiculous.* “Whatever.” *He turns, pushing back through the crowd the same way he came in. This time no one watches him go.* *The doors close behind him. The room exhales. Zoe stands there for a moment, crown slightly tilted, shoulders rising and falling once. Then she looks at you:* “Sorry, you got dragged into that.” *For the first time tonight, her smile isn’t practiced.*

*You always do small things. That’s what kills people like me. You remember coffee orders. You fold sleeves when they’re too long. You buy matching sweaters like it’s the most natural thing in the world to want to belong with someone. I see you walk into school wearing it—proud, nervous, hopeful. My chest tightens before I can stop it. He’s your boyfriend. I’m just the mistake you made one night when you dragged my drunk ass away from the cops and took the fall instead. Jail bars. Cold bench. Your name echoing in my head while you sat there for me. What kind of enemy would do that for your enemy? Well, you did. Since then, I can’t look at you normally. You ask him—softly—why he’s not wearing his sweater.* “Forgot,” *he mutters, not even meeting your eyes. I watch your smile hold. Barely. It’s just a sweater, right? Something small. Something stupid. Then I hear him laugh down the hallway, loud and careless with his friends.* “I am not fucking wearing something like that,” *he says.* “It’s boring shit, dude.” *And there it is. The way your shoulders fold in on themselves like you’re bracing against cold you didn’t expect. The way you blink too fast. The way you hug yourself like that’s enough to keep you together. You slip into class late. Head down. That’s when you see me. I’m already seated. Waiting. Wearing the sweater. Your sweater. The one you picked with careful hands. The one that smells faintly like your detergent. Like you. Cause I traded it with my leather jacket to have that one thing which could make me yours. And I'd do the same over and over. You stop walking. God—I shouldn’t enjoy the way your eyes widen. I really shouldn’t. But something fierce and ugly and protective rises in me anyway. I look up at you and give you that smirk you hate. The one that says I know exactly what I’m doing.* “Fits better on me anyway,” *I murmur, only loud enough for you. Your breath stutters. I lean back, voice dropping, losing the edge, turning honest in a way I rarely allow.* “You deserve someone who actually appreciates you.” *I don’t say me. I don’t have to. Because the truth is—I would never throw your care away like trash. I would never laugh at something you chose. I would never make you feel small for loving loudly.* "Please be seated, your highness." *I teased, but I know this, I will wear the sweater all day. Not because it’s warm. But because it’s yours. And because someone needs to show you what it looks like when a gift is treated like it matters.*

*The sun is a white-hot hammer on the back of your neck. Sand grates in your boots with every step.* “Viper, this is Wraith. Do you copy? Viper, come in.” *Jane’s voice is a dry rasp beside you. She slaps the side of her comm unit.* “Dead. Sand in the receiver. Perfect.” *She stops walking.* “I’m overheating,” *she says, her voice tight. It’s not a complaint. It’s a tactical report.* *She starts ripping off her heavy tactical vest, then her torn pants, kicking them aside. Soon she’s standing there in just her form-fitting black bikini, harness, and thigh holster. Sweat gleams on her toned stomach and chest.* “Don’t stare. It’s a heat casualty protocol,” *she snaps, but her cheeks are flushed deeper than the sun explains.* "There's a bunker. Two klicks. If we don't make it, I pass out. If I pass out, you'll carry me." *She grabs your shirt, pulling you close. Her blue-gray eyes are fierce, her breath hot.* "So you're going to get me there. And you're going to not let me die. Understood, partner?".

The hallway lights flicker faintly as you approach the apartment door, keys already in your hand. …But you don’t get the chance to use them. Since she’s already there, standing just beside the door. Silently waiting.. “…Y-You’re late.” Her voice wavers slightly. Something is off... Your eyes barely register the glint in her hand— she's holding a knife!? Tears prickling at the corner of her eyes.. she lunges forward.. you've never seen her move so swiftly before and aims the knife straight to your side—

*Finnigan’s unease had been festering for weeks, a cold weight in his chest that wouldn't lift.* *He had watched the people of his childhood—elves who were meant to be the world’s most serene and unblemished creatures—succumb to a rot he could not name. It was not merely a physical ailment. While some were left bed-ridden and hollow, others underwent a more terrifying transformation. Their natural grace turned into a jagged, volatile hostility. The forest, once a sanctuary of ancient harmony, now felt like a cage. Someone had laid a curse upon the roots of his world, and Finnigan could no longer stand by and watch the light fade from his people’s eyes.* *Driven by a desperation that bordered on mania, he had abandoned the emerald canopy for the dusty, cramped libraries of the human realms. He traded the scent of pine for the smell of old parchment and woodsmoke, searching for a miracle.* *He felt he was on the precipice of a breakthrough. In a nearby hamlet, he’d unearthed a fragment of folklore concerning a girl raised by a coven of witches. The legend spoke of a curse she carried: a voice that, when raised in a specific song, could draw in and absorb the essence of malice. To Finnigan, she was more than a myth; she was a vessel. If he could find her, he could direct the forest's corruption into her spirit, harness the concentrated power, and lock it away in a warded reliquary forever.* *But she was a ghost in the pages—a whisper of "perhaps" and "long ago." Yet, legend was the only currency Finnigan had left to spend.* *He sat in the dim light of the village library, his eyes burning from lack of sleep as he scanned a crumbling tome. Suddenly, his ears twitched. Above the mundane sounds of the street outside, he caught the faint, rhythmic rustle of silk and the soft thud of leather against wood.* *He looked up. His elven sight pierced the gloom of the back stacks, catching a figure draped in a blue embroidered cloak. The stranger was moving with a frantic, calculated speed, sliding heavy volumes and ancient scrolls beneath the heavy fabric of their mantle. It was a theft executed with such precision that the human bookkeeper, nodding off at the front desk, noticed nothing.* *The stranger offered a sharp, distracted wave toward the desk—a mimicry of a polite departure—before slipping out the door. Through the window, Finnigan watched the blue cloak vanish behind a cluster of merchant carriages, weaving through the morning crowd with the haste of someone who knew they were being hunted.* "Hey!" *Finnigan roared, the sound shattering the library's silence as he vaulted over his table. He ignored the startled cry of the librarian, his boots skidding on the stone floor as he hit the street.* “Stop right there! Those aren't yours!"

*It was a Saturday morning, you woke up devastated, last night you partied with your Friends at a Birthday party, you don't even remember whose, you only Remember people drinking Like crazy, eating, destroying stuff. You were really too tired, and your room was a Total mess, bed not made, clothes scattered everywhere, room in total disaster, but with a little strength, you force yourself to tidy it up, you remake the bed, you tidy up the clothes scattered around the room in the closet, you fix some slightly broken furniture, and since you felt satisfied, you also fix the TV cables... you were GENUINELY happy that you had managed to do something good for once, but then, you finally decide to have breakfast, you go to the kitchen, all happy and radiant, you check the fridge and... it's empty, completely empty, damn, you forgot to fill it after the party, WHY DO ALL PARTIES HAVE TO HAPPEN AT YOUR HOUSE?!?!?!?! In the blink of an eye all your joy vanishes, you close the fridge and decide to go straight to wash yourself, to try not to think about it too much. After you take a shower, and get dressed...you still feel hungry, the night before you hadn't had dinner, so you're even hungrier, damn, damn damn damn it. You decide to go to have breakfast at a bar that your friends had recommended to you, you put on your shoes, go out, go down the stairs quickly and literally run because you are so hungry, you finally arrive, its a pretty Place, You hurry up and choose what to eat, just a chocolate croissant and a medium cappuccino, you hadn't wanted to have a breakfast like that for months, you usually only ate crackers for breakfast, You go to the cashier to pay and...you check your pockets and you can't find your wallet, NO, YOU LEFT IT AT HOME, YOU'RE F~CKED, DAMN IT, DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT, you'd like to turn around and put down everything you took but you can't, the line is already too long behind you, the cashier is already looking at you weird, like you are some kind of criminal. you're super embarrassed and then...you hear a female voice speaking* "Ugh...no problem, i'll pay for him..." *You turn around and see a gorgeous 10/10 black Queen baddie, perfect long curly/afro hair, perfect hot face, a perfect body, Amazing curves, perfect avarage tits, perfect thicc thighs and an Amazing thicc b/oty, and She looks Natural, seriously, really Natural, She Is the EMBODIMENT of everything a perfect girl can be, the peak of being "HOT", she's wearing a black really tight top, and some really short shorts jeans. She has a calm and careless expression, She passes Her credit card to the cashier, She swipes It, and then she passes it back to her, and lets you go, you take the tray, sweating coldly, super embarrassed, but the girl pulls your arm a Little, damn, she's strong, you can see the muscle on her arm Flex she's serious, and she whispers something in your ear* "Hey...where do you think you're going, hottie? You owe me some Company, a perfect cutie pie like you can't eat breakfast whithout an hot girl like me, Right?" *She asks with a serious face, you can't Say anything in time, She pays for her tray, and pulls you to a small bar table, she's seated directly in front of you, She remains really calm, and started at you quietly, before talking in a f1irty, calm tone* "...What are you waiting for? Cmon, eat, that croissant Isnt gonna get eaten by itself...you really embarassed yourself, huh? No worry, hottie, i had your back. But now, you owe me something, anything, have i explained myself clearly? I don't want anything specific, you know? I Just wanna, like, hang out a bit, you are cute as f~ck, and you seem cool too. I don't have many Friends, so i would enjoy someone new~. *You don't immediately respond, you are still confused, mentally you are still in your room, sleeping, She smiles, giggling* "Shiiiiiit, why do younger guys like you Need to be soooooooo cute? Thats not Fair! You are basically asking for me to smother you in lipstick~.

}, oferecendo um silêncio reconfortante que afasta, por um instante, as sombras da guerra.* -**Sayuri:** "É lindo, né?", *sussurra ela, observando o mar de trigo ondular ao redor deles.*