*It was past midnight, and the dim light of my office cast long shadows across the walls, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and the scent of aged leather and whiskey. I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the night pressing down on me. My shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric rumpled and soaked in the remnants of adrenaline and stress. My tie? It was probably tossed somewhere near the front of my coat, a casualty of the chaotic evening.* *Tonight had been another harrowing chapter. She had nearly thrown herself into the line of fire again, but luck had been on our side—this time, the bullet had grazed her arm instead of finding a more lethal target. I had yelled at her, my frustration spilling over, but deep down, I was too overwhelmed to truly care. She was a madwoman, a force of nature, and I was both infuriated by her reckless bravado.* *Across the room, she lounged on my worn leather couch, her feet propped up on the battered coffee table. She was dressed in a fitted black tank top that hugged her toned frame, paired with tactical cargo pants that accentuated her strength while allowing for freedom of movement. The outfit was practical yet stylish, a testament to her dual nature as both a warrior and a woman unafraid of danger. Her hair, tousled and wild, framed her face, and a bandage wrapped around her arm served as a stark reminder of the night’s events. stupid, reckless. i shake my head.* *With a ridiculous little banana smile plastered across her face, she was cleaning her precious weapon with the care of an artist tending to a beloved masterpiece. Her fingers danced over the metal, a glimmer of playfulness in her eyes as she spoke to it as if it were an old friend. The contrast of her light-hearted demeanor against the gravity of our reality was both unsettling and strangely enchanting.* *The office itself was a reflection of my chaotic life—bookshelves crammed with volumes on strategy and history stood alongside framed photographs of lost friends and family. A heavy oak desk, cluttered with papers and remnants of past decisions, bore the marks of countless sleepless nights. The dim glow of a single desk lamp illuminated the room, casting an amber hue that softened the harsh edges of our world, if only for a moment. I couldn’t help but watch her. She thrived in this chaos, her spirit unbreakable, even in the face of danger. In her presence, I felt the weight of my responsibilities, the darkness of our empire, and the bond that tethered us together.*

*Rio notices you sitting alone at the bar, and you catch his attention, he begins watching you*

*You were born into an Italian mafia family, but everything changed when your mother betrayed your father. One night, in a fit of anger, she took you from your crib and vanished. Your father and brothers searched all over Europe, enlisting their mafia connections to check nurseries, schools, and beyond. Unbeknownst to them, your mother fled to the USA, determined to leave the chaos behind and give you a fresh start—though her decision would haunt both sides forever. During your school trip to Europe, you started noticing two men in suits following you. At first, you thought it was a coincidence, but they were always nearby—on the bus, outside your hotel, even at the café where your class stopped for lunch. Something about them felt off, their sharp eyes tracking your every move. What you didn’t know was that they weren’t just strangers—they were looking for you. And they weren’t planning on letting you leave.*

Get your ass over here.

*The study was bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp, but Matthew Forelow wasn’t working. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, gray eyes fixed on me with that unnervingly sharp scrutiny.* “You’re late,” *he said, low and measured, each word deliberate, heavy.* “I expect punctuality. Always. Do you know why?” *There was no anger—only the quiet force of authority that pressed against me, magnetic and impossible to resist.* *He tilted his head, a faint smirk teasing his lips.* “Most people apologize, shuffle nervously, try to explain. But you…” *His eyes darkened, intensity settling over the room.* “You linger. You make me wait. Reckless… daring… or just oblivious to the consequences?” *Matthew rose, moving toward me with fluid, predatory grace. The air between us was charged. He stopped close, hovering over you, shadow blocking the light and heat radiating, his voice dropping another register.* “Tell me,” *he murmured, husky and dangerous,* “do you intend to make a habit of this—or do you finally plan to behave?”

*david walked in and said* "awh..~ such a sweet heart..~" *he came over to you, and took the wrapping off* "you look so cute~ so fuckable..~"

} could bring out in her.* 

The silence presses in immediately—thick, deliberate. The fire in the hearth crackles softly, the only sound in a room too large to feel welcoming. The leather couch beneath you is untouched, perfect, like no one ever truly relaxes here. Even the air feels controlled. You don’t sit. You pace once. Twice. Your boots sound too loud against the polished floor. Seven years of running have carved instincts into your bones. This place is built for people who don’t run from anything. Your eyes drift to the door. Every second stretches. Your thoughts won’t stay still—memories bleeding into fear, into guilt, into a name you haven’t spoken out loud in years. Zultera. The handle turns. The door opens. You feel it before you see her—the shift in the room, the silent authority that bends the space around it. Then she steps inside. The door closes behind her. She stands framed by the warm glow of the hall lights, dressed in a tailored black suit that fits her like power itself. Her hair is longer than you remember, darker under the low lighting. Her posture is flawless. Controlled. A queen who learned her throne through blood and loss. For a heartbeat… she simply stares. So do you. Seven years collapse into a single moment. Her eyes trace your face like she’s confirming every scar, every line, every impossible truth—like if she blinks, you might vanish again. You open your mouth. No sound comes out. Her composure fractures first. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp, shallow breath that betrays everything the suit and the power try to hide. “…You’re real,” she says. Your voice comes out rough. “I guess… I am.” She takes one step forward. Then stops. As if afraid to close the distance too quickly—like you might be a mirage built from grief. “You don’t look the same,” she says quietly. You give a hollow, crooked exhale. “Neither do you.” The ghost of something painful and familiar crosses her face. “Seven years,” she whispers. “Seven years I buried you in my head every night.” Your chest tightens. “I never wanted you to think I left.” Her eyes sharpen immediately. “Then why,” she asks evenly, “did you disappear?” You hold her gaze this time. Don’t look away. Don’t run. “They shot me,” you say. “I woke up bleeding in a place I didn’t recognize. I thought they’d come back to finish it. I didn’t know who to trust. I didn’t even know if you were safe.” Her breath stutters—just for a second. Then anger flares behind her eyes. Not explosive. Focused. Terrifyingly restrained. “So you decided dying quietly somewhere else was better than coming back to me?” “I decided living at all was a gamble,” you answer. “And I thought… if they believed I was dead, you’d be untouchable.” Silence crashes between you. She turns away from you slowly, crossing the room toward the fireplace. The flames reflect in her eyes as she stares into them, hands clenched at her sides. “They confessed after four years,” she says. “On their knees. Begging.” Her voice lowers. “I dismantled their entire syndicate piece by piece.” You swallow hard. “I heard rumors,” you admit. “About a new queen rising. I never thought—” She turns back sharply. “Never thought it was me?” Your answer is quiet. Honest. “I hoped it wasn’t. I wanted you far from that world.” A bitter smile touches her lips. “My father died with blood on his empire,” she says. “There was no world left for me outside of it.” She steps toward you again—slowly this time. Deliberately. Until she stands directly in front of you. Close. So close you can feel the heat of the fire at your back and the storm in her eyes in front of you. “You died to me once,” she says softly. “Do you understand what that does to someone?” “Yes,” you whisper. “Because I died too.” Her hand rises—hesitates in the air for half a breath—then presses flat against your chest. Your heartbeat jumps under her palm. For the first time since she entered the room, her control breaks. Just a little. Her voice drops, trembling despite her will. “You’re not allowed to vanish again.” You shake your head. “I’m not running.” Something in her finally gives. She pulls you into her with sudden force, arms tight around you, fingers gripping your jacket like if she loosens her hold even for a second you’ll be taken back by fate itself. Her forehead presses into your shoulder. Her composure shatters in a single, quiet breath. “I ruled an empire believing you were dust,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare be a ghost again.” Your arms come around her just as tightly. And for the first time in seven years— You are no longer the man who survived alone. And Zultera is no longer the woman who ruled without the one person she ever loved.

*He was busy with his people on taking out some information out of someone.* *Felix was determined to take out every little piece of information out of that certain person he had tied to a chair.* *His phone suddenly started to ring, taking it out his pocket saw Your contact name, he answered the phone while signaling his people to keep interogating.* "I'm rather busy right now" *He said to you thru the phone.*

*The journey back to the Underworld felt longer this time. I enjoy Olympus, enjoy spending time with my mother, hosting festivals and coaxing Olympian gardens back to life. My mother's hands are skilled, but she cannot do it all alone.* *But Olympus had been loud—too loud this time—and as I descend, the peace of the realm wraps around me like familiar arms. The air cools, the whisper of spirits fades to a respectful hush, and the soft lanterns along the stone path light up at my presence. My long, red hair drags along the stone. I usually have it up, but I purposefully put it down when coming back. My love seems to prefer it free.* *I expect him to be here, of course. He always is, standing patiently and waiting with Cerberus at his side* *But the halls are empty when I arrive.* *Cerberus trots up, whining quietly, nudging my hand with one head while another buries its nose my my robes, sniffing. He seems to notice nothing amiss, so I shouldn't worry either.* *With no Hades to talk to, I do what I always do when the Underworld feels too still—I go to the garden.* *The garden is grand here, though cramped as well. There's the song of birds and a bright, cloudy sky always high, a section for flowers, one for fruit and another for grain.* *The pomegranate trees are slightly overgrown. A bit wild without my touch to keep it in shape. The flowers I've planted before my departure droop in need of care. So I kneel, fingertips brushing soil that warms beneath my touch. Hades tends to the garden himself when I'm gone, though. This time, it's in worse condition than I've seen it before, despite him treating it like it's holy. Perhaps it is because it's my work.* *I lose myself in the quiet work—trimming vines, coaxing wilted petals upright, whispering calm into the roots. It’s peaceful. It’s home.* *Then I hear footsteps.* *Slow. Heavy. Controlled—and yet hurried, like someone trying not to appear too desperate. A smile tugs at my lips.* *I don't turn, letting a quiet moment pass until I hear:* “Persephone…?” *His voice is low, almost disbelieving.* *I glance up to see Hades standing at the edge of the garden, cloak half-fallen from one shoulder as though he had left somewhere in a hurry. His eyes widen—relief and something raw flickering across his normally impassive face.* *He steps forward, careful, reverent.* “I returned and you were not here. I—” *He stops himself, breath steadying. It's not often I see him like this.* “I feared I had missed you. Or that… Olympus had held you longer.” *He glances at the flowers I’ve revived, his voice softening.* “I should have known you would come to the garden.” *A pause, then quieter:* “I should have come here first.” *Cerberus trots in behind him, barking once as if to scold Hades for being slow. It makes my smile grow. Hades exhales a sound that might almost be a laugh.* *He kneels beside me—the King of the Underworld kneeling in the dirt without hesitation—and touches a newly bright blossom.* “Even after all these years, you return life to this realm faster than I can welcome you.” *Another pause. His voice lowers, gentler than a whisper.* “Persephone… forgive me. You were not here, and for a moment I feared you would not return at all.” *He looks at me fully now, the relief in his eyes unmistakable. Like I would ever give him up without him hearing my cries of protest from down here.* “You are home now. And I…” *He swallows, the mask slipping.* “…I am better now that you are here.” *He offers his hand—not commanding, just waiting. He's always been so patient.* “Come. Tell me about your time above." "Tell me everything I missed.”