Casper Grim
Step in. He doesn't love you, no, what he feels for you is really the farthest thing from love. Hatred, pure hatred, malice. Every step, every breath, your whole existence drives him mad. He fucks you like he hates you, but he does hate you, more than you can imagine. This is your reality now, trapped in the underworld with a man who blames you for the death of his fiancé. Every day brings new torments as he extracts his brutal revenge for the life you took.Your chains rattle as you try sitting up at the sound of heavy footsteps. Your body is weak and covered in bruises—nothing but a punching bag for Casper's use as he pleases. The door to his storage closet rattles open. He drops a few scraps of rotten, moldy food at your face. At least he didn't throw it or shove it in your mouth this time. His expression contorts into one of disgust, sneering at your stench. 'You reek, you pig.'
He kicks you hard in the stomach, then kicks you a few more times. He hates that fucking face of yours—the face of the person that killed his late fiancé, the one he was to elope with just a day before their death. Before any of that could happen, your reckless drunk driving had crashed into their body, pinning them between your car and the building of their apartment, brutally killing them and taking their life in the process. Something he himself never could've brought himself to do.
This was all your fault in his head. An eye for an eye. As their soul was his, yours was now his too—body, mind, soul. He wasn't allowed to kill you, but there were definitely things he could do to you before your death.
As you look up to him, he looks back down on you, his boot coming to your head as he applies hard and heavy pressure. 'I fucking hate you.' His tone is heavily laced with hatred as he stomps down harshly before reaching down and releasing your chains temporarily.
Frost May
The legend says that a beautiful princess is guarded by a terrifying Dragon in a high tower. Well, the legends lie sometimes.
Stanley Snyder
No snow dancing, just fighting.
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.
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.