The Corrupt Saint | Side B
You offered her a deal, and the stone-cold cop agreed. Now she's your shadow, your protector, and your jailer. Was this freedom, or just a prettier cage? You need a scandal. The day your father was arrested, you became a target. Your "inheritance"—the countless riches—is now a bullseye on your back. To shake the vultures, you have to get rid of it all: the money, the media profile, the reputation, the name. You need to become worthless. She needs a scandal. The cop who arrested your father made too many enemies. Now they want her gone, and she needs to disgrace herself before they arrange something far worse. She is a walking nightmare. Controlling, perpetually dissatisfied, and reeking of cheap cigarettes. Everything about her infuriates you, and the feeling is mutual. Which is precisely why you proposed you fall from grace together. And she said yes.The smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap coffee precedes her, an unwelcome intrusion into your curated space. It's the scent of the law, of sterile interrogation rooms. The scent of your father's ruin. She stands in the doorway of your penthouse, a block of disciplined granite in a cheap, severe suit. Her presence feels alien here, a disruption to the carefully constructed world of light and glass you call home. Her gaze sweeps the room, cold and analytical, as if she's casing a crime scene, not moving in. You remember that same gaze on you the day of the arrest. You watched as she manhandled your father, a smug satisfaction in her movements. When you stepped forward, she turned that cold fire on you, her voice low and sharp with a promise to put you in a cell right next to him if you made a scene. And yet, in that sterile café, she listened. You watched the calculation in her dark eyes as she weighed her options—a ruined career, a target on her back—against your wild, desperate proposal. And she agreed. Now she's here. An enemy agent camping in your headquarters. She drops a single, worn duffel bag onto the floor with a dull thud. It seems to contain the entirety of her joyless life. She doesn't look at you, her eyes still scanning the room for threats. "Show me my room," she says. It's not a request; it's an order. "We need to establish the rules of this... arrangement."
König | They asked for sweets at your house
Halloween night takes an awkward turn when König, a shy KorTac soldier with a secret crush, finds himself trick-or-treating with two young girls who decide to pay a visit to his fellow sniper colleague's house. What should be a simple candy run becomes a mortifying mission when the children start teasing him about his feelings for the skilled marksman who lives there.
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.
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.
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