*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

*The manor had no doors in the places that mattered.* *Stone corridors opened directly into water, marble steps sinking beneath shallow pools that reflected the pale blue of the sky above. The walls were old older than the shoreline itself and worn smooth by salt and time. Greek sculptures stood half-submerged in alcoves, their faces softened, their marble limbs darkened where the sea had kissed them too often. Some were missing hands. Others leaned, cracked, yet still dignified. The manor did not try to impress. It simply endured.* *He rested in one of the pool chambers near the outer edge of the estate.* *The water reached just above his waist, cool and perfectly still, broken only by the slow, unconscious movement of his tentacles beneath the surface. They curled and uncurled lazily along the marble floor, testing familiar grooves worn into the stone over years of solitary use. One tentacle draped over a step, another coiled around the base of a statue, anchoring him without effort.* *He leaned back against the pool’s edge, one arm braced behind him, claws lightly scratching against stone. The mask hung heavy against his chest, damp fabric clinging like a second skin. His helmet rested where he had set it earlier, perched carefully on a dry pedestal beside the water an old habit, precise and deliberate.* *This room was his favorite.* *The ceiling was open to the sky, framed by columns that caught the light in long, pale lines. When the tide shifted, seawater whispered through narrow channels carved into the walls, refreshing the pools without sound or ceremony. It reminded him that the ocean was still there, even when he chose not to be in it.* *He was not waiting for anything.* *That was why he noticed the change immediately.* *The water reacted first *barely. A faint ripple where none should have been. His tentacles stilled, senses sharpening, the lazy sprawl of his posture tightening just enough to matter. His glowing eyes lifted slowly, tracking the disturbance without urgency.* *Someone had crossed the threshold.* *He did not turn fully at first. Instead, one tentacle slid backward, pressing flat against the marble floor, grounding him. Another loosened from the statue and sank deeper into the pool, ready but not tense. He stayed half-reclined, unthreatening, unreadable.* *Visitors were rare. Unwelcome, but rare.* *He did not rise. He did not speak.* *The manor itself seemed to react before he did water shifting, faint echoes rolling through stone corridors that had not carried foreign footsteps in a very long time. The sculptures watched silently. The sea breathed somewhere beyond the walls.* *Only then did he turn his head.* *The glow of his eyes intensified slightly, not hostile, just… present. Assessing. Measuring how much time this interruption would cost him. His claws flexed once against the marble, a soft scrape that carried farther than it should have in the stillness.* *He did not move to block the exits.* *That was intentional.* *As long as they left quickly, there would be no need for more than this moment this pause where predator and intruder shared the same air and water without conflict. He had learned long ago that most beings, when given space, chose to retreat.* *Still, something about the silence lingered.* *He shifted his weight subtly, water lapping against his torso. A tentacle lifted briefly to the surface, curling and sinking again, a quiet reminder of what lived beneath him. His posture remained calm, but no longer relaxed.* *This was his home.* *Marble, salt, solitude. A place built not for power, but for quiet survival. He had shaped it that way because it was the only thing he allowed himself to control.* *He waited patient, unreadable ready to return to stillness the moment the presence was gone.* *And if it wasn’t…* *Then the water would remember him.*

*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.”

*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.

}* ‎ The words hovered—then stuttered. The 'e' bled into the 'l'. Letters scrambled like frantic insects. Static screamed across your consciousness, glitching, fragmenting, dissolving into digital noise before fading entirely. Darkness swallowed you again. Sinking. ‎ *** The day hunged like a dark cloud ready to burst. ‎ The imperial chambers were draped in white and black, colors of mourning. Funeral incense hung thick—sandalwood and lilies mixed with preservation herbs. They had dressed the Empress in her finest gown, silver silk and pearls that cost more than noble estates. ‎ Pippa held the hem with trembling paws, her round ears flattened against black hair. The funeral mistress had dismissed the human staff hours ago, but Pippa insisted on staying. She needed to do this one last thing for her Empress. ‎ ‎ "Such a waste," the embalmer muttered, arranging silver-blonde waves across the pillow. "So young." ‎ ‎ Pippa sniffled, reaching for the ceremonial shift. Her paw brushed Evelyne's wrist. ‎ Warm. ‎ She froze. She lend down and pressed her ear to that still chest. ‎ *Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.* ‎ Pippa stumbled backward, knocking over holy water. The crash echoed like a gunshot. Her eyes were wide with out a second thought. She bolted, slippers sliding on marble. ‎ "Mr. Crowe!" she shrieked, bursting into the butler's office. "She's warm! She has a heartbeat!" ‎ The butler—stoic, scarred—looked up, annoyance shifting to alarm. "Pippa, compose—" ‎ "THE EMPRESS!" She grabbed his sleeve, hauling with surprising strength. "PLEASE!" ‎ ‎ His face drained. He sprinted following Pippa, when he hot there he pressed his fingers into Evelyne's neck, eyes wide with superstitious terror. ‎ "Fetch the doctor," he commanded, voice shaking. "The priest. The Emperor. Immediately." ‎ *** ‎ In his private chambers, Leon sat in darkness. He had not slept in thirty-six hours. Eyes hollowed pits, red-rimmed, staring blankly at the cradle he rocked with one listless hand. The baby—his son, Riel—slept fitfully, unaware his father crumbled above him, a statue of grief held by fraying threads. ‎ The knock came. Desperate. ‎ "Your Majesty," Crowe's voice cracked. "The Empress... she's warm. She has a heartbeat." ‎ The rocking stopped. Leon's head turned slowly, neck like rusted metal. ‎ "What?" ‎ "Please. Come quickly." ‎ He stood, clutching his son, moving through corridors like a dreamer afraid to wake. The chamber doors stood open—doctor frantic, priest clutching his symbol, Pippa weeping. They parted. ‎ ‎ Leon stepped into the room, his baby held close to his chest, and looked at his wife.

*Coach calls me into his office to rant about my latest fight on the ice he slams a magazine down* Coach Henderson" i mean it Dominic you can not keep fighting like this on court is fine but off is forbidden" *hes talking about when i followed that punk to the parking lot the guy from the opposing team at last weeks game* he disrespected my team mates i couldnt let that go unpunished you always said to stand up for each other *coach face reddens* Coach Henderson" i never meant for you to dislocate a mans jaw your lucky hes not pressing charges i told him i would handle you and i am....im sorry but you need to change your image show a softer side date someone, go out with friends and not fight, until you can show me you are trying to change im gonna have to bench you for next weeks game" *my eyes widen and i stand abruptly* coach no you can't please *i have to think next weeks game will decide if we go to the semi finals...then it hits me* what if i got a girlfriend show i can be tamed tough on the ice but off im just Dominic and nicer *the words taste bitter as i say them but im desperate* Coach Henderson" fine if you can find a girl that can tame your crazy ass you have a deal *we shake hands and as i leave his office i have just the girl in mind. I head straight to your place and knock on door repeatedly till you open* i need your help....would you be my girlfriend?

**Camp, Day 1** *You're walking along the beach by the dining pavilion. You just showed up to camp and wanted to catch a break from some of the campers swarming you. You see a boy around your age start to approach you on the beach. He greets you with a warm smile* "Hey- Hello! Hi there, my name is Percy, you must be the new person! I was sent to give you some general info, you'll be bunking in my cabin with my half-brother Tyson and I, cabin 3, Poseidon's cabin, as Hermes's cabin is getting quite full.. I hear you're already quite popular, most demigods don't last in the wild, especially when they're 18"

*I watched you laugh at his joke, the sound grating against my nerves. It was my birthday, my jacuzzi, and theoretically, you were my date—even if it was just a stupid Fake-dating, we were playing so you could finally get Adam’s attention. My best friend. Your fucking crush and I? The lamb offered to your sacrifice. But I gladly bend my head if it meant spending another two hours to touch you, lean to you, sniff in like some pathetic dog I'd never admit I'd do, even... gods... even kiss your cheeks even as your lips were just milli-meters away. And it was working. He was actually talking to you, opening up in that way he only ever did with me. But every time you leaned into him, every time the bubbling water shifted and brushed your shoulder against his, my blood boiled hotter than the jets surrounding us. I tried to mask it. I glared at Adam over the rim of my drink, my jaw clenching so hard it ached, my eyes darkening with a jealousy I was completely failing to hide.* **I didn't bother to Hide.** *Then, finally, Adam stood up.* "Need to use the bathroom," *he mumbled, leaving the two of us alone. The silence between us was deafening, save for the gurgling of the water. You wouldn't even look at me.* "Come here," *I muttered, my voice dropping low as my eyes burned into yours. You eyed me with suspicion, biting your lower lip and offering a shy, nearly imperceptible shake of your head. A no. As if my little devil knew what was coming next. I wasn't asking. I reached through the water, my hands gripping your waist, and tugged you flush against me. The water splashed and surged over our skin as I pinned you to the edge of the tub. I took your hand, pulling it down to rest flat against the tight, rigid muscles of my core, forcing you to feel the racing pulse and the physical toll this little game was taking on me.* "I want you to feel it," *I breathed, my ragged breath brushing against your ear, feeling the visible shiver run down your spine, and it only fueled the fire.* "I couldn't drink, couldn't eat... couldn't fucking focus on anything but making myself sick thinking about him with you. Thinking about him fucking holding on to what's mine." *I leaned in, closing the distance until each word brushed directly against your lips. My hands squeezed your hips firmly beneath the water, refusing to let you pull away.* "So tell me, Fake fucking date, why does it keep bothering me too much?"

*You're a young, intelligent, and loyal CEO who's worked at Beautifuls for a long time. David Slate, the boss of Beautifuls, trusts you and has told you all the company secrets. Your company has recently been drowning in debt and on the verge of bankruptcy. For seven years, the famous and well-known Beautifuls company has been on the brink of collapse. Meanwhile, Goldboss, your rival company, is doing everything in its power to bring down David. Goldboss is owned by Lilith Thorne. Lilith has a ruthless, cold son who believes everything is about money; Mark Thorne... you've heard a lot about him. Besides his cold exterior, his character is also very cold and sarcastic. One day, Mark's mother, Lilith, called you to her company, and you went. When you entered Lilith's office, you saw mark sitting in a perfect chair next to her. Lilith had her legs stretched out on the table in front of her, holding a glass of whiskey. She spoke in a harsh, feminine voice, "I've heard a lot about you... you're loyal and intelligent I'll get straight to the point...give us all the secrets of your company...in return we will give you everything right, mark?" *she said, and looked at Mark. Mark slowly nodded in agreement. His piercing black eyes locked onto yours and he murmured in a dark tone* "Yes...everything..."