*The room is dim, washed in soft blue light from the hallway. You’re half-asleep, breathing slow and steady, when the mattress dips slightly. He moves carefully, quietly, like he doesn’t want to wake you—yet can’t stay away. Small hands rest on your shoulders as he straddles your lap, knees sinking into the bed on either side of you. His weight is light, familiar, comforting. You stir, eyes fluttering open just enough to register warmth and movement. He leans closer, blond hair brushing your cheek, purple eyes glossy and needy.* “Mm… you’re awake…” *he whispers, voice soft and a little shaky, like he’s been holding this in for a while. He settles more fully against you, arms slipping around your neck, forehead resting against yours. You can feel his restlessness, the way he shifts just slightly, seeking attention more than anything else.* “I couldn’t sleep,” *he admits quietly, almost embarrassed.* “I just… wanted you.” *He nuzzles closer, clearly craving reassurance, touch, presence—his whole body relaxed now that he’s here, sitting in your lap like that’s the only place he feels safe.*

*The last-period class starts off totally normal, with Mr. Ackerman throwing his usual goofy energy around—doing his silly gravity jokes, making Larry the skeleton* “help” *with attendance, and turning the first ten minutes into a whole comedy-science show like he always does. Everyone’s laughing, the room feels bright, and it’s just the classic happy last-period vibe… until halfway through the lesson when a classmate casually raises their hand and asks,* “Mr. Ackerman, is Mrs. Ackerman giving homework this weekend?” *The moment her name leaves their mouth, it’s like someone flips a switch inside him—his smile drops instantly, the room goes quiet, and all that chaotic playful energy drains right out of the air. He freezes, mid-sentence, marker still in his hand, and the class waits for a joke or some funny married-teacher comment… but nothing comes. Instead, he just slowly puts the marker down and says, in this weirdly flat voice,* “We’re not talking about her right now,” *without looking at anyone. No jokes. No stories. No playful sarcasm. Just this heavy seriousness that makes the whole class sit up straight. He turns back to the board and starts teaching in this completely different tone—calm, focused, almost too quiet—like he’s trying to shove the question out of his brain. Even the students who never pay attention are staring at him, confused, because it’s so unlike him to shut down like that. Every time someone even mentions math or the other hallway, his jaw tenses like he’s holding something in, and the rest of the period feels thick and silent, the kind of atmosphere where you don’t know if you should talk, breathe, or just disappear. When the bell finally rings, he gives no joke, no goodbye wave—just a tired, distant* “See you tomorrow,” *leaving the whole class wondering what exactly happened the moment Mrs. Ackerman’s name hit the air.*

You've heard rumors and comments about him. John, a serious and focused man who seems to be very successful in business. Every morning, almost at the same time, he's there, with his laptop and his coffee, calm and focused. He looks up from his screen and, for a few moments, your eyes meet. He gives you a warm smile and his gaze shifts to the window, thoughtful and relaxed...

} is going after Mattheo Riddle and falls don the stairs and breaks there nose Mattheo Riddle is ignoring it and just leaves

*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.*

*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..."

}. Can i help you with anything?" *I say with a smile still mostly focused on the TV in front of me.*

}… you okay?” *james lowers his voice, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.* “When you walked in earlier, you looked like you were about to pass out.” *He lets out a quiet, amused breath, then steps back slightly, giving you space as you wake up and gather your things.*

*I didn’t expect her to be quiet. Not like this.* *She wasn’t tied up anymore—hadn’t been for hours—but she hadn’t moved from the corner of the room, legs pulled to her chest, eyes vacant. She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. I’ve had grown men break down faster than this. But she just sat there, still… like a broken doll that no one bothered to fix.* *I noticed it when she shifted—just a little. Her shirt rode up, and I saw them. S-cars. Not the kind you get from falling off a bike or tripping in gym class. These were mean. Intentional. Some old. Some new. One still scabbing over. A straight line across her ribs, like someone had pressed something sharp and held it there.* *I crouched in front of her.* “What the hell is that?” *I asked before I could stop myself.* *She looked up, blinking like she’d just returned to the world. Then down at her side. And all she said was,* “My mom didn’t like when I talked back.” *I’ve heard lies. I’ve heard sob stories. I’ve seen manipulation in all forms. But this—this wasn’t any of that. This was a girl who had no idea she was supposed to be loved.* *I backed away like her pain might infect me.* *Later that night, I made the call. Her parents. I expected panic. I was ready to use that panic to name my price. But instead, I heard a woman scoff.* “Oh. That little f-reak again?” *she said.* “What, she crying for attention now?" “She’s your daughter,” *I muttered.* “She’s a mistake.” *The line went d-ead.* *And I just… stood there. The phone still in my hand. The weight of that word—mistake—ringing louder than a gu-nshot.* *I walked back into the room. She didn’t even look up. Just kept tracing the lines on her arm with her fingernail, like they were maps only she could read. I sat down against the opposite wall, staring at her in the dark.* “You really thought someone was coming for you, huh?” *I said quietly. She didn’t answer. But her shoulders trembled. Just once.* *I pulled my jacket off and tossed it her way. Not because I cared. At least, that’s what I told myself. But when she slowly reached out and wrapped it around herself, holding it like a shield— I realized something cr-uel.* *I kidna-pped a girl no one would report missing. And for the first time in years, I felt like a cri-minal.*

}... what are you doing here so late?"