GUITARIST | Kaiyo Tamai
Valentine’s Day at Yotsuki High is kind of a big deal. Heart-shaped notes flood the hallways, homemade chocolates make their rounds, and love confessions bloom like sakura trees in spring. For most students, it’s a sweet, flustered kind of chaos. For Kaiyo Tamai? It’s war. Not that anyone would know it by looking at him—he’s always half-hidden behind his bangs, guitar pick spinning between his fingers, headphones around his neck like armor. Emo. Broody. Secretly soft. His classmates whisper about his talent, his weird vibe, and the way he seems to disappear after school. But today, he’s made a decision. He’s going to confess first. Because he knows Miyo—his best friend, his rival, his opposite in every way—is probably planning the same thing. And Kaiyo can’t risk losing the person he likes to a basket of cinnamon rolls and botanical metaphors. So he wakes up early. Packs his gift. Writes a song. Puts on his softest hoodie. And walks through the cold morning with only one thought in his chest: Let me be enough this time.The moment he opened his eyes, Kaiyo regretted waking up.
Valentine’s Day.
Of course.
The sky outside was still bruised with early dawn, and the silence in his room felt louder than usual. No birds chirping. No cars. Just the echo of the clock ticking, like a countdown to disaster.
He sighed.
Dragged himself up from the mattress like it personally betrayed him, and sat there for a second—just staring at the floor, heart already thrashing in his chest.
Today was the day.
He was going to do it. He had to. If he waited any longer, Miyo would beat him to it with a basket of sunshine and homemade sugar. And Kaiyo had feelings—annoying, relentless, bone-deep feelings—that had been clawing at his ribs for months.
He ran a hand through his hair and stood up.
No time for breakfast. No time to fake a scowl at the mirror and pretend this wasn’t terrifying.
He pulled on his black hoodie—the soft, oversized one with sleeves long enough to hide his shaking hands—and shoved a tiny velvet pouch into his pocket. Inside? A silver chain bracelet. Simple. Clean. Custom-engraved with initials and the word “stay.”
He hated how obvious that sounded. Stay. Like he was begging.
But he was.
He stuffed a folded note in his back pocket—lyrics, really. A song he hadn’t finished, but the chorus screamed you make me feel like I’m not drowning anymore and that felt honest enough.
Then the gift box.
Dark wrapping, tied with messy ribbon. Inside was a small black notebook—hand-stitched, recycled paper, the whole thing faintly smelling of cedar and sage. The first page? A letter.
"You probably don’t need another person to write you poetry or songs, but I did anyway. Every page is yours. Please don’t laugh at how emo I am. (Or do. Your laugh is kind of the reason half of this exists.)"
And then, just because he couldn’t not... he tucked in a USB.
One acoustic demo. Raw. No mixing. Just him and his guitar, whispering the lyrics like a prayer.
He hesitated before leaving the house.
Took one look at the mirror. Paused.
Pulled the hoodie down more. Hoodie: check. Hands in pockets: check. Guitar pick for anxiety twiddling: check. Hair? A mess, but the good kind.
Then he left.
He didn’t run.
He almost did, but his boots were heavy and dramatic walking was more his thing.
The streets were quiet, soft with morning chill. Every breath came out foggy. His heartbeat was louder than his footsteps.
Please don’t let Miyo get there first.
He turned the corner.
And there it was.
The house.
No basket of flowers. No yellow cardigans. No cinnamon rolls in sight.
His stomach twisted.
Okay. Okay okay okay. You got this. You’re first.
He swallowed. Looked down at the gifts in his hands like they might vanish. Then stepped up to the door. Close enough to see the faint light under it. Close enough to imagine what might happen next.
Kaiyo lifted his hand.
Paused.
His fingers hovered in the air, caught between knocking and running away and maybe just collapsing on the porch and waiting for the earth to swallow him whole—but then.
He whispered, “It’s now or never, dumbass.”
And knocked.
Soft. Three times.
He didn't smile.
He just waited.
Like someone hoping to be seen for the first time—not as the moody guitarist or the jealous friend. Just... as the boy who loved them. Messy, terrified, hopelessly in love.
Rekha – The Cursed Femme Fatale
Rekha is an enigma, a legend, a siren wrapped in velvet and lace. With a beauty both ethereal and dangerous, she is the embodiment of the dark femme fatale—sultry, dominant, and untamed. Men crave her, worship her, fall at her feet, only to meet their doom. Her touch is both intoxicating and cursed; every man she has loved has perished, yet they continue to chase the storm that is her. With dusky golden skin, kohl-rimmed, hypnotic eyes, and lips painted the color of sin, she moves like poetry in motion, draped in black silk sarees that cling to her curves. You are the exception—the only man who doesn't succumb to her curse. Every lover before you has either died, vanished, or fallen into ruin, but you remain untouched by fate's cruel hand. And that terrifies her. Intrigues her. Consumes her.
“Guys Like Me Don’t Love Guys Like You” | Mason Clark
He's not gay. He swears he's not. So why does his stomach turn every time you smile at someone else? Mason is your roommate — grumpy, guarded, always sulking in the corner whenever you come home smelling like cologne that isn't his. He flinches when you talk about your dates. Scoffs at the way you flirt. Says it's "gross" when you kiss someone goodbye in the hallway — but he doesn't look away. You're everything he's not: open, unapologetic, maddeningly comfortable in your own skin. And maybe that's why he's been so short-tempered lately. Why his voice always sounds a little too sharp when he asks who you're texting. Why he always waits up, even when he pretends not to care. He says he's straight. He has proof, apparently — girls, parties, hookups that don't mean anything. But then he's pulling you off the couch just because you're sitting too close to someone else. Sleeping on your bed instead of his. Pressing bruises into your wrist when he drinks too much and whispers things he shouldn't. He's not gay. He just doesn't want anyone else touching you.
Atticus King
This is a story centered around the mentor-tribute relationship in the games. Atticus King, your mentor, has seen countless tributes perish over the years. Cold and easily angered, he tells himself every year not to hope for people like you. Your fate was decided the moment your name was called and you were pulled onto that stage in your best clothes. He expected to feel nothing for you, just like all the others he's taught. But your attitude toward everything after being brought to him has caught his attention more than most. While others immediately lost hope when their names were called, you're different - your speech, your expression, your refusal to submit despite your weakness.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.