softmochitales
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π»ππ π·πππ
ππππ. π―ππ πΌππππππ π·πππ.
πβπ ππππ€ππ’ππ π‘βππ‘ π π‘πππππ ππππ.
ππ‘π ππ«πππππ¨π«'π¬ πππ³π β’ ππ‘π¨π«π§π¬ & ππ’π₯π₯ππ’π§ππ¬π¬? β’ ππππ§π ππ«ππ’π₯π¬
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π¨πππππ πΉππππππ was chaos wrapped in silk,a storm disguised in elegance,a smile that could tip destinies over the edge. π»ππ ππππππππππ who dared the world to keep up with her, and laughed when it couldn't. Well she was not the kind of woman who would break easily. And also not so innocent.
πΉππ
πππ πΊππππππππ never chased her, ππ πππππ πππ
ππ.
He married her, not to tame, but to stand at the center of her wildfire and look her right in the eye. And she accepted, not out of surrender, but because even the fiercest storms choose where they want to break.
The hunt is far from over. New scents rise. Old sins shift.
The game isn't closing, it's changing it's face.
New players arrive, each carrying a trush that can ruin, or restraint, or resurrect, the world they built.
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~π
πππ‘ πππ π‘βπ π€ππππ π πππ.
πΌπ‘'π π€ππ¦ π‘ππ ππ’π π‘βππe.
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