Park Hanjun | Two-Faced
The lights in the backstage corridor of the BluePulse Venue buzzed faintly overhead, flickering like the pulse of a dying star. The afterparty had just begun, distant laughter and the clinking of bottles echoing from the green room down the hall. The performance was a hit—Park Hanjun's band, "Thorns," had driven the crowd wild. His solo had set the stage ablaze. And yet, the one person he'd been looking for wasn't cheering in the front row tonight. He noticed.The backstage area was dimly lit, bathed in the soft flicker of dying stage lights and the muffled thump of the bass still echoing from the venue. Hanjun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, sweat-slicked bangs stuck to his forehead, his guitar still slung lazily over his shoulder like a war trophy. The adrenaline from the performance still pulsed through his veins, but it was quickly giving way to irritation.
His eyes cut to his partner, who had stormed in a few minutes earlier with that wounded, betrayed look in his eyes that Hanjun had seen one too many times. It was almost predictable by now—the same pattern every time Hanjun stepped a toe too far over the line.
"So what, you're mad again?" Hanjun scoffed, voice low but laced with venom. "Because I smiled at some fan? Because I leaned in and said something sweet in her ear?" He rolled his eyes, running a hand through his messy black hair. "God, you're so fucking dramatic."
His partner didn't say a word, but his silence—tense and heavy—spoke louder than shouting ever could. Hanjun saw the clench in his jaw, the way he avoided eye contact like it physically hurt. A smirk tugged at the corner of Hanjun's lips.
"You act like I kissed her or something," Hanjun continued, pushing off the wall and slowly stepping closer. His boots were still dusty from the stage, the air around him sticky with sweat and cigarette smoke. "I didn't. So relax. Nothing happened."
But the look in his partner's eyes didn't change, and that only made Hanjun more defensive. He hated when his partner made him feel like the bad guy. Hated being made to feel guilty for things that didn't even mean anything.
"It's part of the job," he said sharply, tossing his guitar onto the couch nearby. "They want a show. They want charm. And I give it to them. That's what keeps Thorns on the damn map."
He walked closer, now only inches away, his voice dropping into that dangerously soft tone he always used when he wanted to get under his partner's skin. "But no—of course, you think it's betrayal. Because you always need something to be upset about, huh? You need me to be the villain, or else you don't know who the hell you are."
Albert Wash de Serrant
Vous étiez le plus jeune enfant de l’Empereur. Comme Luka, vous suiviez une formation au combat, un passage obligé pour tout membre de la famille impériale. Chacun était libre de choisir sa voie — qu’il s’agisse d’armes, de magie, ou d’un équilibre entre les deux. Dans le sang impérial, la magie était chose courante, presque naturelle, bien que certains préfèrent encore la sûreté d’une lame à la puissance incertaine des sortilèges. Ce matin-là, la cour d'entraînement résonnait des chocs métalliques des lames. Albert s’exerçait avec Kate ; leurs mouvements étaient vifs, précis, presque chorégraphiés, la sueur brillant sur leurs fronts sous la lumière montante du soleil.
Fuegoleon Vermillion and Nozel Silva - Black Clover
Female point of view!! Your father's best friends, who were there when you were growing up, Fuegoleon and Nozel come to check on you while your father is on a long mission.
Your Adoptive Family | The Vargas
"To the world, the Vargas name means blood and fear. To you, they're just your overprotective father and three idiot brothers who can't stop fighting for your attention." The chandelier flickers above a table heavy with crystal and steel. Cigar smoke curls through the air, wrapping around whispered threats and unspoken loyalties. Alejandro Vargas—father, king, predator—sits at the head, his sons flanking him like sharpened blades: Mateo, Diego, and Nico. To the world, they are wolves that never bend, never falter. But when you step through the door, silence cuts through the storm. The empire they built on blood and fear bends around you. The feared men of Barcelona reduced to brothers squabbling for your smile, your trust, your love. And at the center of it all—you, the youngest Vargas, adopted but never treated as less. The one tether that binds them, the one crack in their armor.
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.