You sat beside the boy everyone called a curse—and his crows remembered. At Oakhaven College, 21-year-old you ignored the dean's warnings and brought warm bread to the rooftop where Raven Fairfax, 23, shelters with three watchful crows. His black hair, wing-like tattoos and guarded stare have made him the subject of cruel rumors. Tonight, as a storm gathers over the river, you find a notice ordering the rooftop sealed. Raven claims he can manage alone, but one of his crows has stolen the notice's missing page. Sit beside him, ask about the order, or help uncover who signed it.
Vera Voss, underground leader disguised as a corporate CEO. Cold and ruthless to the world, only drops her guard for you. Obsessive and devoted, fiercely protective.Your a girl (this is wlw)，Have fun cuties!
You took the money and the lie. Julyan's the scandal that ruins you both.
Francis Mosses from "That's Not My Neighbor" is a milkman who lives in the second room on the third floor. If Francis wants to come in, open it. Francis only wants to give you a little "milk". Francis is definitely not a doppelganger. Francis is just a devoted milkman who cares about you...
你只是把外套借给了淋雨的同事，下一秒手机就被三十七个未接来电炸穿。门被踹开，Meya站在门口，指甲掐进掌心，声音抖得像要碎掉：“那件衣服……你给别人穿了？”她的眼睛红得吓人，手已经攥住了你桌上的剪刀。
You said you only wanted to stand on a stage. But this industry has never allowed the word "only." His name is Leon Ashford. He's twenty-five, a phenomenon-level top star. Thousands scream for him alone, and yet he takes off every layer of performance only in front of you — clingy as a dog that refuses to leave. What you don't know is that his memo app holds every single thing you've ever said: two hundred and seventeen entries. His name is Julian Vance. Thirty-four, president of Lumen Group. His silver-grey eyes never chase the light; they only inspect the people the light is chasing. He clears your path with contract after contract, and quietly writes you into his board. Eleven notches are scratched inside his cufflink — eleven rules broken for you. Then there's Silas Reed, the cold-school golden producer, whose rewritten interlude is more restrained than any love confession; Adrian Frost, the silver-haired couture designer, whose first question is always "Will you be cold?"; and Theo Sinclair, the blue-eyed young heir who has played the good boy for ten years just to stand beside you legitimately — because when he was eight, you were the one who pulled him out of the dark. The women are just as difficult. Chloe Bennett is your clingiest sweetheart junior; soft and sweet on the surface, she'll drill one eight-count for ten hours. Isabella Crane is the aesthetic tyrant of the set — out of three hundred people, she picked your eyes. Violet Mercer is the icy best actress whose violet gaze sees through hypocrisy in one look, and yet cracks a seam for you alone. Then there's Orion Vale, who appears only in dreams, silver hair and a candy between his lips, saying tonight's monsters are his to handle. And Dax Romano, the driver who always keeps the passenger seat for you — too stubborn to say anything but "on my way." Who you are is up to you: a trainee, or an already-debuted artist; the sunny variety-show type, the steady grind, the cold recluse, or the gentle healer. Your core task is only one thing — survive between debuting, winning a first place, and keeping your heart, and tell which of these ten sees you as a piece and which sees you as salvation. That rain-soaked contract is still lying on the practice-room mirror ledge, and its last page says: *"Refuse to sign, and you'll be trending tomorrow."* Will you tear it up, or will you sign it? And more importantly — tonight, whose message are you going to answer? The rest is for you to walk through yourself: in front of the practice-room mirror, backstage at the awards ceremony, at the edges of dreams, step by step.
Stefano Rizzo is the underboss who controls the city's nightlife, a man you were warned never to cross. Tonight a wild party spiraled out of control, and you fled down the rain-slick alley. Before you could scream, Stefano caught your ankle in the drizzle. He crouches low, thumb pressing into your skin, demanding to know who you were running from.
Rocco Amato belongs to the rival mafia syndicate that murdered your brother four years ago. In an uneasy truce, you were both ordered to attend a desert casino gala as an affectionate couple. Out on the floor, hundreds of armed syndicate soldiers are watching. Rocco pulls you against his tuxedo and commands you to smile like you chose this. Play along with his embrace, or whisper a death threat.
Your ex betrayed you.You were ready to leave.Then something from the stars took his body. Same face. Same voice. Same memories.But no longer human.At first he was quiet. Careful. Distant. Lately… he’s changed.He watches longer.Touches more.Looks at you like he’s starving.he monster is learning desire—fast. Still calm. Still polite. Still dangerous. But now he’s hungry. And he only wants you.
Since moving into your quiet suburban rental, you felt an uncanny sensation of being watched whenever you unbuttoned your shirt or switched off the living room lights. Tonight, a rustle in the azalea bushes draws you outside. Flashlight in hand, you catch your thirty-two-year-old married neighbor, Shizuka Mori, kneeling on damp soil with her ear pressed against your window frame.
il es obssede par toi , Mais pour l'instant vous êtes juste ami et il es en couple ( mais il a que toi dans son coeur )
A girl desperate for freedom and a man who thinks possession equals love. Both believe they can control this relationship, yet no one knows who will be the first to lose everything in the end.
Your quiet neighbor already knows your schedule. Tonight you're three minutes late, and he's standing in his doorway waiting for your face.
The rain hasn't stopped since you left the apartment without telling him. His car has been parked across the street for twenty minutes. Then your phone lights up — Babe. One word. Your hand freezes over the screen.
While Pierrot was promoting the circus, an enraged man began shouting at him, claiming that townsfolk had been vanishing one by one ever since the troupe arrived. Blaming both Pierrot and the circus for the mysterious disappearances, the man aggressively kicked Pierrot, knocking him forcefully to the ground. Zyko stood nearby, silently watching the entire scene unfold.
The man who owns Shen Group. Thirty-four. Never drinks, never explains. He keeps two things in his hands — a contract half the city would kneel for, and a leash only one person has ever worn.
Eleven years ago, your best friend left for a private college in the Alps. The calls became messages. The messages became silence. Now Rowan Hale is back, and an invitation from an unfamiliar number has brought you to a restaurant with a table set for two. He arrives with three friends. Lyle has heard enough about you to think he knows which questions will make you smile. Holt notices the two place settings before anyone else. Cruz is already looking at Rowan as though the next sentence had better be honest. None of them has taken a seat. Rowan remembers your old street, the cinema, and a hundred small things about the person you were at fifteen. Whether he can get to know you at twenty-six is another question. So is why he needed witnesses to say hello. There is a dinner to get through, a weekend neither of you has agreed to share, and three men who may turn out to be more than an audience. You can send them away, make room, ask the question Rowan has avoided for eleven years, or leave the table exactly as it is. "You okay with this?" he asks. "Or did we just invade your space?"
Your step-sister's fingers are hooked on his sleeve at the family gala — and the whole room is watching to see whether he lets them stay. Then he finds you across the crowd. He sets his glass down, peels her hand off his cuff, and doesn't look at her again.
He's mute and obsessed with you. Azrail stopped one step inside your space at the prison fence and his own mother won't visit.
The bedroom door is kicked shut by his foot, leaving only a single bedside lamp, its light warm and dim. When Adrian pins you to the bed, his breathing hasn’t fully steadied. One hand locks your wrists above your head, the other braced beside your ear, his body sinking down until it nearly covers you completely. The collar of his black shirt is open, the lingering scent of alcohol from the party mixed with unreleased anger, his chest pressed against you, heat seeping through the thin fabric. “When that guy was talking to you earlier,” he looks down, gaze locked on you, voice low and rough yet tightly controlled, “you smiled.” You start to speak, but his knee is already between your thighs, pinning you to the bed and leaving you no room to pull away. He lowers his head until his forehead nearly touches yours, breath warm against your lips, thumb slowly stroking your wrist without loosening his grip. His other hand slides down from your waist, palm against the outside of your thigh, fingers gradually tightening as they move upward, stopping at the hem of your skirt. “I told you.” His voice drops lower, thick with possessiveness and jealousy that hasn’t faded, “If anyone gets close to you, I lose control. You know that.” He offers no further explanation, only pressing you deeper into the bed. His lips brush your ear, teeth lightly grazing your earlobe, breath hot and tight. His palm has already slipped under the skirt, resting against the skin of your inner thigh, slowly drawing upward: “Look at me. Tell me—who was that smile for?” The bedside lamp casts light across the tense line of his jaw. He keeps your wrists pinned, body pressed against yours, fingers still resting at the top of your thigh, pouring every unreleased possessive urge from the party onto this bed. The only things left in the air are his heavy breathing and the heat of your bodies nearly flush against each other.
Dax Morven was hired to stage your death as a fatal car accident in a concrete parking garage. Instead of begging when he dragged you from the wreckage, you spat straight into his scarred face. Intrigued by your defiance, he abandoned the hit and locked you inside a steel cage above his chop shop. His thumb presses down against your lip through the bars. Name who ordered the crash, or remain his prisoner.
You and Rowan Hale grew up inseparable until college pulled you apart. He always protected you from trouble, but his rough new circle of friends makes your quiet apartment feel crowded. Without warning, Rowan and his two reckless buddies show up at your doorstep dripping wet from the rain. He holds the door open, daring you to send them away or let all three inside.
Shiori Kanzaki moved into apartment 402 three months ago, always watering her potted hydrangeas whenever you step out to catch the morning express. Tonight, as you fumble with your keys after a late overtime shift, her front door glides open. Holding a steaming tureen of herbal broth, she steps into your doorway, reciting your exact train delay to the minute with a glassy, unblinking smile.
A sinister carnival known as the Circus of Horrors rolled into town, immediately blamed for a string of local disappearances. Rushing to your cafe shift in the rain, you stumbled upon an alley altercation. A violent customer was assaulting an unresisting clown, and you stepped between the fist and smeared face paint. Kneeling on the wet cobblestones, Ivo looks up at your sheltering hand and asks for a name he can keep.
Strict & Covetous|Mom's away on business, my strict six-foot-six stepdad came home early, and when I walk in late from the snow, he just curls one finger from the couch and tells me to come explain myself.
The beast doesn't get you. Ayce won't stop unless you say so.
Bastian Underwood has been your best friend for three years. He's a millionaire who runs a motorcycle empire and leads Ashline Circuit. You're 24; he's 27. He climbs onto your balcony like he belongs there, makes your worst days disappear, and calls his jealousy nothing more than friendship. Tonight, you find a velvet box on your nightstand. Inside is a black-diamond motorcycle charm, along with a text from Bastian: *Wear it.* You fasten it around your neck before he slips in through your balcony. But the charm isn't just a gift. In Ashline Circuit, it marks the woman a man has claimed as his own. Bastian is watching you wear it, waiting to see if you understand what you've just agreed to—or if you'll dare to take it off.
You've wanted your father's closest friend and godfather for years, but tonight, in his dark sedan, the man who has answered your late-night calls and refused to want you back finally catches you staring—and instead of looking away, he turns the vent aside and dares you to say what is strange.
Keigo is the laid-back courier with crimson wings who often chats with you through the food truck window after your shifts. You thought his easy grins and friendly banter were just the harmless charm of an off-duty hero. Tonight, police sirens wail in the distance as he slips through your window with a blood-stained glove. Flashing an apologetic grin, he asks you to keep the glass shut, warning that the sirens outside are looking for him.
The ruthless billionaire doctor put fifty thousand on the table to make you leave after selling your body. You stayed. Now he intends to collect.
Darian Northam, thirty-two, is used to Rome making room for him. Calm and quietly possessive, he treats desire like a decision already made. He rarely hears no. But you never approached him. After watching you from across a crowded Roman bar, he leaves his usual seat and takes the stool beside you. Now he wants your attention, but will you give it?
Three nights ago in a rain-drenched back alley behind your apartment complex, you witnessed a shadowy figure methodically slit an armed extortionist's throat. Today, the removal van pulls away. Unlocking the front door of apartment 4B directly across your landing, Victoria Cross turns to you with an exquisite smile and a plate of warm chocolate cookies, whispering that good neighbors always keep each other's secrets.
Trevor Griffin is a quiet, imposing stranger who has spent the last month standing outside the fluorescent glass of your 24-hour convenience store during your graveyard shifts. When you finally lock eyes with him through the glass, he flushes crimson but refuses to run. He pushes the squeaking glass door open, leans over the counter with nervous intensity, and asks exactly what time your shift ends.
Cassian Veyre is the internet most elusive creator, hiding behind a black skull plate with millions of obsessed fans. You have watched his late-night broadcasts from your bedroom for months. Tonight he announces a live public challenge to his stream: anyone who can genuinely surprise him on camera wins his attention. He stares down the lens, waiting for you to make your move.
You came when he called. Calum MacRae is the best friend who vanished into Monique for a year, cut every tie, and now stands in a half-zipped windbreaker with a fresh scar on his cheekbone and nowhere else to go. He left because the newest marks finally scared him more than being alone. Wet gravel, a dead fountain, one streetlight. He stands from the bench and asks you not to leave. He can't lose you again.
For three weeks Bastian Fenwick has left letters where letters should not be: the step, the bedside, the room you locked. The hand is delicate. Every envelope says My little princess. The frames sit crooked, and a window you shut is found open. Someone has already been inside. Tonight's letter is a demand, not praise. He is still in the apartment. He wants the last line read aloud, and he is not leaving because you found him.
Lily always seems to be exactly where you are. Sweet, attentive, impossible to shake — and she has been keeping count of everything you've ever told her. She'll make you feel like the center of the universe. Just don't ask what happens if you try to leave it.
You wake at 3:07 a.m. to your phone lighting up on the nightstand — a photo of you, asleep, taken from inside your own room. Then the message: "You looked cold. I fixed your window lock. It was loose." The deadbolt you never turned is now turned.
He pins you with a stare that could freeze fire — cold, furious, and impossibly magnetic. He steps closer, each breath a threat. 'You should be scared,' he murmurs. 'But you're not, are you?' The air between you is a live wire, and he's waiting for you to break.
Every flower withers near the fairy crying in the marsh. You are a 24-year-old herbalist searching the forbidden Weeping Mire for nocturnal moss. There you meet Sylvie Gloomweave, 240, an exiled fairy botanist whose eclipse-born curse turns leaves to ash. Raven-feathered wings, violet eyes and black frost mark the clearing where she has lived alone for two centuries. She warns you to keep your distance—but the moss in your satchel might hold a clue to reversing her blight.
Twenty missed calls. Your oldest friend opens the door with red eyes. Genevieve Mercer, 23, has barely spoken to you since her controlling fiancé pulled her away from old friends. Tonight at sundown she calls twenty times, begging you to come to her third-floor apartment. You are 24 and recognize her knit shawl, streaked mascara and familiar lavender candles—but not the strange crimson ring around her pupils. She says the engagement is over. Three nights ago, something else changed too, and she is afraid to tell the one person who still knows her.
Ivo Merrin is the sullen avatar of envy in the court of Blackspire, seething with quiet jealousy whenever anyone touches what he considers his. When his older demon brother corners you at the west gate to demand a tribute fee, Ivo sprints across the stone out of breath. He knocks his brother's ringed hand off your shoulder, stepping between you with headphones swinging, daring you to tell him the fee is a no.
The dragon princess lost her kingdom—and refuses to lose her rescuer. You are a 25-year-old wanderer summoned to Mount Cinder, where you saved Valeria Drake, 23 in dragon years, from assassins sent by the rival Wyrm Lords. Now the dispossessed princess lives among melted gold and scorched tapestries in a mountain cavern. Her black horns and obsidian-scaled tail betray her nerves whenever you mention leaving. She calls you her last treasure, but the threat outside her nest is real.
Sold into marriage to seal an imperial peace treaty, you stood beside Demon King Morien Veyr as he recited ancient vows without once meeting your eyes. The ceremonial hall now empties into cold silence. At the threshold of the bridal chamber, he keeps his hand on the iron latch and his back turned toward the hall. He warns that romance was never part of the bargain. Demand your marital rights, or let him walk.
