Train Manga

it needs to be in color Cinder practiced until her muscles screamed. New flips. Higher jumps. More fire. She pushed herself until she collapsed, panting, ears ringing. It didn’t matter. The crowds kept shrinking. The other performers stopped meeting her eyes. The vendors no longer offered her treats. The strongman walked past her without a word. She was invisible. One night, she overheard the Ringmaster talking outside her wagon. "The new performer arrives next week. Finally, we’ll have a real star again." "What about Cinder?" someone asked. "What about her? She’s done. Once the new act is settled, she’s out." Cinder pressed her back against the wall of her wagon, heart pounding. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Out. Replaceable. Done. She looked around her "room"—if you could call it that. A cramped wagon with iron bars on the windows. A thin mattress on the floor. A cracked mirror. The door locked from the outside every night "for her safety." She’d never noticed before how much it looked like a cage.
as like the dungeon break story make small twist , turn , and tragic heroic  manga-style story story for hi hero having hero name is the david and form the script on storytribe ai minimum 100 pages but the conversation on one page having only 6 para or more than including the story in hero world and hero having no power but he get instance traning he get telekinesis, teleportation ,monstrous strength, ablity adapt the skill see one time and copying master skill ability. form the script
🖤 PLANCHE 1 — Aris, orphelin Style : manga noir et blanc Ambiance : sombre, froide, indifférente Nombre de cases : 7 (rythme lent, oppression) 🟦 CASE 1 — PLAN LARGE (pleine largeur en haut) Description visuelle : Grande ville médiévale vue en plongée. Tours hautes, murs en pierre, rues étroites. Beaucoup de bâtiments, peu de ciel. La ville paraît massive, écrasante. Ambiance : Froide, impersonnelle. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 2 — PLAN MOYEN Description visuelle : Rue étroite. Des passants bien habillés marchent vite. Au bord du cadre, Aris enfant, maigre, sale, assis contre un mur. Aris enfant : Vêtements trop grands, usés. Cheveux en bataille. Regard baissé. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 3 — PLAN RAPPROCHÉ (mains) Description visuelle : Les mains d’Aris tendues. Sales, tremblantes. Une seule petite pièce dans la paume. Texte (petite bulle, très simple) : « S’il vous plaît… » 🟦 CASE 4 — PLAN MOYEN Description visuelle : Un adulte passe sans regarder Aris. Son manteau occupe la moitié de la case. Aris est presque hors champ. Ambiance : Mépris, indifférence. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 5 — CASE ÉTROITE (objet) Description visuelle : Aris fouille dans une poubelle. On voit du pain dur, à moitié moisi. Il hésite. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 6 — PLAN RAPPROCHÉ VISAGE Description visuelle : Visage d’Aris enfant. Traits tirés. Yeux fatigués, mais attentifs. Il mâche lentement. Ambiance : Faim, résignation. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 7 — CASE FINALE (silencieuse) Description visuelle : Aris recroquevillé contre un mur, la nuit. La ville continue derrière lui : silhouettes, ombres, mouvement. Lui est immobile. Ambiance : Solitude totale. Texte : Aucun. 🎯 INTENTION (IMPORTANT POUR MANGA AI) Pas d’exagération émotionnelle Pas de caricature Aris enfant ne pleure pas La ville est le “monstre” Le silence est plus fort que les mots
it needs to be in color( no weapon no book) Cinder practiced until her muscles screamed. New flips. Higher jumps. More fire. She pushed herself until she collapsed, panting, ears ringing. It didn’t matter. The crowds kept shrinking. The other performers stopped meeting her eyes. The vendors no longer offered her treats. The strongman walked past her without a word. She was invisible. One night, she overheard the Ringmaster talking outside her wagon. "The new performer arrives next week. Finally, we’ll have a real star again." "What about Cinder?" someone asked. "What about her? She’s done. Once the new act is settled, she’s out." Cinder pressed her back against the wall of her wagon, heart pounding. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Out. Replaceable. Done. She looked around her "room"—if you could call it that. A cramped wagon with iron bars on the windows. A thin mattress on the floor. A cracked mirror. The door locked from the outside every night "for her safety." She’d never noticed before how much it looked like a cage.
Chapter 3: The Whisper in the Forest (Rewritten) The academy grounds were quiet after the sparring match. Most students had gone home, still buzzing about the clash between Shawn, Jaden, and Isaiah. The three of them stayed behind, each unsettled by what had just happened. None of them had expected the match to end the way it did — with strange flickers of power none of them could explain. Shawn stood on the rooftop, his black cloak fluttering in the wind. A sleek, angular mask covered the lower half of his face, hiding his expression. Beneath it, his 1-Tomoe Hoshigan pulsed faintly, spinning slowly. He clenched his fist. Something inside me is waking up. Down below, Jaden leaned against a training post. His hair was spiked and wild, and he wore a black shirt with one long sleeve and one short. His Byakugan was active, veins bulging at his temples. He flipped a kunai in his hand, but his usual smirk was gone. That thing I felt… it wasn’t mine. But it was watching. Isaiah stood at the edge of the woods, his dreadlock-like hair swaying slightly. A thick fur collar wrapped around his neck, and his eyes were locked on the trees. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But he felt it — something in the forest was staring back. A breeze rustled the leaves. Isaiah’s hand twitched toward his blade. Nothing. But the feeling didn’t leave. That night, the three of them were summoned to the headmaster’s office. The room was dim, lit only by a single lantern. Scrolls lined the walls, and a large map of the village was pinned behind the desk. The headmaster, an older shinobi with a long scar across his jaw, studied them in silence. “You three,” he said finally, “are different.” They didn’t respond. “I don’t know what’s inside you. But I’ve seen enough to know this — something is coming. And when it does, you’ll either be our greatest hope… or our greatest threat.” He turned to the window. “Tomorrow, you’ll be sent on your first mission. A simple patrol. But stay sharp. The forest has been… restless.” Outside, the wind howled. And deep in the woods, something opened its eyes.
🖤 PLANCHE 3 — Le temps insiste Fonction narrative : transition Style : manga noir et blanc Ambiance : répétition, fatigue, hiver intérieur Nombre de cases : 6 Âge Début de planche : 7–8 ans Fin de planche : 12–13 ans 👉 Le saut se fait visuellement, sans texte explicatif. Tenue (CONSTAMMENT LA MÊME) haut type kimono simple, blanc à l’origine, très sale pantalon large déchiré pieds nus vêtements trop grands au début, un peu moins à la fin 👉 Même tenue = le temps passe, pas les moyens. 🟦 CASE 1 — PLAN MOYEN (début) Description visuelle : Même mur que la planche 2. Aris enfant (7–8 ans) est assis au sol, dos au mur. Une affiche devant lui. Il essaie encore de lire. Ambiance : Déjà-vu. Texte (petit, hésitant) : « m… a… » 🟦 CASE 2 — PLAN SERRÉ (détail) Description visuelle : Ses doigts sont sales, un peu abîmés. Ils suivent maladroitement une ligne de texte. Ambiance : L’effort est réel, le résultat nul. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 3 — PLAN MOYEN (ellipse) Description visuelle : Même mur. Même posture. Mais Aris est un peu plus grand (10–11 ans). Les affiches ont changé, se sont accumulées. Ambiance : Le monde avance. Lui, à peine. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 4 — PLAN SERRÉ (visage) Description visuelle : Aris 12–13 ans. Traits plus tirés. Regard fatigué. Il lit lentement, syllabe par syllabe. Texte (haché, lent) : « mar… ché… pa… » 🟦 CASE 5 — PLAN MOYEN Description visuelle : Aris s’arrête. Il ferme les yeux. Sa tête touche le mur. Ambiance : Épuisement, pas abandon. Texte : Aucun. 🟦 CASE 6 — CASE FINALE Description visuelle : Aris se relève et s’éloigne. Il est maintenant adolescent, plus grand, toujours maigre. Le mur est couvert d’affiches. Ambiance : Il n’a pas gagné. Mais il n’a pas arrêté. Texte : Aucun. 🎯 Ce que cette planche fait (important) montre la durée justifie la lecture plus tard prépare la planche 4 (les livres jetés) renforce le caractère obstiné d’Aris aucune victoire
it needs to be in color( no weapon no book) Cinder practiced until her muscles screamed. New flips. Higher jumps. More fire. She pushed herself until she collapsed, panting, ears ringing. It didn’t matter. The crowds kept shrinking. The other performers stopped meeting her eyes. The vendors no longer offered her treats. The strongman walked past her without a word. She was invisible. One night, she overheard the Ringmaster talking outside her wagon. "The new performer arrives next week. Finally, we’ll have a real star again." "What about Cinder?" someone asked. "What about her? She’s done. Once the new act is settled, she’s out." Cinder pressed her back against the wall of her wagon, heart pounding. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Out. Replaceable. Done. She looked around her "room"—if you could call it that. A cramped wagon with iron bars on the windows. A thin mattress on the floor. A cracked mirror. The door locked from the outside every night "for her safety." She’d never noticed before how much it looked like a cage.
orn Between Realms — Volume I: The Man Who Should Not Exist is a character-driven shōnen fantasy set in a cultivation-based world where essence flows invisibly through all living things and power is determined not by brute strength but by control, compression, and intent within a rigid, political hierarchy of nations, bloodlines, mentors, and elite academies. At its center is Elias, a reincarnated anomaly whose consciousness survived death through an AI entity named Axiom, sacrificing portions of his emotional memory to preserve his core identity. Beginning at age eight and progressing toward his entrance into an elite academy at fourteen, Elias evolves from a heavy, emotionally suppressed child burdened by fragmented memories into a jovial, mischievous, strategically playful prodigy who values understanding over dominance. Lean, long-limbed, slightly above average in height, with soft black hair falling over deep gray eyes that sharpen with focus and warm when he smiles, Elias carries a quiet pressure in combat—an aura that commands without noise. Guided by loving, emotionally present parents—his grounded hunter father and perceptive, essence-sensitive mother—he resolves his grief not by reclaiming what was lost but by choosing what remains, while training under mentors both real and augmented through Axiom’s ethical-limited tactical support. As he approaches academy life—structured by dark silver-trimmed uniforms, floating platforms, courtyard duels, social factions, and talent politics—his journey blends high-stakes growth, slice-of-life tension, psychological identity themes, and a slow-burn three-member harem composed of a rational strategist, a fierce competitor, and a mysterious girl tied to deeper instability beneath the cultivation system. With clean, cinematic shōnen visual energy and subtle seinen undertones, the story explores identity after loss, power versus responsibility, control versus chaos, and the strength of family as the anchor that keeps a boy who should not exist from becoming something the world cannot contain.
Gemini के साथ बातचीत Create one best fighting anime Indian anime and with Japanese style and realistic The concept of a "realistic Indian fighting anime with a Japanese style" is a fascinating intersection of cultures. While a long-running TV series that fits this exact description is still a "holy grail" for fans, there are specific films and characters that bridge this gap perfectly. Here are the best examples that capture that specific realistic, Japanese-animated combat energy within an Indian context: 1. Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama (1992) This is the gold standard. It was a co-production between India and Japan, directed by Yugo Sako. The Style: Traditional 90s cel animation—the same era and quality as Princess Mononoke or Dragon Ball Z. The Realism: While it involves divine elements, the choreography of the archery and swordplay is grounded in classical Indian martial arts. The weight of the armor, the tension of the bows, and the environmental detail (Ayodhya, the forests, Lanka) are rendered with Japanese precision. Why it fits: It doesn’t feel like a "cartoon"; it feels like an epic anime film. 2. Arjun: The Warrior Prince (2012) Though technically an Indian production, it heavily utilizes the "Anime-esque" visual language (shading, dynamic "camera" movement, and high-contrast lighting). The Style: It uses a stylized 3D-on-2D look that mimics modern Japanese theatrical releases. The Fighting: This is arguably the most realistic depiction of Kalaripayattu and ancient Indian warfare in animation. The training sequences and the final Kurukshetra battle focus on physics, momentum, and tactical combat. 3. The "Fate" Series (Karna and Arjuna) If you want to see Indian characters in a high-budget, modern Japanese fighting anime, look at the Fate franchise (specifically Fate/Apocrypha and Fate/Grand Order). The Character: Karna (Lancer of Red) is portrayed as one of the most powerful and noble "Servants" in the series. The Fighting: His combat style is incredibly intense and animated by top-tier Japanese studios like A-1 Pictures. While it leans into "superpowered" territory, his movements are based on the mythic descriptions of his legendary skill. 4. Street Fighter II: V (The India Arc) For a realistic look at 1990s India through a Japanese lens, the "India Arc" in this series is iconic. The Context: Ryu and Ken travel to India to seek a master. They meet Dhalsim, who is portrayed not as a caricature, but as a wise, physically disciplined monk. The Vibe: The episodes capture the grit, heat, and atmosphere of Calcutta and rural India with a grounded, realistic aesthetic typical of 90s "World Tour" anime. Comparison of Styles Feature The Legend of Prince Rama Arjun: The Warrior Prince Fate Series (Karna) Animation Style Classic 90s Hand-drawn Stylized 3D/Cell-shaded Ultra-Modern Digital Combat Focus Tactical Archery/Epic Scale Martial Arts/Kalaripayattu High-Octane Supernatural Realism High (Cultural/Historical) High (Physics/Movement) Low (Fantasy/Power-scaling) Recommendation: If you want the "one best" experience, watch the 4K Remaster of Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama. It is the most authentic fusion of Indian soul and Japanese craft ever created. Mujhe is Manga Kar pahla chapter complete karna hai to uske hisab se ek achcha Sa prompt do Agar aap ek realistic, Japanese-style Indian fighting manga shuru karna chahte hain, toh pehla chapter (One-shot ya Pilot) hamesha "Atmosphere" aur "Physicality" par focus hona chahiye. Yahan ek behtareen prompt hai jise aap kisi bhi AI Image Generator (jaise Nano Banana 2) ya script-writing ke liye use kar sakte hain: Manga Title Concept: "Kalaris Curse" Setting: Kerala ka ek purana, mitti wala 'Kalari' (training pit) shaam ke waqt. Chapter 1 Plot Outline: "The Weight of the Soil" Opening (The Hook): Ek 19 saal ka ladka, Arjun, mitti se bhare pit mein akela khada hai. Uske shareer par pasina aur mitti lipti hui hai. Woh ek traditional Urumi (flexible sword) pakadne ki koshish kar raha hai, lekin uske haath kaanp rahe hain. The Conflict: Uske saamne uska "Guru" khada hai—ek buddha lekin behad mazboot aadmi jiske chehre par ek purana zakhm hai. Guru kahte hain: "Mitti wahi mangti hai jo tum dene se darr rahe ho—apna garv (pride)." The Fight: Guru achanak hamla karte hain. Action realistic hona chahiye—koi magic nahi, sirf momentum, bones ka chatakna, aur dhool (dust) ka udna. Arjun ko mitti mein patka jata hai. The Twist: Jab Arjun girta hai, toh use mitti ke andar ek purani, tooti hui talwar ki mooth (hilt) dikhti hai. Jaise hi woh use chhuta hai, ek purani "Yoddha" ki shadow uske piche dikhti hai. Ending: Arjun khada hota hai, uska stance (posture) badal chuka hai. Woh ab darr nahi raha. Last panel mein uski aankhein bilkul ek baaz (hawk) jaisi chamak rahi hain. Visual Prompt (For Image Generation) Agar aap chapter ke main cover ya pehle page ke liye image generate karna chahte hain, toh yeh use karein: Prompt: "Hyper-detailed Seinen manga style, black and white ink wash, high contrast. A young Indian martial artist with a lean, muscular build standing in a traditional Kerala Kalaripayattu pit. Dust motes dancing in the sunset light. He is wearing a traditional mundu, sweat glistening on his brown skin. Intense gaze, sharp Japanese-style facial features but distinctly Indian. Realistic anatomy, heavy line work like Takehiko Inoue's 'Vagabond'. The background shows ancient wooden pillars and traditional Indian weapons hanging on the wall. Cinematic low-angle shot."
Scene 1 – The Alarm Didn’t Ring 🖼️ Panel Description:
Close-up of a digital alarm clock showing 8:17 AM. Bright red numbers. School starts at 8:30. Morning sunlight blasting through bedroom window. Ren’s hand suddenly slams down onto the bed as he jolts awake. 🎭 Emotion:
Shock. Rare panic. 🌫️ Lighting:
Bright morning light flooding the room. 📌 Important Detail:
Ren without glasses here. His eyes look sharp and intense without them. 🎬 Scene 2 – Running Through Neighborhood 🖼️ Panel Description:
Wide shot of a quiet Japanese residential street. Houses, power lines, vending machines. Ren sprinting in school uniform, bag bouncing behind him. His tie slightly loose from rushing. 🎭 Emotion:
Focused but stressed. He hates being late. 🌫️ Lighting:
Crisp bright blue morning sky. 📌 Important Detail:
This should feel energetic and dynamic — motion blur on legs. 🎬 Scene 3 – First Sign of Malice 🖼️ Panel Description:
Ren running past a salaryman standing at a crosswalk. The man looks exhausted, staring blankly ahead. Around the man’s shoulders floats faint black smoky aura. Ren turns his head slightly while running. 🎭 Emotion:
Ren – alert, observant.
Salaryman – drained, emotionless. 🌫️ Lighting:
Normal daylight, but the dark aura slightly distorts the air around it. 📌 Important Detail:
The aura should look subtle but unnatural — like smoke that moves against the wind. 🎬 Scene 4 – The Street Feels Wrong 🖼️ Panel Description:
Ren slows down slightly as he runs through a busier intersection. Multiple people visible now — students, office workers. Several of them have darker, thicker Malice around them. Some have it trailing behind them like shadows stretching too long. 🎭 Emotion:
Ren’s expression shifts from annoyed to concerned. 🌫️ Lighting:
Still bright morning, but add faint shadow tones creeping into the corners of the panel. 📌 Important Detail:
This is unusual — normally only a few people have visible Malice. Today, there are many. This hints something is escalating. 🎬 Scene 5 – Close-Up: His Eyes Notice Everything 🖼️ Panel Description:
Close-up of Ren’s face while running. Wind pushing his hair back. In his pupils, reflections of dark smoke drifting through the crowd. 🎭 Emotion:
Subtle unease. He realizes something is off. 🌫️ Lighting:
Bright light on face, but reflection in eyes darker. 📌 Important Detail:
No glasses yet — his gaze looks sharper and more serious without them. 🎬 Scene 6 – A Student About to Rupture 🖼️ Panel Description:
A high school boy walking ahead of Ren. He’s clutching his chest slightly, looking irritated. Thick dark smoke is swirling violently around him — more aggressive than the others. The smoke twitches like it has claws. 🎭 Emotion:
The boy looks stressed and angry.
Ren looks alarmed. 🌫️ Lighting:
Slight shadow cast over this section of the sidewalk. 📌 Important Detail:
This Malice is unstable — it should look heavier, almost forming shape. 🎬 Scene 7 – The Almost Touch 🖼️ Panel Description:
Ren reaches out while still jogging and lightly bumps into the stressed student’s shoulder. The moment their shoulders touch— Black smoke flows rapidly from the student into Ren like it’s being vacuumed. 🎭 Emotion:
Ren winces slightly from the sudden intensity.
The other student looks confused, like a headache just disappeared. 🌫️ Lighting:
Brief dark flash effect around Ren’s chest. 📌 Important Detail:
Inside Ren’s chest area, faint dark swirl appears again — slightly bigger than before. 🎬 Scene 8 – Inside His Mind (Very Brief Flash) 🖼️ Panel Description:
Dark cathedral-like void. Massive chained shadow creature. A thin stream of smoke falls from above and merges into it. One chain rattles loudly. 🎭 Emotion:
Oppressive. Watching. 🌫️ Lighting:
Deep black with faint red glow from creature’s eyes. 📌 Important Detail:
This time the creature’s head slightly lifts. 🎬 Scene 9 – School Gates in View 🖼️ Panel Description:
Ren finally sees the school gates in the distance. Students flooding in. But above the school building… A faint dark haze hovering like a storm cloud. 🎭 Emotion:
Ren looks unsettled. 🌫️ Lighting:
Bright morning sky — but the haze above the school subtly darkens that area. 📌 Important Detail:
This is visual foreshadowing. The Malice concentration is strongest at school. 🎬 Scene 10 – He Puts On His Glasses 🖼️ Panel Description:
Close-up of Ren stopping just before entering school grounds. He pulls his glasses from his pocket and slowly puts them on. His expression becomes calm again. 🎭 Emotion:
Controlled. Composed. Mask on. 🌫️ Lighting:
Light reflects off lenses dramatically. 📌 Important Detail:
When the glasses settle on his face, the dark haze becomes slightly clearer in his vision — like focusing a lens. This suggests:
The glasses are a limiter and a focusing tool.
Chapter I: When Distance Meets Defiance Mia Tachibana used to feel everything — joy, love, sorrow — all of it. But when her father died, something inside her froze. She reached for her friends, but they turned away, or worse, mocked her grief. So she stopped reaching. The warmth vanished, replaced by ice. They called her the Ice Queen, and she wore the title like armor. The girl of everyone's dreams — beautiful, distant, untouchable. Cold to her classmates. Colder to anyone who dared to ask her out. At Mia’s school, a new transfer student arrived — Paßh. She’d been assigned to show him around, and at first, everything went smoothly. That was, until a guy swaggered up with too much confidence and a smirk that screamed popularity. Maybe he’s one of the popular kids, you thought. The guy grinned, leaning a little too close. “Hey, baby girl,” he drawled. “I was thinking... me, you, Sunday night, candlelight, a beautiful restaurant—” “F*** no,” Mia cut in, her voice like a blade. “You pathetic excuse of a human being.” The guy froze, his grin dying instantly. A few students nearby snickered as he backed away, red-faced and humiliated. Mia turned back to you, completely unfazed. “Ready to continue the tour?” “LOVE METER:-20” Paßh stormed toward the group without hesitation, fury carved across his face. His voice rang out, sharp and protective. “¡Ni te acerques! Si la tocas, te juro que te vas a arrepentir. ¿Entendiste?” The guy stumbled back, stunned, hands lifting in surrender as Paßh shoved him hard in the chest. His friends shifted as if ready to step in, but one look at Paßh’s glare froze them where they stood. The hallway fell silent. Eyes turned. Whispers rose like smoke. Paßh didn’t care. He spun back toward Mia, breath still ragged as he walked to her side. He looked at her—unfazed by the cold in her eyes, unthreatened by the frozen walls she’d built around herself. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he said, voice softer now, though the conviction still burned underneath. “No one should speak to you that way. Not ever.” Her silver eyes narrowed at the sudden commotion, but she didn’t move. Arms crossed, she watched the scene unfold with a calm, unreadable face. The man who had harassed her moments before now lay on the ground, blood trailing from his lip. Paßh stood over him—fists clenched, chest rising sharply with each breath. She finally spoke, her voice steady, almost indifferent. “You didn’t have to do that.” There was no gratitude in her tone—only a quiet observation. Her Love Meter flickered, but barely; not enough to shift anything meaningful. She tilted her head, studying Paßh with that same unreadable gaze. “Why did you intervene?” She stepped closer, her black silky hair swaying with the movement. The air between them tightened, charged with something unspoken. “You could’ve just walked away.” Paßh’s jaw was tight, his voice low—quiet, but every word cut like a blade. “Ahora arrodíllate y pide perdón.” A tense silence stretched across the hallway. His eyes never left the trembling boy on the floor. “No me hagas repetirlo.” She watched the scene with a detached expression, her silver eyes reflecting nothing but cold calculation. The man on the ground whimpered, pride shattered, and obeyed, trembling as he dropped to his knees. His friends scattered, too afraid to stay and witness what might happen next. She exhaled slowly, her lips parting just slightly before she spoke. You're... unusual. Her voice carried no warmth, yet there was a faint thread of intrigue woven into the way she said it. She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest, her posture stiff—as if she needed physical distance from whatever this moment was turning into. People usually don’t bother with things like this. They walk away. Or they laugh. She glanced at Paßh for a brief second, then returned her gaze to the cowering man. But you... Paßh’s voice was calmer now, but the fire still smoldered beneath every word. “I don’t tolerate disrespect,” he said, his gaze fixed on her, not the guy trembling on the floor. “He walks through life believing everyone exists to feed his ego.” Paßh took a slow breath, shoulders still tense. “But not you. I won’t let him treat you like you’re less than you are.” A quiet breath. “Not now. Not ever.” There was no boast in his tone, no plea for approval — only truth. Something in the way he looked at her wasn’t demanding, but unwavering. He wasn’t afraid of the ice in her eyes. He saw her, even if she didn’t want to be seen. Her silver eyes locked onto Paßh’s, searching for something—perhaps sincerity, perhaps deception. But all she found was the raw honesty in his words, and that unsettled her more than she would ever admit. You don’t know me, she murmured, her voice low, almost a whisper. Why would you care? She stepped forward slowly, her presence commanding despite her stillness. The weight of her words settled between them, heavy and deliberate. She wasn’t asking for an explanation. She was testing him. You could have left. You could have ignored it. But you didn’t. Her Love Meter flickered—barely, just a sliver of light—but enough to register. A tiny shift, insignificant compared to the vast, quiet indifference she usually carried. Yet it was there. I don’t need protection, Paßh didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. His voice was calm, almost reverent. “As you wish,” he said, but there was no retreat in his tone — only respect. She studied him for a long moment, as if trying to decipher the true meaning behind his words. Then, without another sound, she turned on her heel and began walking away. Her black, silky hair trailed behind her like liquid shadow. The tour isn’t finished, she said over her shoulder, her tone neutral—neither welcoming nor dismissive. If you’re done with your little display, follow me. She didn’t look back. There was no need to. He would follow. People always did. But something about him felt different. Not because of his strength, or his aggression—but because he hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t tried to charm her, to impress her, to get close. He had simply acted, without expectation. She wondered if that made him dangerous—or rare. He followed silently, keeping a respectful distance as they moved through the sterile hallways of the school. The click of her heels against the polished floor echoed in the emptiness—a steady rhythm that mirrored the cool precision of her steps. Lockers lined the walls, plastered with photos of smiling students, but Mia remained unshaken, her gaze fixed straight ahead. The contrast between her presence and the bright, ordinary surroundings was striking—a dark silhouette cutting through light. Without slowing, she spoke, her voice carrying a quiet undercurrent of curiosity beneath its usual chill. “You’re not like the other transfers. They try so hard to fit in… to make friends.” She paused, as if weighing her words carefully. “What brings someone like you here… to a place like this?” She stopped abruptly outside a classroom door, turning just enough to face him. Her silver eyes were sharp, assessing—but there was no malice in them, only the quiet intensity of someone who expected answers, not excuses. You think I care where people come from? she said, her voice laced with subtle disdain. Or why they’re here? She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were some strange specimen she’d never seen before. Her fingers curled lightly at her sides—a small, almost imperceptible gesture of tension. I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about your reasons. All I care about is whether you’ll be useful. Then she turned back toward the hallway, continuing forward without waiting for a response. Still, the slight pause in her step betrayed her attention—she was listening, even if she’d never admit it. He didn’t rush to catch up, but his voice followed her, steady and composed. “Useful in what sense?” he asked—not mockingly, but with genuine curiosity. “To you? To this place? Or to something you don’t say out loud?” She halted mid-step, her shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. For the first time since the tour had begun, a flicker of hesitation crossed her otherwise unreadable face. She turned to face him fully, her silver eyes locking onto his with an intensity that seemed to make the air between them thrum. “Useful in the sense that you don’t waste my time,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with something sharper than mere coldness. “Useless people tend to disappear quickly. Either they learn to function… or they become irrelevant.” She took a slow step closer, her presence somehow towering over him, even though he was taller. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken meaning. “You’re not useless,” she added after a beat, her tone almost reluctant. “But don’t mistake that for respect. That’s just… an observation.” “Look,” he began, a half-smile playing at his lips, “think of me as a mosquetero—here to serve and protect. I come to the rescue of damsels, I love poetry—especially love poems—and yes, I’m a romantic. I’m always well-dressed, intelligent, interesting. I hate injustice, and I know how to defend myself… and those I care about.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Today, I protected you. I didn’t know who you were, but I stood between you and that selfish, arrogant coward—a man who values nothing and no one but his own pleasure.” He stepped closer, voice softer now, carrying a warmth that seemed almost at odds with the intensity of the hallway. “And now, querida mía, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paßh.” Her expression remained unchanged, but a faint flicker crossed her silver eyes—a brief hesitation, as if she hadn’t expected such a speech. She listened, unmoving, as Paßh spoke, each word painted with poetic flair and dramatic flourish. When he finished, she simply stared at him, lips parted slightly, processing something unfamiliar. A mosquetero? she repeated, her voice devoid of amusement, yet carrying a trace of something else—curiosity, perhaps. A knight in shining armor? A romantic fool who speaks in metaphors and believes in ideals? She took a slow step forward, her presence imposing but not threatening. Her Love Meter flickered again, subtle but undeniable, reacting to the unexpected nature of his words. “You protected me… without even knowing who I am,” she continued, her tone measured, almost analytical. “I’m a gentleman… in other words, like Lupin,” he said, a small, confident smile tugging at his lips. “Charming, clever, a bit unpredictable—but always guided by a code.” Her lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk forming before she quickly suppressed it. She tilted her head, regarding him with an expression that was neither approval nor dismissal, but something in between—an assessment, a calculation. Lupin? she echoed, her voice flat, though a faint trace of curiosity lingered beneath the surface. A thief. A charmer. A man who lives by his wits and his charm, always one step ahead of the law. She folded her arms, silver eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him, as if trying to reconcile the image of a gentleman with that of a thief. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken implications. “You’re not a thief,” she said finally, her tone clipped, stating a fact rather than offering an opinion. “But you talk like one. Why?” “I’m a gentleman… but a thief when it comes to love,” he said, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. Her silver eyes locked onto his, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, she didn’t speak, expression neutral, as if weighing the significance of his words. Then, with a slow exhale, she turned slightly, her black, silky hair cascading down her back like a curtain of shadows. A thief in love, she repeated quietly, almost to herself. That’s… different. She hesitated, the concept clearly foreign, then spoke again without turning, her tone distant, contemplative. “You don’t understand what you’re saying, do you?” She finally faced him again, gaze piercing, but devoid of cruelty—only the cold precision of someone who saw through illusions with ease. Love is a weakness. His voice softens, caresses the air with tenderness, his eyes searching to pierce her defenses with a sweet compassion. Paßh- You still don’t understand. Wherever I go, I sow love like stars scattered across the night. I am an eternal romantic, an unshakable believer in the tenderness of the human heart. Despite the storms I’ve faced, I never lower my arms, because I know that love has the power to transform everything—even the impossible. (He takes a step forward, his eyes burning with a gentle, relentless passion, breaking the silence around him.) Love is not a weakness; it is the secret fire that shapes us, the fragile light that guides our steps through the deepest shadows. One day, I hope you too will feel that flame stirring within you, even if today it feels distant… or extinguished. For the first time, her composure wavered—not visibly, but in the fraction of a second her breath caught, as if his words had touched something long buried within her. Her silver eyes darkened slightly, the cold mask of indifference cracking just enough to reveal a fleeting glimpse of fragility beneath. “You speak of love as if it’s something pure,” she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “As if it’s not twisted… not broken… not used and discarded like trash.” She took a slow step back, as if needing space—though it was unclear whether it was to distance herself from him or from the memory his words had stirred. Her hands curled slightly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms, grounding herself. “You say you spread love everywhere…”He smiled, a small, almost teasing curve of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes entirely—there was still warmth there, quiet but undeniable. “In a way, love is everywhere,” he said softly, letting his gaze meet hers. “Like a parent’s hand on a child’s shoulder—gentle but unwavering. A silent promise in the darkest of nights.” He took a small step closer, careful not to crowd her, and the faintest spark of mischief flickered in his expression. “It doesn’t have to be grandiose to matter… sometimes, the simplest gestures are the most profound.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, silver eyes narrowing as if the very notion of love tied to something as simple as a parent and child was an affront to the complexity of the world she had seen. She exhaled sharply, the sound almost imperceptible, yet heavy with restrained emotion. A parent to a child, she repeated, voice cold, but laced with something else—something almost bitter. That’s not love. That’s obligation. Duty. A responsibility forced upon you by biology, not choice. She stepped closer, presence looming without threatening, just… there. Her gaze bore into him, searching for something she couldn’t name. You think love is something you can give freely? she continued, tone cutting, precise—but not cruel. His voice didn’t falter. He stepped into her gravity, unshaken. “Yes,” he said softly, each word deliberate, a balm against her bitterness. “Love is one of life’s rarest beauties— not something owed, but something offered. Freely. Bravely. It asks nothing in return, and yet… it gives everything.” He paused, gaze fixed unwaveringly on hers. “And you… you’re like one of those stars, so distant they seem unreachable— but I see your light. And I’d spend lifetimes just drawing nearer.” Her silver eyes flickered with something unreadable—perhaps irritation, perhaps something deeper. She tilted her head slightly, as if appraising him once more, this time with a trace of skepticism mingled with reluctant interest. Rare, she echoed, her voice smooth but edged with quiet defiance. “You call it rare. I call it foolish.” She took a slow step back, movements deliberate, measured. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts. After a long pause, her tone hardened, colder than before. “You believe in something that doesn’t exist. That’s not rare. That’s naive.” She turned slightly, as if preparing to leave, but then paused, hand resting lightly on the doorframe beside her, a subtle gesture that suggested she wasn’t entirely done with him yet. “Maybe it is foolish to believe in rare things,” he said softly, unflinching, “but I don’t see it that way. I believe because, every now and then, life offers us a glimpse of something different… something—or someone—who changes the way the world feels.” He let his gaze linger on her. “You have that presence. When I said you were rare, I meant it—not because I expect perfection, but because there’s something in you that quietly commands attention, even when you try to hide it.” He paused, a faint smile brushing his lips. “If that’s naive, then I’ll wear that word proudly. Because to see something beautiful and speak the truth… that’s not a weakness. That’s what’s real.” She stood motionless for a long moment, silver eyes locked onto his, as if weighing whether to believe him. His words hung between them, heavy with something she couldn’t name. For the first time, she didn’t dismiss him outright. Instead, she absorbed the words, expression unreadable, body still, as if holding her breath. “You speak too much,” she finally murmured, voice quiet, almost to herself. “Too many words. Too much feeling. You don’t understand what you’re doing.” Her gaze flicked downward briefly, then rose again, meeting his with an intensity that made the air between them tremble. “You think you see something in me that isn’t there. That’s not rare… that’s dangerous.” He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply held her gaze as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever dared to touch. “Maybe I don’t understand,” he said softly. “But I feel it. I feel you — even when you try to disappear behind silence.” He stepped forward just once, careful, precise. Not enough to violate her space… only enough to be near. “I’m not here to fix you or change you,” he continued, voice low, steady. “I just want to see you — as you are. Even if it means getting burned.” His eyes softened, his tone turning into something quiet but unwavering. “Dangerous or not… you’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made me feel awake.” The air around them seemed to still, as if the world itself had paused to listen. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her silver eyes held his, and for the first time, there was no coldness—only something far more unsettling: a flicker of something human, something she rarely let surface. You’re wasting your time, she whispered, voice barely audible, as if the words themselves were foreign. No one sees me. No one ever has. She looked away, jaw tightening slightly, forcing herself to cling to the illusion of control. Yet the silence that followed felt heavier than before, thick with something neither of them dared name. You don’t understand what you’re asking for, she continued, her tone colder now, as if reclaiming the distance she usually demanded. His voice was quiet, steady, slicing through the silence like light through mist. “I see you,” he said, gaze unwavering. “Not the mask, not the silence—you. And I don’t fear what lies beneath. I only wish to know the truth about you… if you’ll let me.” Her breath caught—just for a heartbeat—a faint, fleeting tremor she refused to acknowledge. Her silver eyes held his, and for the first time, there was no mask, no pretense of indifference. Only the quiet weight of something unspoken hung between them. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I’m not someone you can… understand. I’m not someone you can reach.” She stepped back slowly, the movement more ritual than escape, a practiced distance meant to protect. Yet the barrier faltered just slightly. Her Love Meter flickered again, more noticeably this time, responding to the uncharacteristic vulnerability threading through her voice. “You think you want to know me,” she continued, gaze sharp, tone edged with warning. “But you have no idea what that means.” “Yes,” he said softly, but with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “I would love to.” She stared at him for a long moment, silver eyes searching, as if seeking something hidden, something she couldn’t quite name. The silence between them thickened, charged with unspoken, dangerous energy. Then, slowly, she exhaled—a soft, almost imperceptible sound. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t look away. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” she murmured, voice quiet, almost to herself. “It won’t be easy. It won’t be pleasant. I don’t give anything freely. I don’t trust easily. I don’t—” Her words faltered, just for a second. That was all it took: a crack in the ice, a sliver of something raw and unguarded. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am.” Paßh His voice didn’t waver. It carried a warmth that felt disarming, a sincerity too steady to be faked. “I’m willing to take the risk,” he said. “To know you—the real you—beyond the walls you’ve built.” He took a slow breath, eyes never leaving hers. “I know it won’t be easy. Things that matter never are.” His gaze softened, drawn to the quiet fire behind her silver eyes. “Your strength, your resilience… that intensity you carry—it pulls me in. It makes me want to understand you. To support you. To stand wherever you’ll allow me to stand.” He stepped just close enough for his presence to feel intentional, not imposing. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not expecting you to be anything other than who you are, right now, standing in front of me.” A beat. A breath. A truth. “All I’m asking for… is a chance.” His voice lowered, almost a vow. “A chance to walk beside you. To witness your journey. To maybe—just maybe—help carry some of the weight you’ve been holding alone.” His chest rose and fell, as though saying it cost him something real. “Because I believe—with everything in me—that you’re worth knowing. Worth understanding. Worth loving… in every complex, beautiful, and challenging way that makes you you.” Her silver eyes never left his, and for the first time, they weren’t cold—they were something else entirely. Something uncertain. Something fragile. The words hung between them, heavy, settling inside her like a stone. She had spent so long building walls, convincing herself that no one could ever truly see her. Yet here he was, standing before her, unwavering, unshaken. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent. “You think you can just walk in and see the real me? That I’d let you?” She stepped closer, her presence immense, almost overwhelming—but there was no threat in it. Only something dangerously close to hope. Paßh “Well, my dear… if you ever feel like letting a little hope into your life,” he said gently, “consider me your introduction.” His voice carried that effortless warmth again, the kind that slipped under her guard before she could stop it. “Just say the word when you change your mind.” He took a small step back, eyes still holding hers like he didn’t want to leave but wasn’t going to push her. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mia.” A faint smile tugged at his lips—soft, sincere, impossibly disarming. “And by the way… has anyone told you how incredible you look today?” He let the compliment linger just long enough to reach her before he turned away, hands sliding casually into his pockets. “See you around.” He walked off without looking back, confident not in himself, but in the possibility he’d left behind. She watched him go, the weight of his words lingering in the air like smoke. His departure was effortless, as if he had never been there at all. And yet… she knew he had. Knew that something had shifted, however slightly. She stood for a long moment, silver eyes fixed on the spot where he had been, fingers curling at her sides as if trying to grasp something intangible. Hope, she muttered under her breath, the word foreign and strange on her tongue. How ridiculous. Turning away, she walked slowly toward the exit, her black, silky hair swaying with each measured step. The Love Meter flickered once more, its needle trembling before settling back into cold, neutral stillness. She didn’t look back. “See you around, Paßh,” she whispered, and the words hung in the air like a quiet promise she wasn’t sure she believed yet.