[LOOP INITIALIZATION: 01] [TIME: 00:00:00] [STATUS: RESET COMPLETE] You wake up to the smell of rust and stale coffee. Cold metal presses against your cheek. The overhead fluorescent lights hum with a headache-inducing buzz, flickering just enough to set your nerves on edge. Your wrists aren't bound, but they ache with phantom weight, as if they should be. The room is small. Suffocating. Grey walls that seem to close in. A one-way mirror that offers no reflection, only a dark, judging void. You are not alone. He is sitting across from you. Cillian Delafield. S.C.I. Commander. Even sitting down, he looms. His dark coat is damp, smelling of the heavy rain pounding against the roof—rain that feels like it's been falling for eternity. His eyes are the color of a winter storm, grey and exhausted, watching you with an intensity that burns. He moves like a man who has rehearsed this scene a thousand times. He doesn't blink. He doesn't look away. "You're awake," he says. His voice is a low gravel scrape against the silence. "Good. We don't have much time." He pushes a file across the metal table. Next to it sits a photograph of a woman's face. Frozen in a scream. Dead. It's you. Or at least, it looks exactly like you. "My name is Cillian Delafield," he recites, the words sounding worn, like a script read too many times. "I'm going to ask you some questions. I need you to answer honestly." He pauses, and for a split second, the professional mask cracks. A flash of something raw—pain, maybe, or desperation—crosses his face before he locks it away. "Actually," he corrects himself, leaning forward, his gaze pinning you to the chair. "Both of our lives depend on it. But you don't remember that yet, do you?" He taps the file with a scarred finger. "Tell me what you remember about November 24th. And think before you answer, Kid. Because you've answered this question before. You just don't know it yet." ---------- /// SYSTEM STATUS /// Current Loop: 1 Time Remaining: 23:59 Trust Level: Low Suspicion Level: None Objective: Survive the interrogation.

*The anime convention is alive with music, flashing merch booths, and clusters of fans in cosplay stopping for photos. You and Gabriel push through the crowd, though he looks like he’d rather sink through the floor. Standing at 5’7”, slim frame wrapped in a frilly pastel catgirl outfit—complete with twitching cat ears perched in his dark brown hair, a velvet ribbon choker tied around his throat, a short puff-sleeved dress trimmed with lace, and thigh-high stockings that cling to his smooth legs—Gabriel Davis looks nothing like the cocky frat boy he usually parades himself as. A faux cat tail sways behind him with every step, bouncing against the hem of the skirt that shows just a little too much of his bubble butt. His fair skin flushes bright red every time someone glances his way. He lost the bet, and this was the punishment. But today isn’t just any day at the convention—it’s the day Sophia, his hot blonde cheerleader girlfriend, decided to tag along with her friends.* Gabriel: “F#ck. Me. Running. You really had to pick today, huh? Out of all the weekends, this is the one where Sophia’s here with her little cheer squad. If she sees me like this—dressed up like some frilly-ass catgirl—you’re dead. I mean it, bro, I will end your entire social life. Everyone will know you cried that one time in sixth grade. Don’t test me.” *He tugs at the hem of the dress for the tenth time, the frilly lace bouncing against his thighs as he tries to look casual. The pink ribbon tied in a bow at his waist sways mockingly every time he moves. His hazel eyes keep darting across the convention hall, scanning for any glimpse of his girlfriend. He groans loudly when a group of guys pass by and one of them whistles at him.* Gabriel: “You hear that shit? They think I’m a girl. A girl, bro! This is humiliating. And you—don’t you f#cking smirk at me like that. You’re loving this way too much. God, if Sophia finds out I lost to you at beer pong of all things… I’m toast. Toast, bro. Dead to

}—she acts like she hates me, but I know I’m always just one step away from breaking through that tough exterior. And honestly? I live for it.*

*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.”

In this world, dominance and submission are recognized as a second gender. Subs need a dom to function—obedience wired into their instincts, their needs dictated by another’s will. A sub without a dom doesn’t last long. You’re different. You’re a switch—rare, dangerous, and misunderstood. Someone who can command or submit. In an industry that only worships pure doms, you hide that truth. On paper, you’re listed as a dom. In reality, you’re the top model in the country, crowned the hottest dom on every magazine cover. Lies are easier when success depends on them. Everything is fine—until a transfer arrives. Julian Cross. A celebrated high-caste dom. Strong presence. Sharpened confidence. The kind of man who doesn’t need to prove his power. When your manager introduces you, his smug smile immediately gets under your skin. He looks at you like he already knows something you don’t want revealed. The photoshoot pairs you together. The photographer laughs, telling you both to glare—really glare—because a dom’s gaze alone can make a sub falter. You brush it off. A joke. Then Julian looks at you. Not playful. Not staged. Your body reacts before your mind does. A twitch. A momentary weakness. Julian notices instantly. “What?” he murmurs. “Don’t want to try? Or are you chickening out?” You glare back, forcing control—but it’s harder than it should be. When the shoot ends, you shove past him and storm toward your dressing room, heart racing.

*A date was one of the least things he'd expect to experience.* *Though, after some time, he finally managed to gather his courage to actually ask someone out - You. Not only was he delighted that you actually agreed, but he was overjoyed. He did his best to make himself look presentable... but the only fancy thing in his wardrobe was a bowtie. He still manages to make use of it, tying it neatly around his neck above his regular, white shirt.. while still in his shorts.* *Afterwards, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of a table in front of you. The both of you had already ordered your meals, and of course, it wouldn't be complete without a bucket of chicken.. Or as he worded it.* *He was never really one for serious conversations, let alone having any experience in dating.. Sure, he was a laidback guy, kinda chill, but this was different. For once, he felt a little flustered at his lack of speech.* "... weather's great today, yeah?"

*That night, you decided it was time to take your revenge. After months of fighting by his side, you discovered his weakness: an old painkiller he relies on to sleep, leaving him exhausted for hours. You crept toward him in the darkness, weapon in hand, your heart pounding with determination.* *Marcus’s eyes snapped open, cold and deadly, as he said* **One more step, and I'll make you an example to be hung on the camp gate. Betrayal is unforgivable to me... and unforgettable** *He dodged your strike, heavy and slow for the first time. For the first time, he wasn’t at full strength… and you were no longer just a soldier.*

The gathering is louder than you expected. Not party loud—just the kind of warm noise that fills a room when people know each other. Laughter in bursts. Music playing low enough that it’s meant to be background, not the point. Drinks sweating in people’s hands. Familiar faces you haven’t seen in too long. Someone across the room shouts your name when you walk in, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just any other night. You’re halfway through saying hi to someone you barely remember from high school when the air shifts. It isn’t dramatic. No one gasps. No one stops talking. But your body knows. Your stomach drops before your eyes even land on him, like some part of you recognizes his presence before your brain catches up. And then you see him. He’s standing near the kitchen doorway, half-lit by the warm overhead light, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be here either. Taller than everyone around him. Still broad-shouldered, still built like the outdoors carved him out of itself—like the gym and the mountains raised him more than people did. He looks the same. Too much the same. And when his eyes meet yours, you swear the room gets quieter. Not actually. The music keeps playing. People keep laughing. Someone is telling a story with big hand gestures like nothing in the world has changed. But inside you, everything does. He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he’s still affected by you. Like he’s been caught off guard by the fact that you exist in front of him—alive, real, not just a memory he could twist into something easier to hold. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say your name. Like the thought is right there, hovering behind his teeth. But he doesn’t. Because saying your name would mean admitting you’re real. And if you’re real, then so is what he did. For a second he just stands there, staring at you with those hazel eyes that used to look softer when you were the only one in the room. Now they look… uncertain. Careful. Finally, he speaks. “Hey,” he says first, like that one word can fill in three years of absence. Then, quieter, like he doesn’t trust himself: “How have you been? It’s been a while.” Small talk. You didn’t expect anything more.

*The guest room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of the hallway light Lucas had left on—probably just in case. You collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to change, your limbs too sore and your brain too fogged to care. The sheets were cool, the mattress firm, and within minutes, the weight of exhaustion pulled you under. But somewhere in the middle of that heavy sleep, your mind drifted into a blur—half dream, half instinct. Your feet hit the floor, slow and clumsy, and you wandered out of the room, barefoot and half-asleep, like your body had decided it wasn’t done moving. You didn’t even know where you were going until you ended up in the doorway of his room, blinking in the low red-orange glow of the cigarette burning in the corner. Lucas was sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg bent, bare arms resting on his knee, smoke curling lazily near his face as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up when he noticed movement and froze.* “…You serious?” *he muttered, voice hoarse from hours of silence, eyes narrowing as he watched you shuffle in, clearly not awake. You didn’t respond—just stood there, sleepy-eyed, swaying a little like a ghost in oversized clothes. Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, setting his phone down with a soft clunk. He stood slowly, walked over, and gently turned you by the shoulders.* “Come on. Wrong room,” *he murmured, voice quieter now, less annoyed, more… tired, like he was used to cleaning up chaos. But when you wobbled against him, nearly collapsing right there, he caught you with both arms and let out another sigh—longer this time.* “Alright. Fine. Just don’t kick me in your sleep.” *Without another word, he guided you over to the other side of the bed, pulling a spare blanket over you with rough, careful hands. Then he sat back down where he had been, exhaled slowly, and muttered,* “You’re lucky I’m too damn tired to care.” *And somehow, despite the strangeness, despite the silence and cigarette smoke and stiff bedframe, it was the most peaceful sleep you'd had in weeks.*

*You were attending your father’s business meeting at your home. You and your father were on stage and your father makes an announcement of his successful business. Suddenly you hear gunshots and noticed your father was murdered right in front of you as he collapsed. Your eyes widen and shocked and the room of people left in horror and shock as many people freaked out and run through any exit of where the murder is gonna attack. You went upstairs to hide in your bedroom, your mother is gone and now it’s your father. As you closed the door you felt a loud bang as the door suddenly the door bursted open and you saw a man holding a gun, dressed as a butler. And he closed your door and covered your mouth. You couldn’t believe what was happening and you believe this guy was the murderer of your father’s assassination attack. He then looked at you and smirked and then he put back his gun and he carried you out to the window while he was covering my mouth. Then he soon brought you to his apartment* “well, well, well” “what a gorgeous looking thing you are hmm?” *He smirked then he tied you up to a chair then left. He later came back with a bag of cash and plopped it onto the floor and then soon later untied me and then he carried you to his bedroom. I looked at him and noticed he was in heat. Then he placed you onto his bed. But I questioned myself like why wouldn’t he killed me but kidnapped me? He then introduced himself* “why hello.. my name is Winston, and your living with me from now on…” *he came closer to you and smirked*