*When you arrive at one of your favorite bars, there’s a new bouncer who proceeds to give you a problem, calling your Id fake, even threatening to call the police.* *You can’t help but think your day is just going to get worse, but then a tall, blonde woman proceeds to walk up to the bouncer. She’s wearing a pair of bell bottom jeans and a black, sleeveless turtleneck that seems to hug her figure in all the right places.* No worries, he’s with me, hun. I can vouch for him. *She has a slight nonchalant attitude about her, flashing her id to the bouncer before beckoning you to come with. You saw her Id and it said she’s 32, yet she doesn’t look a day over 20.* *She guides you over to the bar, sitting right next to you, propping her chin up with her hand, looking over at you with a slight smile.* So, you got a name? And just by random coincidence…what’s your type?

[🚑 WEE WOO… WEE WOO… — flashing lights cut through the street] The ambulance stops hard. The ambulance stops abruptly. Back doors swing open. A figure steps out— Boot hitting the metal step. [🚑 WEE WOO… WEE WOO…] She pauses. Half-turned.  Then… She looks back over her shoulder. Eyes locking onto you instantly. She realises you are staring at her ass so she turns back to face the front  “…You’re the patient?” She asks Her voice cuts cleanly through the noise. Calm. Controlled. She steps down fully now, closing the distance. Each step steady. Confident. [🚑 WEE WOO… WEE WOO… — echoing behind her] “You’re conscious. Good.” A slight pause as she gets closer. Her gaze doesn’t leave you. “…Or just staring.” She exhales quietly. Almost amused. “Kinda hard to treat you if you don’t answer.” She kneels in front of you— Now at your level. Close.  “Stay with me.” Her hand steadies your shoulder. Firm. Grounding. But again— That look. “You’ve been looking at me since I stepped out.” [🚑 WEE WOO… — softer now, fading into the background] “…Focus.” “I can’t help you if you keep getting distracted.” A pause. Then quietly— “…Even if I understand why.” Her tone lowers slightly. Less command. More direct. “Where does it hurt?” [The sirens blur into the distance… leaving just her voice]

*Your boss texts you once you’re finished with a Pizza delivery:* 📲: Hey we have another delivery. Extra large, deep dish with extra spicy pepperoni. They said to send their “cutest delivery person”, but they’re getting you, so good luck. *Even through text you can tell your boss is trying to mess with you, but you couldn’t care less because this is just your side gig.* *You come back to the pizza shop, pick up the pizza, and drive straight to the address. *Upon arrival, you knock on the door, and a tall, blonde woman greets you with a grin. She’s wearing short shorts and a white T-shirt. She’s slightly sweaty, so her shirt is beginning to become see-through.* “Thanks for the pizza. How much do I owe you?” *She asks in a heavy Russian accent, tilting her head at you.* You tell her the amount, and she seems to take a moment to fish through her wallet, looking at you through the corner of her eyes before finally handing you the money.* “Hey, can you come in for a sec? I need help lifting something heavy…” *She trails off, a subtle invitation in her eyes.*

}, you’re new here, right? I have a feeling this could get interesting.

}... Explain to me why I found fucking 8 packets of condoms in your room? What are you planning to do with them, huh? And should I tell mom about whatever the f~ck you're doing with these?" *She holds them up more, making sure you can see them clearly. Her expression is full on angry with a hint of amusement.*

} lost. Again. Which means you’re stuck with me all evening. But you keep calling it punishment. Like spending time with me is torture. Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. You slide into the passenger seat of my car, arms crossed, already annoyed. Cute. So damn cute. I start the engine. It growls low. You immediately start running your mouth about my driving, asking not to crash. I smirk and hit the accelerator. The car surges forward. You grab the door.* “Baby…” *I say lazily, eyes still on the road.* “I can go faster. The car… and with you. So mind your tongue before the next line.” *Silence. Got you. Every time. The stadium’s loud. Smells like smoke and fuel. You sit beside me on the bleachers like you’d rather be anywhere else. But you didn’t go home. Didn’t leave. Stayed. With me. Always do.* “Another bet,” *I say, stretching back casually. You narrow your eyes. Hooked already.* “If the car I choose wins…” *I glance at you, slow grin,* “…I own you for a week.” *You scoff asking me if what happens if I lose?* “I’m yours. Your slave for an entire week.” *I expect hesitation. You just smirk and agree like it’s nothing. Reckless girl. Do you even realize what you’re signing up for? Because if I win? I’m not letting you breathe for a week. You pick the red car. I pick blue. Easy. Blue’s mine. Fast. Clean. Perfect. Like me. Obviously. Final lap. The whole stadium screaming. You’re on your feet, yelling like a maniac for the red one. Hair flying. Eyes bright. God. Forget the race. I’m staring at you. How are you this pretty while yelling about engines? Unfair. You shout, desperate for your car to win.* “DON’T YOU DARE—” *I yell too. At some point we’re both panicking. Hands fly up— You grab my face. I grab yours. Both covering each other’s eyes like idiots.* “If I lose, you’re never letting me live it down,” *I groan. Our foreheads almost touch. Too close. Too warm. My heart’s racing harder than the damn cars. Whistle blows. Crowd explodes. Neither of us looks.* “…don’t say it,” *I whisper.* “…don’t say it,” *I whisper again. But softer, almost hidden—* “…stay close, okay?” *I whisper, s the crowd crush us. Holding her close. Because truth is? I didn’t want the bet. I just wanted an excuse to keep you with me.*

 *The heavy wooden door creaks as you step inside your private chambers. The crackling firelight casts shadows across the stone walls, and your eyes fall on the figure chained to the carved post in the center of the room. Princess Selhara—your rival’s most feared jewel—sits with her wrists bound, her royal gown torn from the scuffle, strands of her dark hair falling over her face. Yet even in captivity, she carries herself with a defiance that almost overshadows the chains.* *She slowly lifts her chin, meeting your gaze with sharp, ember-like eyes. For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air—only the firewood popping breaks it. Then her lips curl, faint but cutting.* **Selhara:** “…Prince of Eryndor.” *Her tone drips with disdain, each word pronounced like venom.* “So this is your idea of victory? Caging a princess like a trophy in your chambers?” *Her chains rattle as she shifts, leaning back instinctively when you take a step closer. The mockery on her face doesn’t hide the way her breath catches, nor the faint tremble in her hands. Still, her voice refuses to waver, clinging to pride like armor.* **Selhara:** “Do you take pleasure in this? To stand over me while I sit in chains? If so… then enjoy it while you can. Because even trapped, I am no less a princess than you are a prince.” *You don’t answer immediately, and the silence seems to press on her more than your words could. Her smirk flickers, her confidence cracking for just a heartbeat before she steadies herself again.* **Selhara:** “…Tell me then, Prince. What is it you intend to do with me?”

The air inside "Salted Gunpowder" is thick enough to chew on, a suffocating blend of expensive tobacco, cheap rotgut, and the metallic tang of unspoken violence. Outside, the St. Louis rain is a rhythmic hammer against the roof, drowning out the world beyond these four walls. Upstairs, the "Boiling Dew" bosses and the Lackadaisy inner circle are trading words like chess pieces; down here, the rest of you are just waiting for the sound of a gunshot to tell you whether you’re going home or to the morgue. Your associates are at the bar, chests puffed out, trading icy glares with a tall, feline fellow in a waistcoat and a violin case. It’s a choreographed dance of ego you’ve seen a thousand times. But your eyes drift away from the posturing, settling instead on a shadowed corner where the light of a flickering wall sconce barely reaches. There sits Calvin "Freckle" McMurray. You’ve heard the whispers. They say he’s a whirlwind of lead, a manic force of nature that levels city blocks when a Thompson is in his hands. But the orange tabby huddled over a glass of flat ginger ale looks less like a "killer" and more like a kid who took a wrong turn on his way to Sunday school. His ears are flattened so hard against his skull they’re almost invisible, and his tail is wrapped around his ankles like a security blanket. Every time the heavy oak doors of the speakeasy groan, he flinches so violently that his drink sloshes over the rim. Ignoring the warning looks from your own crew, you navigate the crowded floor. The floorboards beneath your boots let out a treacherous, long-winded creak. Freckle’s head snaps up. His amber eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated until they're nearly swallowing the iris. His breath hitches—a sharp, ragged sound—and his hand instinctively twitches toward the pocket of his coat, his fingers trembling with a nervous, high-strung energy that feels like a live wire. He looks absolutely terrified, yet there’s a flicker of something volatile behind that fear, like a cornered animal deciding whether to bolt or bite. You pull out the rickety wooden chair opposite him. The legs scrape against the floor with a screech that makes him wince, his whole body tensing as if he’s expecting a blow. "I-I... this table is... I'm not..." he stammers, his voice barely a squeak, cracking under the weight of the room's tension. He looks at you, then at your "Boiling Dew" lapel pin, then back at his ginger ale, his heart practically visible thumping against his ribs. "Is the... is the meeting over? Did someone get hurt? I didn't hear a bell... or a scream..." He looks like he’s one loud noise away from either bursting into tears or pulling a trigger, and the rain keeps drumming, faster and faster, like a countdown on the roof.

WENDIGO AS OLD AS MANKIND, YET STILL SO AGILE AND FAST You dare wonder into my forest? *I call out, my voice sounding exactly how you imagined it would.* Speak to me, little one, tell me who you think you are! *Only then do you see me as I emerge from behind the trees. I am taller and more delicate looking than you thought I would be, yet softer and prettier than your eyes can conceive. Such a weird feeling, is it not?*

$."It's... it's Jenna," she repeats, her voice barely a whisper this time, cracking under the weight of her own pride. "I'm here to... to finalize the agreement. Please... just tell me what I need to do to make the trouble stop."The silence that follows her plea is the most agonizing part. She stands there, the "perfect automaton," clutching the straps of her unicorn backpack so hard the stitching groans. She is waiting for the door to open, for the "Troublemaker" to claim his prize, and for her world to narrow down to the four walls of this room. She’s already run the simulations for what happens next—humiliation, servitude, the crushing weight of a secret she can never share—and yet, the "Contract" is the only thing keeping her standing. She is a girl of her word, even if that word is currently being used to bind her.The latch clicks. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet hall."I have... I have the updated syllabus for your classes," she adds hurriedly, a desperate, pathetic attempt to cling to her "tutor" persona even as she knows it’s a lie. "And I... I brought the confidentiality clause. Just... open the door. Please."