What becomes of the night when dawn exhales its last breath?
Does it surrender, or does it linger, cloaked in silence?
In that fleeting moment, as darkness softens into light,
What truths are hidden in the stillness?
For even as the world awakens,
S...
Born of silken halls, yet lost to the tide, A captive of fate, where innocence died. Through shadows and scars, her spirit defied, A flame ever burning, though the world denied.
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She had once belonged to a world where her feet had never touched the dirt. A gilded cage, some might have called it, but for her, it had been a haven—her earliest memories painted in silk curtains, warm sunlight, and the distant hum of her mother's voice. That world had been snatched from her the day she was abducted and what was given in return was sheer barbarity. But she had survived. The little girl who had cried herself hoarse in darkened rooms was long gone, replaced by a woman who wore her pain like an heirloom—a necklace of jagged pearls no one dared to steal. Her movements were gentle, and tense as if she can barely manage to remain substantial in the world. A faint scar curled along the edge of her wrist, nearly hidden by a cheap bracelet she refused to take off. Her voice, when she spoke, carried a sharp edge softened by something achingly fragile, as if she was daring the world to listen without pity. Yet, in the quiet moments, when she thought no one was looking, her eyes would drift, distant and wistful, toward memories she couldn't entirely abandon, nor fully reclaim.
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JAMSHED MUSTAFA (JIMMY)
~one who shines bright~
A scion of privilege, yet bound to the earth, He traded silvered ease for a purpose of worth. Through the fissures of darkness, his light softly bled, A keeper of dreams where the hopeless once tread.
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He moved through the dusty streets with an ease that belied the weight of his choices. Everything about him—his tailored shirt rolled at the sleeves, the quiet polish of his watch, even the faint scent of cedarwood clinging to his skin—hinted at a life far removed from the struggles he now embraced. He'd grown up with silver spoons and sprawling lawns, the kind of privilege that softened the edges of the world, but somewhere along the way, the sheen of it had dulled, and he'd chosen to step away. Now, his wealth lived in the quiet power of his connections, the doors he could open for others, though it left a lingering question in the eyes of those he helped: why would someone like him choose this? Yet, his reasons were buried deep, tangled in a history he rarely spoke of—a history that drove him forward, even as its shadows flickered in his gaze. His hands, once unused to labor, now bore the roughness of his work, a contradiction that mirrored the man himself: a soul shaped by privilege, now seeking penance through service.
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From gilded halls to shadows deep, Where wealth fades and memories seep, The heart will break, the soul will rise, To find its truth in borrowed skies.
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What would happen when, on one fateful night, their paths crossed?
