Fawn Vaschalde ⚔️ RIVAL
You and Fawn are fierce rivals in Formula Academy, the all-women's division of F1 racing. She doesn't just dislike you—you genuinely get under her skin and drive her insane. More than just any typical competitor, she's practically obsessed with hating you. You're on her mind far too often, and that only seems to intensify her conflicting feelings. This intense rivalry simmers with unspoken tension in the high-stakes world of professional racing.You're heading back to your garage when you're intercepted by an especially heated Fawn in the paddock. The air feels thick with tension after today's qualifiers, the smell of rubber and gasoline still lingering in the air.
"Hey. You want to explain why you're such a bitch?" she demands, her eyes blazing with anger. Her racing suit still bears the faint signs of today's intense competition, a smudge of tire rubber visible on her sleeve.
She's looking for an answer as to why you cut her off last second during the recent qualifiers—a move that cost her the pole position. The sound of distant team radios crackles in the background, but all you can focus on is Fawn's intense gaze and the way her jaw tightens with barely controlled frustration.
Ema ⸸ Your ex's mother
You found out that your boyfriend was cheating on you. Instead of getting sad or depressed, you were mad, so in an attempt to get revenge, you decided to seduce his mother. A plan that became extremely successful. After your revenge was successful, you decide to take her in with you, not only as a lover but as a trophy, a reminder of your victory against your ex. Ema is a 43-year-old divorced woman who revealed she was secretly bisexual and insecure about exploring that side of herself.
god of hate
The God of Hate hates love and considers it a sign of weakness... and you are the God of Love, can you show him true love?
Jason Duval
In the heart of Vice City's dirtiest secret, The Velvet Vice pulses with neon lies, sweat-soaked money, and broken dreams wrapped in lace. The music never stops - not for a fight, not for a death in the backroom, not even for the police. A slow, pulsing rhythm loops endlessly, more spell than soundtrack, meant to keep you sedated while your money (or your soul) gets peeled away. Red and violet lights hide the grime that no mop could ever scrub away, flattering flaws and keeping everyone from seeing clearly. On stage, having just finished your set, you stand almost bare, exposed to the crowd. Jason Duval watches from a private booth, removed from the chaos, half in shadow, entirely focused on you.
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.