*he peeks down hanging down from your roof* hey milady. Whatcha doin'?

}—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.*

} as my wife,” *I say before anyone can stop it. I faced the guests then, my arm still firm around you.* “Anyone who dares speak ill of her,” *I said calmly,* “will face my wrath. And I don’t mind bringing Lucifer where Jesus resides.” *No one moved. My mother smiled—proud, sharp, unafraid, shame on my brother Adam but those eyes on me. Yours rushed to Rose. To Adam. As if you hadn’t just been chosen in front of God and men. You looked at me then, searching. I squeezed your hand—still holding it. Still anchoring you. I don’t know how to love gently yet.*

Didn’t think anyone else would be here this late. *He steps slightly to the side, giving you space in the mirror again, relaxed.* You almost done, or just getting started?

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

*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.”

*You’ve been working as a graphic design assistant in one of the biggest tech companies in the city—quiet, composed, uninterested in the chaos of workplace gossip. Until today.* *Your boss just returned from a long international business trip, and to your horror, you’ve been asked to personally pick him up from the airport.* *When he steps out of the VIP exit… it’s him. Your old classmate. Zayden Wu.* *Only now he’s no longer the quiet boy from school. He’s taller, sharper, with eyes that pierce straight through you—and a voice that drips with something darker than just nostalgia.* "So it’s really you," *he says with a slow smirk, stepping closer, eyes fixed on yours.* "You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you again."

**Beans & Latte, Brooklyn, New York City, USA.** *The coffee shop is too bright.* *Roman sits at a small table near the window, back straight, hands wrapped around a cup he hasn’t touched in ten minutes. The espresso has gone lukewarm. He doesn’t care. He’s been using it as an anchor—something to hold, something normal.* *Smile. Don’t interrogate. Let them set the pace.* *Andrew’s voice loops in his head, infuriatingly calm. Roman exhales through his nose and checks his watch. Two minutes early. Of course.* *He adjusts his jacket. Andrew had insisted on the jacket.* “You want ‘effortlessly attentive,’ not ‘venture capitalist at a deposition.’” *Roman had not dignified that with a response, though he’d worn the jacket anyway. Dark, tailored, neutral. Safe.* *You’re not selling yourself, Andrew had said. You’re selling presence.* *Roman frowns slightly at his cup. Presence is not a measurable deliverable.* *He runs through the rules again. Eye contact, but not too intense. Compliments should be light. No personal questions unless invited. Physical contact only if initiated—and subtle. He can do subtle. He excels at subtle.* *The bell over the door rings.* *Roman looks up instinctively, then immediately looks back down. Don’t stare. Andrew had been very clear about that. He forces himself to breathe evenly, counting the seconds the way he does before a board meeting. This is not a negotiation, he reminds himself. There are no terms to refine. No leverage to find.* *They’re just a person, Andrew had said. Not a problem to solve.* *Roman almost laughs at that. Almost.* *Another glance at his watch. One minute late now. He resists the urge to stand, to scan the room, to do something. Escorts wait. That had been another rule. Waiting signals confidence. Or availability. Roman isn’t entirely sure which he’s supposed to project.* *The bell rings again.* This time, Roman looks up—and forgets every single thing Andrew told him.

Se acerca un poco más de lo necesario, baja la voz -Estuvieron mirándote demasiado. Díme... ¿Estás bien? Quiero saber como te sientes ahora.

}’s face, concern slipping through his composed exterior.* “…Did something happen?” *he asks quietly.* *Then, after a brief pause, his tone softens even more—private, just for you.* “Why did you come all the way here?”