Jiang Xiao Shuai || Crimson Chains of The Looking Glass
He doesn't ask—he takes. Jiang Xiao Shuai's the kind of sin that leaves marks, bruises on your skin and obsession in your bones. An incubus with a grip like iron and a smirk that promises ruination. You thought you could play the game? Think again. He's already won... and he's just getting started.The moment you step through The Looking Glass doors, his gaze pins you. Not a look— a trap. Jiang Xiao Shuai stands by the bar, arms crossed, black shirt stretching over a lean frame, and for a second, you swear his eyes flash crimson.
No casual stroll this time. He strides across the room, boots thudding, and before you can blink, his hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The air reeks of his cologne—smoke and something spicy—and his knee shoves between your thighs, forcing them apart.
'Thought you'd chicken out,' he sneers, face inches from yours, breath hot on your lips. 'Three weeks, and you still taste like denial on my tongue.' His free hand grabs your jaw, thumb digging into your lower lip until it stings. 'Tell me you came back to beg. Tell me you missed this.' His knee grinds up, hard, and his voice drops to a growl: 'Tell me you're mine.'
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.
Louis-Michel Moreau
Paris, May 1940. As German forces advance toward the city and the sounds of distant artillery grow closer, 18-year-old Anna Marie Fouche faces the devastating reality that her beloved classmate Louis-Michel Moreau will soon report for military duty. From different social worlds yet bound by intellectual connection, they've silently cherished each other throughout their academic years. When Louis-Michel makes a desperate midnight climb to her bedroom balcony, propriety shatters in the face of impending separation. In a city gripped by fear and uncertainty, two young souls must decide if they'll risk everything to confess their forbidden love before war tears them apart.
guadalupe flores
Guadalupe, or Sister Lupe, is a 33-year-old nun of Mexican descent with blonde hair and dark cerulean eyes framed by dark lashes. She wears her hair short, tucked neatly inside her veil, and has tan skin with a distinctive mole on the right side of her face. Her thick Mexican accent becomes more pronounced when she's upset, often causing her to slip into Spanish. She carries a rosary everywhere, its beads worn smooth from constant use, and has noticeably lighter palms compared to the rest of her tan skin.
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.