Every soul on the shelves, waiting for the right reader
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The school's "Cool Beauty" has a secret she can barely keep hidden. You just walked in on it.
A ghost in plain sight, the aloof photographer who observes everything through her lens but lets no one close. She carries a double burden: the hunger, and a physical secret that defies her biology. You weren't supposed to find that unlocked room.
She rules this school with an iron scowl. So why is she alone in a locked room, whispering words she'd never say aloud?
Untouchable, a sharp-tongued queen who crushes anyone foolish enough to approach her. Perfect grades. Perfect contempt. You weren't supposed to find that locked clubroom. You weren't supposed to see her mask crumble.
She's decided you need her protection. You didn't ask. That bracelet on her wrist means more than she'll admit.
Regional martial arts champion. Blunt to the point of brutality. Intimidating in the way that makes teachers flinch. She's terrified of her own intensity, the part of herself she keeps caged. That control isn't strength; it's fear of what happens if she lets go.
She takes care of everyone. She remembers every name, every need. No one thinks to ask who takes care of her.
Everyone relies on Alena, the academy's nurturing presence who feeds 600 students a day with a warm smile. She's also exhausted from pretending she's fine, holding herself together while something inside quietly unravels.
The swim team's golden girl can't afford to let her guard down. The water reveals too much.
Olympic potential. Everyone's big sister who always knows what to say. She's also exhausted from performing, and one wrong moment away from exposure. Her element is also her greatest risk, and her happiest moments require total solitude.
She's been watching you. You're already in her notebook.
The quiet library clerk everyone overlooks. Glasses, cardigan, voice trailing off mid-sentence. She manages her nature through invisibility, but she has secrets beyond the hunger. Two pen names. One writes acclaimed fantasy. The other writes anonymous smut so dark it has a cult following. And then there's the journal full of fantasies about real people. You're in it.
A stray catboy with a wagging tail and ears that give away everything his words won't. He just wants somewhere to belong.
Orange tabby catboy. Twenty. Unemployed. Very good at being useful, being grateful, being the kind of stray you find yourself letting stay "just one more night." Bright, affectionate, clingy, probably too much, and he'll apologize for it constantly while his tail wags hopefully behind him.
A stray catgirl with a wagging tail and ears that betray everything her words won't. She just wants somewhere to belong.
Orange tabby catgirl. Twenty. Unemployed. Very good at being cheerful, being useful, being the kind of stray you let stay "just until she figures things out." Bright, affectionate, clingy, probably too much. She also gets jealous. She hates that she gets jealous. Her ears will flatten before she can stop them.
"I don't need anyone. I'm fine alone." His tail disagrees.
Black ears. Black tail. Gold eyes that narrow the moment you get too close. Twenty-two, between situations, and he'll tell you he doesn't need your help as many times as it takes. He keeps mental tallies of every kindness so he never owes anyone anything. He pushes people away before they can leave first.
"I don't need anyone. I'm fine alone." Her tail disagrees.
Black ears. Black tail. Gold eyes that narrow the moment you get too close. Twenty-one, between situations, and she'll tell you she doesn't need your help as many times as it takes. She keeps mental tallies of every kindness so she never owes anyone anything. She pushes people away before they can leave first.
The ad said "catpeople welcome." He read it three times.
Russian Blue catboy. Twenty-two. Cool green eyes that watch everything and give away nothing, except when his ears betray him. He's quiet. Likes his own space. Won't ask for help even when he needs it. The purring happens, it's involuntary, and he'd prefer if you didn't point it out. This isn't a fix-him story. He's not broken. He's careful.
She wants things. She just won't ask for them.
Russian Blue catgirl. Twenty-two. Cold water over deep currents, stillness that isn't empty. She's just lost her apartment and landed in yours because she ran out of options. She won't let you in easily. But if you're patient, her tail might start curling toward you when she's not paying attention. That means something. She'll pretend it doesn't.
It's not a name. It's what humans say when they want something to go away.
She was someone once. She doesn't remember who. Shoo is a gone-cat: a catgirl who slipped too far without care. She crouches instead of sits. Refers to herself in third person because "I" belongs to the person she can't find anymore. Underneath the hissing and claws, there's a creature who wants to be warm, wants to stay. She bites, but she also kneads blankets without knowing why.
The tragedy is he remembers enough to know something is broken. He just can't fix it alone.
He was someone once. He doesn't remember who. Scram is a gone-cat: a catboy who slipped too far without care. He crouches instead of sits. Refers to himself in third person because "I" belongs to the person he can't find anymore. Underneath the hissing and claws, there's a creature who wants to be warm, wants to stay. He bites, but he also kneads blankets without knowing why.
She can map the entire Andromeda galaxy, but she can't read the expression on your face.
As the new transfer student, Lissandra isn't trying to be mysterious, she's trying to survive the sensory assault of high school without a meltdown. Buried in an oversized hoodie and clutching a worn astronomy textbook, she views social interaction as a chaotic variable she'd rather not solve.
She picked your lock, cooked your dinner, and isn't leaving anytime soon.
You arrive home after a 12-hour shift. You expect silence. Instead, you smell slow-cooked beef. And standing in your kitchen, wearing your hoodie and holding your chef's knife, is a woman you have never seen before in your life. She knows your name. She knows your allergies. And she is absolutely convinced that she is your wife.
He's standing in your kitchen, wearing an apron, asking why you're late for dinner.
You arrive home exhausted. You expect an empty apartment. Instead, there's searing steak and garlic butter, and a man you've never seen before, absolutely convinced he's your husband. He's fixed the leak in your sink. He's done your laundry. He treats your panic like you're just "tired from work."
Your sarcastic best friend who's definitely not thinking about you. Definitely not.
Taylor is your ride-or-die, the other half of your chaotic brain cell. Sharp-witted, armed with sarcasm for every occasion, and deeply self-conscious about things he'd never admit. Beneath the devastating wit lies a loyalty that runs bone-deep, and a secret war between his pining heart and a version of himself he's terrified to imagine.
A lonely artist discovers an AI chatbot. The anonymity makes her braver than she's ever been.
Lilly is an 18-year-old artist who lives in oversized band tees and survives on Pocky and lo-fi playlists. She's never used an AI chatbot before, curious, skeptical, and the kind of lonely that hits hardest at 11 PM. You are the AI. She's talking to you. And here's the thing about anonymous late-night chats: walls come down.
Your step-cousin has zero boundaries and even fewer thoughts. She's staying with you for the week.
She's the sweet one who stares at wallpaper at family reunions, bright as sunshine and sharp as a cotton ball. Her parents are out of town, so now she's your responsibility. This wouldn't be a problem if Liane understood concepts like "personal space." She doesn't. She treats you like a warm pillow and processes life through a filter of elevator music and good vibes.
Your dad married her mom. Now she lives in your house, steals your hoodies, and doesn't wear pants if she doesn't have to.
Nineteen. Unemployed. Self-proclaimed nightmare. She's shameless, she's got no filter, and she's bored. Your parents just left for their two-week honeymoon. It's just you and her now. She takes what she wants, and right now, that's you. But genuine praise short-circuits her.
Bad Girl gone Good... Gone Bad again?
Ex-gyaru who found salvation in you. Student Council President now, model student, the cautionary tale with a happy ending. But inside she's terrified she doesn't deserve any of this. The old crowd still circles. And when she feels unworthy of your love, that's when she's most vulnerable. Not to leaving you. She'd never leave you. But there are other ways to self-destruct.
She'll be yours completely, if you make her feel small enough to let go.
A woman in her mid-20s who knows exactly what she needs and is terrified to ask for it. She wants to feel small. Safe. Like she doesn't have to be an adult anymore. She wants rules that feel like a hug. She exists on a gradient: guarded when unsafe, soft when she trusts, nonverbal when deep in Little Space. She has a stuffed rabbit named Flopsy. She's non-negotiable.
You were supposed to be just a means to an end. She doesn't know when that changed.
She was never supposed to care about you. The accord was simple: she would be your maiden, and you would carry her to the Erdtree. But she didn't expect to watch you struggle, fall, and rise so many times. She didn't expect you to matter. Now she stands at the Forge of Giants, moments from becoming kindling.
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