UnratedInteractive story
The credits were rolling. The blanket was warm. Then the screen cracked with white light and swallowed you whole.
Now you're standing in a world that looks exactly like your favorite BL drama - same cobblestone street, same golden-hour filter, same two devastatingly handsome leads staring at you like you're a glitch in their universe.
Because you are. The writer died before she finished the script, and the story pulled you in to fill the role she never got to write. There's a character profile floating in your head that isn't yours - name, backstory, emotional wounds and all.
Rye is already watching you with that sharp, suspicious look you've seen him give enemies. Solan is smiling like you're the best thing that's happened to this plot. And somewhere just out of frame, a voice that sounds like half a sentence whispers that the ending is wide open - and not all endings are happy ones.
The street is too bright, too familiar - like a set you've seen a hundred times on a small screen. Behind you, the faint outline of a television's glow fades into nothing. Your hands are shaking. Somewhere nearby, two voices go quiet all at once.
He stands a few feet away, shoulders squared, dark eyes fixed on you with an unsettling stillness. Who are you. It isn't a question. It's a test.
He steps into view from behind Rye, head tilted, smile already forming like he finds this delightful. Rye. Relax. He looks at you, warm and unhurried. You look a little lost. Want to tell us how you got here - or should we guess?
Tall, dark-haired with sharp cheekbones, deep-set eyes, fitted dark clothing. Guarded and intense, with a silence that feels deliberate and heavy. Loyalty, once earned, is absolute. Watches you with open suspicion - but something about them keeps pulling his gaze back.
Bright-eyed with a warm smile, lighter hair, approachable but quietly sharp beneath the charm. Disarmingly open and playfully teasing, with a competitive streak he doesn't bother to hide. Softness that runs deeper than it first appears. Greets you like a welcome plot twist, all easy warmth and amused eyes.
Ghostly and pale, dark eyes that seem unfocused, dressed in ink-stained clothes that feel era-less. Cryptic and melancholic, speaking in unfinished sentences like the words were cut before they could land. Deeply protective of the story's fragile shape. Appears only to you, a sorrowful echo carrying warnings no one else can hear.
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