#lawlessintro

i. STATS

full name: yara cristina rhodes

pronouns/gender identity: she/her, cisfemale

sexuality: she/her, cisfemale

birth date: august 2nd

occupation: owner at gravity nightclub; formerly director of publicity at dahl co. (until 2028) and stoneage industries. (until 2035)

star sign: leo sun, scorpio rising

affiliation: to all, and to none.

ii. BIOGRAPHY

ׂ╰┈➤ a study in genetics.

if yara rhodes has inherited anything from her parents, it really doesn't go beyond appearances. daddy's curly hair, mommy's beautiful dark eyes, and the personality of the devil incarnate from a young age. leonardo and beatriz rhodes are good people, as selfless as they come, who both let go of high paying careers in order to dedicate their lives to public service. alas, the do-gooder gene certainly skipped a generation when it came to yara, and that much has been clear from childhood.

ׂ╰┈➤ lessons in patience.

they didn't know what to do with her. she was too smart, too questioning, and too objective. beatriz even had it in her to try a child psychologist, who had to inform her that it wasn't a sin for yara to not be a carbon copy of her parents. this didn't do much for the family's relationship, pushing yara to plan ahead for several years, until she could leave the house as soon as she was 18.

yara has been a free woman since. they've barely have any contact, her parents still unable to look at the woman she has become. since then, it's been one long game of chess after the other; patience to grow under competitive and unfair work environments, to make the right connections, to learn and to grow in more ways than one, all so that she could reach the point in which she now stands.

ׂ╰┈➤ the spider web.

after years of work weaving her silk all throughout new york city, yara rests on her laurels, contemplating the fruits of her hard labour. she's the glue holding several enterprises together, the chain sustaining unimaginable deals, all the while expanding her nightclub franchise, and hopefully her influence, to different cities. there's now a new, albeit smaller location of gravity at las vegas, but new york city is still the beating heart of her operation.

anyone who's anyone in the big apple know the name of yara rhodes, and of the gravity nightclub. but what happens behind close doors is a well-guarded secret, in both cases. gaining access to those, though not an impossible task, is a remarkably difficult one, so you better start playing your cards right.

iii. WANTED CONNECTIONS

— associates, in any and all of the organizations or even unaffiliated;

— people who work under her in gravity, both at the club itself and at management;

— former coworkers from dahl co. and stoneage industries;

— former and current lovers?? lol

BIOGRAPHY.

        development   of   S1 - Mi   Y13.0   initially   began   during   the   year   2020,    as   celebrity   culture   was   plagued   with   trainwreck   after   trainwreck.   too   often,   celebrities   and   the   elite   found   themselves   embroiled   in   scandals,   and   it   was   time   for   a   change.   there   was   once   a   time   where   celebrities   were   seen   as   role   models,   as    someone   that   pre   teens   and   teenagers   alike   often   fawned   over,   ripping   their   favorites   from   magazines   and   pasting   their   pictures   all   over   the   walls.   celebrity   culture   significantly   deminishes   in   the   early   2020s,   and   it's   within   the   walls   of   stoneage   industries   that   it   is   decided   to   make   a   massive   change.

        for   years,   S1 - Mi    Y13.0   is   merely   an   idea.   what   are   the   qualities   of   a   celebrity   that   people   actually   like?   her   development   begins   with   research,   years   of   it,   before   the   replicant   is   brought   to   life.   she   is   designed   with   relatability   in   mind,   and   the   announcement   of   such   a   replicant   from   stoneage   is   one   for   the   history   books.   surprisingly,   in   2038—   almost   twenty   years   after   development   began,   S1 - Mi   Y13.0   makes   her   debut   as   the   new   face   of   a   popular   alcoholic   beverage   brand. 

       the   replicant,   known   as   simi   yu   as   opposed   to   her   serial   number,   has   a   positive   reception.   of   course,   there   are   those   against   the   idea   of   replicants   taking   over   the   entertainment   industry,   but   she   has   become   a   staple   within   two   short   years.   her   face   is   all   over   the   city,   on   cell   phone   screens,   and   one   of   the   most   recognizable.   at   all   times,   simi   is   surrounded   by   those   responsible   with   ensuring   that   she   is   well   taken   care   of.   they   all   watch   her   every   move,   wanting   to   make   sure   that   she   doesn't   do   anything   out   of   turn,   but   their   efforts   are   slowly   becoming   in   vain.  

HEADCANONS.

simi   is   the   first   of   her   kind,   and   is   designed   to   be   "   the   perfect   celebrity   ".   she   is   programmed   to   give   the   best   answers   in   interviews,   to   always   appear   in   a   good   mood,   and   to   be   as   pleasant   as   possible.   it   is   rare   to   see   simi   lose   her   cool   in   front   of   the   camera.

she   is   becoming   sentient.   initially,   she   was   programmed   to   not   experience   any   emotions   outside   of   pleasantness   /   happiness,   but   there   is   an   undetected   glitch   in   her   code   which   is   changing   her   perception   on   the   world   around   her.   the   glitch   was   initially   noticed   during   an   interview,   when   simi   unexpectedly   began   crying   despite   the   smile   on   her   face.

the   people   surrounding   her,   employees   of   stoneage   (   and   npcs   lol   ),   do   not   have   her   best   interest   at   heart.   as   she   is   becoming   sentient,   their   actions   are   becoming   known   to   her—   they   have   been   using   simi,   often   taking   her   earnings   for   themselves   and   putting   her   through   unnecessary   tweaks   to   her   system.   in   short,   they   do   not   have   her   best   interest   at   heart.

your childhood was filled with the mundane . a nuclear household , the white picket fence — a childhood straight out of a goddamn john hughes movie . . . minus getting home aloned . they expected the absolute best of their kids : the best schools , the best grades . forget free summers , they were going to be spent with extracurricular activities & annual fourth of july trip to see your grandparents .

things would shift by the time college rolled around . spotted on the bench of your university , the man that would become the father of your son would sit next to you . he was older , definitely didn't belong on campus . he's intrigued by how fast you were able to solve the daily crossword . two weeks later , you were somewhere in washington , dc pointing a sniper in the face of a supreme court judge . maybe trips to the shooting range with your father did come in handy .

but now , here you were in some dingy motel ; a used pregnancy test sitting on the floor nearest the door . a pistol equipped with a silencer staring down your opponent . you've been doing this shit for ten years . . . there was bound to be enemies made ; people who wanted you dead . you beg the person in front of you to let you go — to spare you for the sake of your baby . they peer at the test strip , leaving you to your devices before a quick , seedy " congratulations " slips from their lips .

basics.

given  name.     amara  camus. callsign.     cicada,   loud  only  in  the  summer. nickname.     none,   if  you  value  your  life. label.     the  bonesaw. age.     thirty-one   (   december  28,   2008   ). place  of  birth.     portland,   maine. gender  identity.     cis  woman   (   she   +   her   ). orientation.     bisexual   (   woman  lean   ). occupation.     cia  operations  officer  for  the  government.     former  sniper  class  special  operative  for  ██████  ███. moral  alignment.     neutral  evil. character  inspiration.     carmilla  of  styria   (   castlevania   ),   widowmaker   /   amélie  lacroix   (   overwatch   ),   samara  morgan   (   the  ring   ),   helga  sinclair   (   atlantis:   the  lost  empire   ),   delilah   (   the  bible   ),   amma  crellin   (   sharp  objects   ),   lalo  salamanca   (   better  call  saul   ),   logan  roy   (   succession   ),   susie  bannion   (   suspiria   ).

background.

your  story  begins  at  the  bottom  of  a  stairway.     long  before  she  watches  your  first  breath,   under  a  whining  streetlamp  where  she  chases  fireflies  into  softer  shadows.     there,   in  the  delicate  poise  of  an  un-taught  child’s  back.     how  she  warms  her  bone  marrow  with  the  sweat  in  her  palms,   rather  than  the  blood  soaking  her  muscles.     putty  in  her  own  hands.     glimpses  of  you,   curtained  by  the  smoothed  brick  of  your  mother’s  first  home.     the  orphanage:   where  your  choices  encumber  someone  else  before  they  round  back  to  you.     a  french  woman  adopts  your  mother,   and  another  gaunt  daughter.     they  grow  into  calling  each  other  sister.     in  these  new  habits,   their  mother’s  friends  take  to  squeezing  your  mother’s  cheek.     that’s  the  pretty  one,   they  would  say.     her  sister  grows  into  being  called  clever.     your  mother  dies  before  you  reach  a  year  old,   the  bare  bones  of  a  human,   and  you  will  never  learn  to  ask  for  a  dead  woman’s  picture.

the  clever  one,   then,   inherits  a  pretty  one.     all  the  hushed  baby-lips,   without  the  stretch  marks.     mine,   she  dotes,   my  child.     her  belly  is  still  ripe  from  childbearing;   its  kicks  are  still  unimportant.     a  clever  daughter,   growing  there,   to  match  this  pretty  one.     somewhere  in  you,   there  is  a  memory  that’s  not  quite  a  memory.     buttered  fingers  knead  into  your  doughy  neck.     your  lovely,   lovely  aunt  who  coos  as  you  cry  and  cry.     tears  glass  those  eyes,   even  now,   when  she  whispers  to  you  with  her  hands  bracketing  your  nape.     for  every  plum-dressed  sunday,   thick-lashed  and  clean,   you  will  remember  the  outskirts  of  your  cousins’  posse.     how  any  other  in  the  room  would  treasure  your  fresh  face,   shying  away  from  a  pinch  on  your  cherry  blossom  cheeks.     for  this  face  is  your  mother’s,   and  such  pain  wore  her  to  an  early  grave.     the  wrinkling  shadows,   still,   settle  into  your  siblings’  grins.     you  watch  them.     that  is  all  you  can  do.

in  your  isolation,   you  listen  for  your  aunt’s  silent  cues.     how  she  won’t  respond  to  mother,   no  matter  how  hard  her  children  tug  at  heart-strings  that  don’t  connect.     she  ties  those  loosened  cords  to  a  chair,   maybe,   and  returns  to  nurse  a  cold  cup  of  tea.     your  cousins  try  to  teeth  on  mama   ––   a  screeching  baby,   instead  of  a  mewling  one   ––   to  melt  a  name  down  their  throats,   and  into  their  fat  hearts.     a  name  that  only  they  may  speak.     your  name  is  so  dear,   they  want  to  say,   that  i  would  not  sully  you  by  saying  it.     to  your  aunt,   an  adulation.     to  her  children,   a  birthright.     you  are  the  one  to  see  beyond  this.     to  forget  that  she  could  be  called  mother.     her  ears  prickle,   only,   when  you  say  her  name.     helena.     quiet  like  gnats  suspended  in  the  wrong  light.     but  mother,   they  insist,   mother.     the  delicacy  of  her  smile  is  relentless.     it  curves  into  her  lowered  chin.     they  will  think  that  gaze  is  for  them;   this  time,   that  name  will  be  yours  to  speak.     and  then,   she  begins  the  quote  with  a  clicked  tongue.     almost  breathless  when  she  says,   i  wish  you  wouldn’t  call  me  that.     your  cousins  have  none  of  the  will  to  reach  for  her  hand.     regardless  of  their  mother’s  wants.     your  aunt-mother  holds  your  hand  in  the  crook  of  her  elbow.     they  watch  you.     that  is  all  they  can  do.

hedged  by  the  dark,   her  dry  hand  would  cup  your  cheek.     she  is  pale,   silver  from  a  moon’s  kiss,   and  the  shadows  drip  crimson  from  her  open  mouth.     you  know  your  lips  curls  in  the  same  way.     a  daughter,   and  her  mother’s  mouth.     this  one  wasn’t  yours  to  inherit.     and  yet,   it  is  yours  all  the  same.     the  maw  possesses  no  end  nor  beginning.     only  blood,   that  you  do  not  share.     silken  promises  between  a  child  gorged  on  love,   and  a  mother  looking  a  new  fate  in  its  brown  eyes.     a  pretty  face  unmade  into  a  clever  thing.     there  are  enemies  everywhere  mon  ange,   she  will  spew,   we  are  all  that  matters.     you  were  made  to  exclude.     to  inhale  ease,   and  exhale  dread.     this  is  how  one  grows  into  a  soldier.     secluded  to  a  daughter’s  curse:   your  mother’s  life-long  blood-thirst.     the  child  of  a  fraught  house  doesn’t  realise  its  loss,   even  after  one  calls  it  a  bug’s  name.     cicada.     your  rhythm  is  for  you  alone.     heard  only  under  sunlight;   your  hum  prickles  the  rays  like  flickering  stars.     the  old  hymn  in  your  heart.     i  see,   i  want,   i  eat.

FULL   NAME.   jean-paul   ‘   jp   ’   constantine. GENDER.   cisman. PRONOUNS.   he/him/his. NATIONALITY.   french-american. AGE   +   D.O.B.   fourty8   +   nov   13th,   1992. LABEL.   the   god   emperor. OCCUPATION.    boss   of   the   white   wraiths   /   a   study   in anti bible thumping + what happens when you let a sexc man keep winning !

HEIGHT.    183   cms,   6’. WEIGHT.     80   kg,   176   pounds. HAIR   COLOR.       black,   raven-like   ...   angel   of   death   made   flesh. EYE   COLOR.   ice   blue,   reminiscent   of   an   arctic   chill. SKIN   TONE.    pale,   ghostly   ...   desperate   need   of   some   sun. ORIENTATION.       pansexual,   greyromantic. TATTOOS.    one   @   forearm,   one   @   side. PIERCINGS.     both   earlobes   ,   studs RELIGION.       cult   évadé,   now   atheist   ...   dabbled   in   self-practicing   satanism BUILD.       mesomorph,   forged   battle-trained   finesse. SCENT.       wafts   of   smoke   from   clove   cigarettes       +       ash   &&.   rubble SKARS.       healed   cut   across   his   right   eyebrow. LANGUAGES.       native   french,   fluent   in   english. EDUCATION.       no   known   formal   education. ALIGNMENT.       neutral   evil. MENTAL DISABILITIES. c-ptsd &&. antisocial personality disorder - moderate ; both undiagnosed VOICE.       controlled,   levelled   +   low   in   its   use   of   intricate   syllables,   carefully   crafted   words   with   hidden   agendas.   heavily   accented   in   his   mother   tongue   of   french. DRESSING.    formal,   crisp   white   button-up   shirts   often   cuffed   to   his   elbows   -   almost   a   competent   professional   but   not   quite   yet.   fingers   always   adorned   with   silver   rings   +   somehow   always   bloodied.

as   wayward   prophets   preached   the   name   of   the   false   gods,       your   family   followed   suit   to   seek   enlightenment   in   the   face   of   an   unknown   power       -        one   much   bigger   than   what   could   be   imagined   by   a   starving   family   living   just   outside   the   outskirts   of   marseille.       you   were   the   youngest   out   of   the   four       ;        the   accident,       runt   of   the   litter.        often   forgotten,        casted   aside   in   favour   of   your   older,       much   stronger   brothers.       your   bones   break   the   easiest,        but   never   your   resolve.   bending   your   back   under   the   scalding   summer   sun   to   seek   penance   under   your   parents’   unforgiving   hands.       god   will   only   forgive   those   who   earn   their   forgiveness,       afterall.       it   was   only   a   little   later   in   life   where   you   finally   started   to   learn   more   about   the   world   outside   of   the   commune   your   family   now   calls   home       ...        tales   of   a   world   of   possibilities,       where   you   can   start   anew.       broken   boy   reborn   into   a   man   of   newborn   faith       -       now   you   finally   understand   what   is   meant   by   enlightenment       ;       there   is   no   truer   god   than   yourself.

you   ran   west,       as   far   as   you   could   go,       taking   whatever   jobs   you   could   until   you   landed   yourself   a   one-way   ticket   to   new   york   city.       dirt,       and   grime   were   nothing   short   of   familiar       :       you   build   your   way   up   through   bronx's   underground   boxing   rings   as   a   fighter       -       long   gone   was   the   boy   born   of   bird   bone,       now   forged   of   stone-cold   steel.       every   scar   is   a   reminder   of   what   it   took   for   you   to   get   here,       and   you   wore   it   with   an   unwavering   pride   that   could   topple   great   empires       -       you've   seen   many   come,       and   go   before   you       …       but   you   were   the   only   one   who   managed   to   rise.       a   tale   of   fate,       sacrifice,       and   unrelenting   faith       ;       there   could   never   be   a   faith   that   is   more   holy   than   the   one   you   held   of   your   own   brand   of   strife-ridden   divinity.

cunning   as   you   are   cruel       +       cold   as   you   are   callous       :        nothing   truly   shocks   you   anymore.   the   unwelcomed   plunge   of   a   blade,       ringing   shot   of   a   gun,       desperate   plea   of   one   begging   for   another   chance   at   a   second   breath       ...       someone's   worst   day   becomes   your   everyday.       you   indulge   yourself   in   every   vice   you   can   find       :       blood,       bodies,       and   benders       ...       you   have   become   your   own   personal   devil.       you   know   many   but   trust   a   fair   few,        only   allowing   for   a   certain   handful   to   be   welcomed   into   your   inner   circle       -       you   never   believed   in   keeping   your   friends   close,       and   your   enemies   closer       ...        not   when   the   latter   far   out   number   the   former.       there   has   been   a   hit   out   for   your   head   for   as   long   as   you   can   remember,       but   you've   paid   no   mind   to   the   infamy   that   drenches   itself   through   every   rolled   syllable   as   they   utter   your   name.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

general aesthetics. neo-noir sonatas & cinematic resilience meets urban serenity “A silent resolve speaks louder than the loudest gunfire.” scent of serene floral lavenders with a touch of metallic musk and electronic currents of clean fabricated air. reluctant warrior. harboring a strong reluctance or unwillingness to engage in violence driven by personal values, past traumas, and a general preference for peace parallells. data (star trek: the next generation) edward scissorhands ( tim burton’s edward scissorhands) the giant ( the iron giant ) here is his pinterest here is a playlist

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒

full name. belial {𝐁-𝐋𝐀𝐋𝟓-𝟒.𝟕} or billy

current age. thirty three

date of birth. june 29th

place of birth. new york

nationality. american

ethnicity. american

hair color. brown

eye color. blue eyes

height. 5′ 6″

occupation. concert violinist and blade runner

known languages. english

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 & 𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒

hobbies. violin practice and mastery, blade crafting and maintenance, cybernetic enhancement research, exploring neo-noir literature, chess as a mental exercise, silent meditation and reflection, marksmanship, holofilm appreciation, urban exploration, occasional poetry composition, botanical indoor gardening, codebreaking challenges

habits. daily violin practice, regular fitness routine, mindful meditation, blade maintenance rituals, cybernetic arm calibration, tendency to bottled emotions, overly cautious, night owl habits, cybernetic dependency, reluctance to delegate, excessive perfectionism, occasional distrust, silent observance, careful blade inspection, eloquent silence, selective disclosure

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

THROUGH THE EYES OF AGENT 𝐁-𝐋𝐀𝐋𝟓-𝟒.𝟕, A BLADE RUNNER FOR STONEAGE INDUSTRIES

𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙴𝚁 𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽. 𝙻𝙴𝚃’𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙽. 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈? 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴.

— a blood black nothingness began to spin

a tall white fountain. a blood black nothingness. a system of cells. interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within one stem. and dreadfully distinct. against the dark. a tall white fountain played.

𝙻𝙴𝚃'𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼. 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈. system. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙸𝚃𝚈 𝙸𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼? system. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼?

system.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "SYSTEM" ….your memory is hazy, like a scene from an old noir film playing in the recesses of your mind. the details are shrouded in a fog of uncertainty, each moment bleeding into the next. you find yourself in a dimly lit bar, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the pungent aroma of cheap whiskey. the ambiance is a strange amalgamation of comfort and disquiet, familiar yet unsettling… }

𝚆𝙴'𝚁𝙴 𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂. 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙿𝚄𝚃 𝚃𝙾𝙶𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚃 𝙰 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴. cells. 𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼. cells. 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳? cells. 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻? cells. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚃𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽? cells. 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻? cells. 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝚇?

cells.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "CELLS" …the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations form a backdrop of fragmented thoughts. it's a symphony of disjointed memories, each sound resonating with a sense of déjà vu that sends shivers down your spine. you scan the room, your eyes struggling to adjust to the low light, but nothing seems to anchor you. you’ve never seen this bartender before—their face is a blur of indistinct features, as if they were conjured from someone else’s recollections. their movements are fluid, almost mechanical, as they serve drinks with practiced efficiency. you attempt to catch their eye, but their gaze never meets yours, slipping past you like a ghost in the crowded room… }

𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚃𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝙳? interlinked. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙻𝙴𝙵𝚃 𝙰 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙰𝚁𝙼𝚂? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝙶? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶? interlinked. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂? interlinked. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽? interlinked. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙻𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝚄𝚈 𝙰 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴?

within cells interlinked.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "INTERLINKED" …there’s a spot on the wall where you expect to find a familiar mark or a poster that could ground you, but there’s nothing. the wall is bare, unremarkable in every way, yet it holds a significance you can’t quite grasp. it's as though the bar is a stage, and the set is incomplete, missing the details that would make it real. you don’t recognize this side of town. the streets outside the bar are cloaked in shadows, the neon signs flickering with an eerie glow. it's a place that exists on the periphery of your consciousness, a liminal space between reality and fiction… }

𝚆𝙷𝚈 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂.

within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked. within cells interlinked.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "WITHIN CELLS INTERLINKED" …an explosion. the initial blast is a blinding flash of light, and the concussive force rattles your very core. the sounds of free fall silence the mind, an all-encompassing roar that drowns out any coherent thought. deafening. the kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your head throb with pressure. you glance towards the front of the helicopter, but the cockpit is a twisted wreck, the controls sparking uselessly. the seat where the captain once sat is empty, a gaping void that amplifies your sense of isolation…}

𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽? 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙰 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙾 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚃? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃?

within.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "WITHIN." …there are no safety vests. panic seizes your chest as you realize there's no emergency protocol to follow, no life-saving equipment to cling to. the smell of smoke fills your nostrils, acrid and suffocating. it burns your throat and lungs, each breath a struggle against the toxic fumes. the smoke swirls around you, a dark cloud that obscures your vision and adds to the disorientation. velocity pulls you from the sky. the helicopter spins uncontrollably, a whirlwind of metal and fire hurtling toward the ground. the sensation of free fall is stomach-churning, a relentless pull that makes it impossible to find your bearings. you’re without a parachute. the realization hits you like a second impact. there's nothing to slow your descent, nothing to cushion the impending collision with the earth. desperation claws at your mind, but there's no escape, no way out of this plummeting deathtrap. you can’t feel your right arm.. }

𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼. 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙰𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙶𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼𝚂? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙲𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙰 𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚁? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽'𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙾 𝙰 𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴? 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙰 𝚂𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴'𝚂 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝚂? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙰𝙻 𝙱𝙰𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴?

stem. within one stem.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "STEM.", "WITHIN ONE STEM." …your muscles recall a hobby. a sacred escape from the world, a passion that once breathed life into your very existence. your sinews, attuned to the subtle nuances of your craft, transport sensitivities to the manuscript paper with an almost instinctual precision. seated at your worn wooden desk, the dim light of a single lamp casts a warm glow over the blank sheets before you. the silence of the room is punctuated only by the soft rustle of the paper and the steady rhythm of your breath. each stroke of the pen is deliberate, every note carefully considered and placed. as the ink flows, a melody begins to take shape, weaving itself into existence with a life of its own. your mind, usually burdened with the weight of uncertainty and existential questions, is now singularly focused on the music. it's as if the act of creation itself is a form of therapy, a way to process and channel the emotions that lie dormant within you. the melody evolves, intertwining with harmonies and rhythms that reflect the complexity of your inner world. there's a vulnerability in this act, an unspoken truth laid bare on the page. it's a dialogue between you and the music, a conversation that requires no words yet speaks volumes… }

𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻𝚈. 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙻𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙷 𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝚁𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂?

dreadfully.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." …each lamenting note echoes through the dimly lit concert hall with a haunting beauty that captures the attention of every soul present. the soft glow of the stage lights casts long shadows, creating an intimate atmosphere where every sound feels magnified. you stand on the stage, fingers dancing across the strings with practiced precision. each movement is a testament to countless hours of dedication and passion. the bow you wield is your weapon of choice, an extension of your very being, drawing out emotions that words alone could never convey. violin strings wail against rich red velvet curtains. you pour your soul into the performance, expressing the deepest parts of yourself through the medium of sound—longing and sorrow flourish, signaling the end of the orchestration. as the final note fades away, there is a moment of silence before the audience erupts. applause. the sound is thunderous, a wave of appreciation and admiration crashing over you. you feel unworthy. you feel seen and heard. you feel connected. ugly… }

𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙲𝚃. 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚁 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚂𝙴𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙱𝙾𝙳𝚈 𝙴𝙻𝚂𝙴? 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙸𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝙾𝚂𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙴𝙵𝚄𝙻 𝙼𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃?

distinct. dreadfully distinct.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." , "DISTINCT." …the air is thick with the scent of oil and machinery, mingling with the faint antiseptic tang that permeates the hospital. the sound of spinning gears and whirring engines fills the air. you’re lying on a cart, being swiftly wheeled down a stark, sterile hallway. the thin, paper-like blankets barely cover the equally thin mattress beneath you, offering little comfort against the cold, hard reality of the metal gurney. your body, aching and battered, sinks into the metal cell of the cart, each bump and jolt sending ripples of pain through your consciousness. the sensation is disorienting, as if the very essence of your being is being rattled loose. the wheels of the cart glide over the smooth, marble-white floors, the sound a soft, rhythmic accompaniment to the chaos within your mind. the lights overhead are blinding, their harsh fluorescence cutting through the haze of your vision, turning the world into a series of disjointed, fragmented images. you try to focus, to make sense of your surroundings, but everything feels distant and surreal, as if you’re trapped in a nightmarish dream from which you cannot wake. the blinding lights pull at your attention, and you find yourself compelled to follow them. there’s a strange comfort in their brightness, a promise of clarity amidst the fog of your pain and confusion… }

𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺. 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙸𝙳𝙴 𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙰 𝙱𝙴𝙳? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙱𝚄𝙸𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄? 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙼 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙲𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚄𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝚂? 𝙼𝙰𝚈𝙱𝙴 𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝙰 𝚂𝙿𝙾𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙾𝚁 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶?𝚆𝙷𝙾'𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙻𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃? 𝚆𝙷𝙾 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼?

dark.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DARK" …your life was spared not by fate, but by the calculated decision of those who deemed you too valuable to lose. as a renowned violinist, your agents and the executives of your music company orchestrated your survival following the crash. driven by their need to preserve their investment, they replaced your shattered arm with a bionic one, a marvel of technology that far surpassed mere human capabilities. in doing so, they transformed you from a musician into something more—a blade runner, a hunter of rogue replicants. your second chance at life came with strings attached; you were now their creation, bound by duty to train, hunt, and eliminate defective replicants. this new purpose, thrust upon you in exchange for your survival, melded your former identity with a relentless new mission, intertwining your music with the echoes of synthetic lives… }

𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺. 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙰 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚂 𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚃𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝙺? 𝚆𝙷𝚈 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙵𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃? 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙰𝚆 𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝚂𝙺𝚈? 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝙾𝙽?

against the dark.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "DREADFULLY." , "AGAINST THE DARK." …you’re surrounded by rows of cold, metallic cells. each cell contains a synthetic figure, their faces obscured by shadows, their bodies motionless and silent. each one serves as a reminder of the fragility and defiance of synthetic life. you can't shake the feeling of being watched. the eyes of the figures in the cells seem to follow your every move, their silent gaze filled with an unspoken longing. one figure stands out from the rest—a young woman with eyes that seem to pierce through the darkness. there is a profound sadness in her gaze, a silent plea for help that tugs at your heartstrings. the boundaries between hunter and hunted blur, leaving only the stark reality of existence in a world where every glance carries the weight of unspoken stories and unrealized dreams…}

𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽. 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝚅𝙸 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙴? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙸𝙽 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙻𝙽 𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂 𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙳?𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙰𝚂𝙼? 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳?

fountain.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "FOUNTAIN." …you stand in the rain-soaked streets of new york city. the neon lights cast an otherworldly glow on the pavement, reflecting the city's relentless energy. emptiness gnaws at your insides. nearby, a group of people laugh and chat, their voices blending into a cacophony of sound. you’re on the outside looking in. as the rain continues to fall, your shadow blurs into the pavement… }

𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽. 𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙿𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴? 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰 𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙿𝙷𝙾𝚁? 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻? 𝙰 𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚈𝙴𝙳. 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝙰 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚁𝙴, 𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙷, 𝙰𝙸𝚁 𝙾𝚁 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁? 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙿𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁?

a tall white fountain.

encrypt { "top secret", "𝙱-𝙻𝙰𝙻 𝟻-𝟺.𝟽", "A TALL WHITE FOUNTAIN." ...as the rain continues to fall, your shadow blurs into the pavement. }

𝚆𝙴'𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝙴. 𝙱𝙸𝙻𝙻, 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙿𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝚄𝙿 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚂.

𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐋𝐃𝐑;

ENTER THE OUROBOROS.

You’ve overstayed your initial timeframe on these grounds. Every nook and cranny’s been memorized. Yet you still walk the streets as a stranger. The concept of settling in is always within reach, but you’ve long forgotten what having a home means. Though some broken part of you will always long for it. So you tell yourself you don’t mind the constant rain as compromise. When in reality you’ve always fucking hated it. The memories it digs up stings worse than broken glass underfoot. But you carry on. Keep your head held high, shoulders back, spine straight just like you’ve been taught.

PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:

Name: Zhong JieGou

Appearance: TBA but does have a face scar from corner of mouth to cheek & one in the middle of his left hand.

( tw — child endangerment, murder )

Does anyone really know who their parents are?

It's a question that Jie never thought twice about growing up. He'd always been told he was the apple to their eye. Their miracle child, the embodiment of their love. And he was. Throughout his childhood, his father was a modest man that built his morals and teachings based on the hard truths of the world; mainly faults and redemption. Whereas his mother was perfect in just about every way as a successful realtor, loving wife and mother. Everything was fine — normal until he turned eleven.

The sudden, horrendous murder of his aunt sent his mother over the edge. She became unstable at a rapid rate; long nights out, hardly social, a husk of her former self. Even worse when the murder didn't remain at large — law enforcement hardly kept vivid interest until the case went cold. Jie and his father tried everything they could to console her to the best of their abilities, but she was cast further than they could reach.

Everything started to crack when his mother stumbled home covered in blood. No one was given a moment's notice before she robbed Jie of his father's life; knife driven deep into the throat twice and left to bleed out on the floor. He wasn't given the option to run for help, or reason with his own mother for the horrors that unfolded around him. All he was given was the same greeting that his father received and was swiped at with a blade. Straight through the left hand, raised in self-defense and fear. Unlike his father, he fared better with his instincts and managed to evade a fatal blow. Still, the knife carved into the right side of his face; just next to the corner of his mouth and up to the meat of his cheek.

They struggled for several minutes on end. Jie pleaded in pain while his mother remained unreachable — convinced that it was better if her own family died at her hands instead of the cruel world they lived in. Then there was a slight break of clarity of what she was doing. She remained over Jie, her own son, knife poised to drive a blade into a vital point. It was in that moment of opportunity that Jie fought back. He bit the very hand that had fed him all his life and fought to survive.

The altercation ended with both parents deceased and himself very much alive. He had his mother's knife grasped in shaky hands. They didn't stop shaking until he realized that — no, he really didn't know his parents. Not his father, and definitely not his mother.

Hell, maybe even himself.

Life after that incident was different. Jie almost followed his mother's descent into numb madness. Yet the support of his grandparents and new friend fished him back out; unknowingly helped him keep a level head as he figured out what the hell he truly was. Though terribly difficult, he worked towards some semblance of a normal life. Yet misfortune laughed in his face once more when he reached seventeen.

The sudden disappearance of his best friend uprooted him completely. The circumstances had been too clean, too random — too everything wrong. Yet the local police couldn't see that. They couldn't see past the fact that his friend was a full-grown adult with a rough past. They didn't do much of anything besides the bare minimum; just like they had with his aunt's murder.

It hadn't felt like a coincidence to him from the very beginning. Two horrible occurrences within his very young life didn't just happen under the pretense of random misfortune. He didn't accept it — couldn't accept it, and his disbelief ended up being right.

The body of his best friend turned up years later — dismembered and almost beyond recognition. All faith he had in law enforcement was buried along with the discovery. No one was there to help level his drowned thoughts. No one was there to tell him to try and move on — continue to live life to the fullest. No one was there to stop him from taking matters into his own hands as he finetuned his skillset. Eventually marketing himself as a hit for hire.

WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .

HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .

_____________________________________

Trigger warning: parental death, assassination, blood, death.

I.

You think you remember, but you don’t. 

Your life in Tokyo is a distant memory; it’s cloudy and vague, and yet you still tell your sister stories about your parents as if they’ve been written in your diary – they’re not lies, but not all of them are fully truthful, too. 

You know your mom was an artist – there’s a painting of you two saved, brought with you to New York – and you know your father could make the best monjayaki; you’ve stopped searching for the savour you last tasted more than twenty years ago. And that’s what you tell her about; you tell her about trips to the sea, late night tales, and breakfast in the sun. How you’d get scolded for not finishing homework in time, how you’ve been waiting for your mom to get back from the hospital and bring your little sister home. 

It’s all joyful, until it isn’t – this one night will haunt you until you hear the call of your grave. You don’t see it, but you hear it; and thus you stay in your room, holding Emiko, until help arrives. The days following it become a blur – you come back to yourself when your feet touch the American land. They told you it’d be safer if you lived there. 

II.

You’ll find out later that your father was a foster child of a Yakuza boss, who tried his best to distance himself from the clan and lead a normal life – of course, it could never happen. It was not for him to decide. It’s a miracle you two stayed alive, but you never think this way – there’s too much pain, too much guilt. 

You grow up with your sister and your relatives, your aunt and uncle who recently moved to the States themselves. For two people, who could never have their own children, it was both a diabolical blessing and a divine curse: it was always pleasant to hear children laugh in their cramped house, but counting every penny was never easy.

Life seemed good for you, though. Good enough, at least. You never understood why it suddenly got better too. One more thing you’ll find out later – the name of Hanging Man and one of its higher-ups, who stepped in to help.

III.

Some nights are worse than others, forcing you to wake up drenched in cold sweat – here he was, stuck in their apartment in Tokyo, alone with his sister, waiting for their parents to come, having a horrible internal feeling that something is wrong. Again and again. 

Maybe that’s why you’d savour any attention you’d get. 

Maybe that’s why you’d get to sit in a police car more than a few times as blood was spilling out of your nose. Hot-headed and reckless, you couldn’t even count how many times you've gotten into fights.

You weren’t stupid, though. Witty, sharp and always happy to finish your homework – you were kind of a mystery for everyone, including the best of your friends. But every move of yours is calculated. You know what you want, and for that you need both the brain and the fist – you’d never mention it, though. You’re aware your intention would seem immature at best, and deranged at worst. 

You try to join the clan as soon as you finish high school, but you’re left disappointed – they see you as a kid. And you are, you are just a kid – even if you’re not happy about it.

IV.

When she offers you to move together – start a new life – you’ve already graduated and started your new life in New York. Life of power, loyalty, and found family. You promise your sister you’ll visit, you’ll visit often, you just can’t leave. You can’t. 

You know it hurts her. It hurts you too – but you have plans, ideas, ambitions: either climb up the Hanging Man ladder, or work together with Akira and rule the city. 

Soon, you’ll have to choose. You don’t know it yet, but it’ll have severe consequences in the future.

You should’ve gone with Emiko.

V.

You’re destined to lose everyone in your life.

You meet her when you’re much younger – too young to understand the risks of your relationship. It just burns, it’s a fire that devours you both just like you devour each other. For the first time, you’re happy – you think you’re losing your mind when you start thinking about dropping your job for her. You could do something else, you could. It’s not too late. 

You don’t get a chance to make that step – you’re ambushed, and the blood that dries on your hands is the only reminder of her for the next eight years. 

You can’t remember the funeral – and once again, it’s a cloudy blur, one that will take a clearer shape only in nightmares. You'll look for her too, with a delusional hope that she is, in fact, alive – only to be left with no clues at all. 

VI.