𝗧𝗼𝗺𝗯 𝗼𝗳 𝗘𝗮𝗻𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗿

Amidst the hollows of forgery, striking hues and psychedelic hurricanes, there is no surrender, nor an escape. In a world of eradicate, or get eradicated ruthlessly, Zariya is dragged through everlasting torment, time and again to strive?

No, to survive.

The Eanasir Academy might be aesthetic and durable to a noob where demons didn't wait in the obsidian corners snickering behind your backs making your hair stand. These demons were liberated and powerful emerging in the skin of porcelain and paving their way under your skin to ravage you in seconds.

It was a game of survival.

To not cease.

She was fairly aware of that.

Whatever happens, do not hail.

But who could've thought devastation came draped with leather jackets, white shirts hiding bulging tight muscles screaming to be traced with fingers, and confident smirks that would portray the screams as sickening and smiles as ethereal.

Three was her unlucky number.

And she was bestowed by three of them.

For better or worse?

Well, why don't you find out?