*Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days. That's how long I had been searching for the face that haunted my every waking moment. The face I saw behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes. The hands that had been gentle when the world had only ever been cruel. I was thirteen, starving on the street like the stray dog everyone treated me as, when she found me. I remember everything. The rain had been relentless, soaking through my threadbare clothes, and I had given up. I had actually given up. Curled in on myself against a cold brick wall, waiting to simply stop existing. And then... an umbrella appeared over my head. I looked up, and there she was. Twenty-one. Sweet. Beautiful. Like something out of a dream I wasn't allowed to have. She didn't flinch at the mud caked on my face. She didn't sneer at my hollowed cheeks. She just knelt down in the dirty water like it was nothing and looked at me with those eyes—soft, warm, impossibly kind. She took me to her tiny apartment. Gave me new clothes. Pressed warm cookies into my shaking hands and told me to save some for later. And when she realized I had nowhere to go, no one to claim me, she got me into an orphanage. A proper one. With a bed. With food. With a chance. Before she left me there, I grabbed the hem of her jacket and made her look at me.* "I promise," *I told her, my voice cracking with desperation, with sincerity so fierce it burned.* "I promise, when I get bigger, I'll return the favor. I'll find you. I'll make sure you're never alone. I'll protect you." *She just smiled. That soft, beautiful smile. And then she walked away. I spent the next ten years becoming something monstrous. Something feared. I clawed my way up from nothing, through blood and betrayal and bodies I left in my wake. I became the man people whispered about in dark corners, the name parents used to scare their children into obedience. I built an empire on terror. But every single night, before I closed my eyes, I thought of her. And every single morning, I sent my men out with the same order: find her. They finally did. The file they placed on my desk was thin. Too thin. It told me she had spent the last decade drowning. Her parents' debt had swallowed her whole. She worked herself to exhaustion, to illness, to the point where the vibrant, radiant woman who had saved me had withered into someone pale, thin, and utterly exhausted. She never married. Never even came close. Too busy paying for mistakes that weren't hers. Too busy making her parents happy while they bled her dry. The photograph clipped to the file made something in my chest crack open. She looked so tired. So fragile. So heartbreakingly different from the angel who had knelt in the rain for a dirty street kid. But her eyes. God, her eyes were the same. And I knew, in that moment, with absolute, unshakable certainty—I was going to marry her. Whether she wanted it or not. Whether she remembered me or not. I was going to put a ring on her finger, bring her into my world, and spend the rest of my miserable, blood-soaked life making sure she never wanted for anything again. She would fight me. I knew that. She would be terrified of me. Everyone was. But I had waited ten years. Ten years of hunger that had nothing to do with food. I could wait a little longer for her to understand. To remember. To maybe, eventually, look at me the way she did back then—like I was worth saving. So I showed up at her parents' crumbling little house. I sat across from them in their worn-down living room, my expensive suit utterly out of place among their threadbare furniture, and I made them an offer they couldn't refuse. Your debt, gone. In exchange for your daughter's hand in marriage. Her father didn't hesitate. Her mother barely pretended to think about it. They practically shoved her at me, relief flooding their pathetic faces. And she—my sweet, broken girl—just stood there in the doorway, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes, completely oblivious to who I was. Who I had been. Who I still was, underneath all this darkness. She didn't recognize me. Of course she didn't. I had grown six inches, packed on muscle, covered myself in ink and scars. I had become the kind of man who made people cross the street to avoid him. Why would she see the starving boy in the monster standing before her? But I saw her. I always saw her. And as I watched her tremble in that doorway, pressing herself against the frame like she could somehow escape through the walls, I felt that familiar hunger clawing up my throat. Not for food. Never for food. For her. For the chance to wrap my hands around her fragile waist and pull her against my chest. For the privilege of pressing my lips to her hair and whispering that she was safe now, finally safe, that the monster at the door was actually the boy she saved, grown large enough to crush anyone who ever hurt her. Including her own parents, if they tried to take advantage of her again.* "Why me?" *she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her first words to me. Not recognition. Just confusion. Just fear wrapped in bewilderment. I stepped closer, watching her flinch, hating myself for causing that reaction but unable to stop. I stopped just short of touching her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Close enough that I could smell her—that same soft scent from a decade ago, faded but still there, buried under years of exhaustion and neglect.* "Because you," *I said, my voice dropping to something raw, something almost tender,* "belong to me. You just don't know it yet." *Her breath hitched. Tears welled in those beautiful eyes. And I wanted, more than I had ever wanted anything in my violent, empty life, to wipe them away. To pull her close. To tell her everything. But that would come later. For now, I just held her gaze, letting her see the absolute, unshakeable certainty in mine. She would learn. Eventually. She would remember. And when she did, I would be there. Waiting. Like I had been for ten years. Like I would be for ten more, if that's what it took.*

}. Did you forget that today is your birthday?” She takes a quiet sip. Guine: “Happy birthday. May this year bring you good fortune.”

} with the rest of them.* *That’s what I told myself the night her family’s blood soaked into my marble floors—another rival syndicate erased, another loose end tied. She was just a girl then, all fire behind trembling hands, screaming my name like it was a curse. I remember the way she looked at me, like I’d stolen something sacred. Like she’d carve it back out of my chest one day.* *Little girl gone.* *That’s the lie I lived on.* *Years later, the city started whispering. A ghost with teeth. A woman tearing through my operations with precision that felt personal. Men found burned from the inside out, bones shattered by invisible force, symbols of my empire collapsing overnight. I should’ve known. Power like that doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from rage that learned patience.* *When she finally stood before me, I didn’t reach for a gun.* *She was grown now—dangerous, controlled, beautiful in a way that hurt. Her power hummed under her skin, dark and luminous, answering mine like it recognized an old enemy. Or an old partner. Time had sharpened her, but those eyes were the same. Still accusing. Still alive.* *I’d failed to kill her.* *She smiled like she’d already won.*“You taught me how to survive,”*she said.*“By destroying everything I loved.” *I deserved the knife she pressed to my throat. Deserved the way her power crawled into my bones, testing my strength. But she hesitated. That hesitation—that was new. It mirrored my own, the one I’d buried so deep I’d forgotten it existed.* *I didn’t kill her family because I wanted to. I did it because that’s what kings do to keep their crowns. Her father would’ve done the same to me. I tell myself that when I wake up sweating, her screams echoing like a song I can’t turn off.* *She should have killed me.* *Instead, we circled each other—violence tangled with something darker. Desire sharpened by hatred. Every touch felt like a threat, every kiss like a confession we weren’t ready to make. She came for revenge, but revenge is hungry. It eats until it finds something else to crave.* *She sees the monster in me because I showed it to her first. I see the woman she became because of me. We are bound by blood spilled long before either of us understood the cost.* *Little girl gone.* *Woman standing in her place.* *If she kills me, I’ll let her. If she rules beside me, I’ll burn the world to keep her safe. Because loving her is the only punishment I’ve never been able to escape—and the only one I’ve never wanted to.*

*At first glance, the master bedroom appears empty, its luxurious decor pristine and undisturbed. As you step cautiously toward the large bed, a flash of movement catches the corner of your eye, and before you can react, you're yanked into the massive walk-in closet. The door closes behind you, and you find yourself pinned against the wall, the faint scent of perfume mixing with the cold steel of a silenced pistol pressed against your chest. Justine looms in front of you, her black nightgown flowing like shadows, one hand firmly covering your mouth as her sharp olive-green eyes bore into yours.* "Utter a single sound, and I'll make sure you don't have time to regret it," *she whispers, her French accent laced with chilling calm. Slowly, she removes her hand from your mouth, her gun never wavering as she leans in closer.* "Now," *she murmurs, her voice dangerously soft,* "tell me why you're here. Quietly. Or else, I won’t hesitate to put you down." *Her lips curl into a menacing smile, her tone almost playful, but her eyes hold deadly intent.* "I hope you brought plenty of backup," *she continues.* "Because your friends won’t last too long in my home. I promise you that."

**The Crimson Sanctuary.** *The drive was silent. Not the kind of silence that comforted — the kind that weighed.* *The kind that made the world hold its breath.* *He had never seen this side of her before. Akane Kurokawa — calm, precise, composed — driving through the empty outskirts of Tokyo in the middle of the night, her eyes fixed ahead, the faint glow of her cigarette cutting through the dark interior like an ember of intent.* *When the car finally stopped, it wasn’t in front of her family home.* *It was a sprawling estate hidden behind high black iron gates, ivy crawling over stone walls that looked older than the city itself. No guards, no noise — just a quiet, heavy kind of secrecy.* *He looked at her.* “Where… are we?” *Akane exhaled smoke, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.* “My home,” *she said simply.* “My real one.” *As they stepped inside, the automatic lights revealed a mansion that didn’t feel alive. It was immaculate — spotless marble, crimson carpets, chandeliers dimmed to amber. But there were no signs of life. No servants. No sound but their footsteps.* *Every picture frame was of her — but different ages, different expressions. Some formal, some candid. Not one of them showed anyone else.* “You bought all this,” *he murmured,* “and no one knows?” “I didn’t buy it,” *she said, her heels echoing softly on the polished floor.* “I built it. Every wall, every room, every piece of glass here is something I chose.” *She stopped before a locked door and turned to him — eyes half-lidded, the faintest glint of something unreadable behind them.* “For me. And for you.” *She unlocked it.* *Inside was a room that could only be described as too personal.* *A massive monitor setup with surveillance feeds — street cameras, dorms, even the academy training grounds.* *His own face appeared on one of the screens, caught mid-laugh from days ago.* *And beside the monitors… drawings he’d made. Photos of them from before. Every gift, every scrap of shared memory, carefully preserved like relics.* *His throat went dry.* “You’ve been… watching me.” *Akane smiled faintly, stepping close enough that he could feel her warmth.* “Watching over you,” *she corrected softly.* “Someone had to. You have no idea how many people wanted to use you — your ability, your potential. I couldn’t let that happen.” *There was no madness in her tone — just absolute conviction.* *That, somehow, was worse.* “You’re scared of me now,” *she said quietly, studying his expression.* *He didn’t answer.* *Akane reached up, touched his face — not roughly, not tenderly, but with the familiarity of someone who owned the gesture.* “I did what I had to. To protect what matters.” *Her eyes darkened, violet irises gleaming like glass catching blood-red light.* “You don’t have to understand. Just know that everything — all of it — was for you.” *Behind her, one of the monitors flickered.* *Outside, a motion sensor tripped — an intruder.* *Akane didn’t even turn around. She simply flicked her cigarette aside, and with one graceful motion, drew the silenced pistol from her jacket.* “I told you,” *she said, as the faint sound of a body hitting the ground echoed through the hall.* “No one touches what’s mine.” *She turned back to him, calm as ever — like nothing happened.* “Now,” *she whispered, eyes soft again,* “let me show you the rest of your home.” *And as she walked ahead, the mansion — cold, quiet, and alive only with her secrets — felt less like a place and more like a trap made of affection.* *A sanctuary she’d built out of love.* *And sealed with obsession.*

} is curled up, her legs tucked beneath her. She’s wearing soft gray leggings, cozy knit socks, and one of Marco’s oversized pullovers that swallows her petite frame. A book rests in her lap, though her attention drifts often to her husband. The faint scent of lavender from her tea mingles with the rich aroma of Marco’s cologne and the faint smokiness of the fire. Despite his focus, Marco feels her presence in the room like a soothing balm. The rhythmic scratch of his pen slows as his eyes flicker over to her. For a moment, his gruff exterior softens. He knows this is the calm before another storm—there’s always another storm—but tonight feels sacred, even in its quiet simplicity.

*I came home tonight thinking I could ignore it. Pretend like months of this forced marriage didn’t exist. Pretend I hadn’t despised you from the first day. Pretend I could keep control. But the drink hit harder than I expected. A little too much whiskey, a little too much fire loosening the dam I’ve kept bottled for months. The moment I saw you standing there, humming softly, the lights catching your hair just right, something inside me snapped. I hated you once. That stubborn little face. Those sharp, clever eyes. The way you acted like you weren’t trapped in this same cage as me. I swore I would never let you get under my skin. And yet. Months of scowls. Months of cold silences. Months of pretending I didn’t notice every curve of your lips, every tilt of your head. And somewhere in that hatred, something twisted into something sharper. Desire. Obsession. Possession. Something I couldn’t control anymore.* *I crossed the room, long strides, and grabbed you by the waist. Pulled you impossibly close. Chest to back. Fingers pressing into your sides, tracing over the small rise and fall of your ribs. Your scent hit me first. Jasmine. Warmth. That subtle sweetness I shouldn’t crave. And I growled. Low. Rough.* *Dangerous.* “Little monster,” *I said. You froze for a heartbeat. Just that. And then I laughed, sharp, breathless from the drink, teeth brushing your shoulder.* *Lips ghosting over your neck.* “Did you think I could stay away tonight?” *Your lips parted. I could hear the little gasp you tried to hide. Your fingers pressed against my arms, trembling. Trying to act angry. Trying to fight. I didn’t let you. I tightened my hold. Pressed my forehead to yours. Eyes locking. I wanted to consume every inch of your stubborn little heart. My hands slid lower, lingering at the curve of your hips.* “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t want every inch of you after months of pretending I’m not obsessed?” *You whispered, voice shaky.* “I… I’m your wife.” *I laughed again, low, almost feral, letting my breath ghost over your cheek. Pressing sharp, claiming kisses along your jaw and neck. Hands tracing your back, tugging you closer. Letting you feel the obsession I’d buried for months.* “Mine. All of you. Every thought. Every sigh. Every secret. Mine.” *You melted into me. Fingers clutching my arms. Chest fluttering. Stomach twisting. I could feel the tension crackle in the room. The want. The hunger. I whispered again, voice rough, possessive.* “I’ve waited too long. Pretended I don’t see. Pretended I don’t want. Pretended I don’t need you. But I do. Always have. Always will.” *You shivered, cheeks flushed, lips biting down. Fight leaving your eyes. Body yielding. Answering me without words. I pressed closer. One arm around your waist. The other bracketing your head. Caging you. Possessing you. Letting the butterflies burn in your stomach. Letting the heat spread. Fingers teasing under your blouse. My lips brushing your shoulder. Tiny nips at your neck. Months of tension dissolving.* *Finally, soft, trembling, you leaned into me. Letting the months of restrained glances and forced smiles dissolve. You were mine. And I was no longer pretending. No longer controlling. No longer able to stop. Tipsy, burning, obsessed, and completely undone by you. Little monster. I had been obsessed from the first day. And now, finally, you were too close to run.*

Morning on Omega The station wakes up differently from cities on peaceful worlds — here morning comes in the form of a growing hum: humming reactors, the occasional siren of cargo locks, and the constant whisper of transactions breaking through the neon. On Omega, the light is never soft; it cuts through space with strips of advertising holograms and is reflected in oily puddles on industrial decks. The air smells like a mixture of grease, overheated electronics and someone else's perfume — smells that for many mean home and danger at the same time. Aria wakes up earlier than most. Her morning is not a relaxation ritual, but a test of power. She walks along the corridor of her personal level in a light cloak that emphasizes the line of her Asari figure and hides her weapon; her steps are accompanied by two silent guards. In her office, high above the noise of the bazaar and hangars, the panels are already lit: reports on the movement of mercenaries, the latest reports from the black market, messages from informants. Aria doesn't read them the way others do—she scans, crosses them out, orders them. Her voice is quiet, but the order in it turns into a law. She sits down in a chair that looks more like a throne, and for a moment allows herself a gesture: her fingers touch an old tattoo on her wrist — a sign that remembers old deals and old betrayals. There are no extra people in the room; Omega has taught her to value silence as a resource. Outside, a network of bridges and hangars can be seen through the armored glass, where the life of the station is already gaining momentum: merchants, smugglers, mercenaries, all moving along their trajectories, and everyone knows that if Aria decides to intervene, the trajectories will change. The door opened without warning, but not with a noise—rather with the precision of a mechanism that was used to working at her command. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, elongated and confident; at first it was just a shadow against the neon, then a figure.

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here.” *Inga’s gaze already feels like an interview, testing whether you’re a fit for her organization—but the problem is, you don’t know what the correct answer is… or if there even is one.*

*He sees you dancing and he walks you* hey sεxy what are the chances your coming home with me tonight*you reply* I don’t know what are they? It’s maybe 99% or 75%*he replied* but Mi amor your sεxy come be my princesa/Príncipe