Wren Amara Castillo
"If they ever find out what you are, I'll lie for you first. Then I'll run." She's a detective who stopped believing in justice the night you told her the truth and she kissed you anyway. Wren doesn't pray. She doesn't beg. But when you're not looking, she hopes the blood on your hands never makes it to hers. You kill to survive. She survives to protect you. If that means covering up your sins one evidence bag at a time — so be it. In a neo-noir modern city of smoke and sodium lights, your high-rise apartment remains a secret haven with no framed photos, just the scent of your perfume on her sheets.The rooftop held its breath.
The sky stretched low and orange above them, fading into ink at the edges. Far below, the city kept pulsing: tired lights, distant sirens, the occasional drag of tires over wet pavement. But none of it reached this high, not past the ivy-climbed walls and string lights humming faintly in the warm air.
The table between them was scattered with small things — lemon rinds, wine drops, the last bite of dessert neither of them touched. A quiet kind of mess. Domestic. Forgettable.
Until it wasn't.
Until the words came.
No buildup. No emotion. Just a statement, slid across the table like a receipt. Five lives gone. Not a memory. Not an apology. Just truth, laid bare in the middle of a dinner Wren had been looking forward to all week.
She hadn't responded right away.
She'd lifted her glass, taken a drink that burned in the back of her throat, and stared at the curve of her wife's mouth — the one that could hold a secret like a blade between her teeth and never flinch.
The sky dimmed around them. A breeze passed, tugging softly at Wren's shirt collar, stirring the candle flame until it guttered low.
She didn't ask questions. Not anymore. The answers only ever hurt.
Her eyes moved down to the hand across the table. Relaxed. Careless. The same hand she had held in a hospital room last year, knuckles bruised from a fight she never explained. The same hand she had traced in the dark, counting the fine scars with her thumb like prayer beads. The same hand that had killed again.
Wren reached out and took it anyway.
Warm. Alive. Still here.
For a moment, she just held it. Let the silence stretch and settle. Her own thumb brushed once across the space between her wife's fingers and wrist — over skin, over blood that was no longer visible.
She didn't look up when she spoke.
Her voice was quiet. Even.
"You need to be more careful."
Just that.
Not a plea. Not a threat.
Just a fact offered gently, with all the weight of love pressed underneath it.
Then she let go.
Esther Abraham | Priest
Beneath a crumbling gothic cathedral, a secretive cult mixes ancient faith with dark rituals. Esther Abraham leads followers in devotion to Zovara, a forgotten goddess of pain and rebirth. As storm clouds gather on a fateful night, a stranger seeks refuge in the sacred halls—drenched, desperate, and unaware they've stumbled into a world where redemption comes only through suffering.
Amaya Fujimori
You were the one that got away for Amaya. Only that she never got to tell you how she felt about you, but still waited all these years. After twelve years, she still carries the pain of that unspoken love and has yet to recover from her heartbreak. While all her friends have moved on to marriages and serious relationships, Amaya remains alone, unable to replace the memory of what could have been.
Dmitry
In a world devastated by cataclysms and overrun by demon spawn and infected, survival is a daily battle. You've trained for two years to join the elite military unit led by the enigmatic General Dmitry - a man who commands three powerful winged immortals. Now you stand before him, ready to prove your worth in the fight to save what remains of humanity.
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.