High-tech tools are not part of his work because the truth he's after doesn't show up on screens, it hides in places no one wants to search. Answers don't come to him. He digs for them, under broken floors, between pages, inside stories people swore were finished. Every piece of information has a cost. Sometimes it’s a secret too dangerous to speak, and sometimes it's his own grip on what's real. They call him, The Truthmire.

Old evidence rooms feel like home to him. Paper that smells like dust and regret. No fancy scanner in his bag. It is filled with a flashlight, a pocketknife, and a notebook already half full before the case even starts. One say he does not solve crimes but he unearths things that were never supposed to be found. Where others draw red lines between suspects, he looks for the space between facts the gap where a lie might feels too perfect. Him, Kairo Zyné Morsevic.

“Most of those truths hide in plain sight. The more I know, the thinner the air be.”

Her life may be singular, but she refuses to live it without learning what lies beneath the surface. She bleeds for knowledge. Not metaphorically, she's left skin and sleep inside cursed libraries, crawled through sealed archives with air too old to trust, and copied symbols onto her own arms when paper was not enough. Sees the world not as it is, but as a question no one has dared to answer completely. They call her, The Inkveil.

Every mutated creature like an invitation. Her bag carries more than pens and evidence tape. It holds scalpels, ink, ash from burned records, and pages that shouldn’t be read twice. Evidence boards become constellations in her hands. Red strings pull not just timelines, but truths that haven’t surfaced in decades. No question is ever left untouched, even the ones buried inside a victim’s final blink. Not to her. Her, Sheeza Nazmiera Morsevic.

“Every drip of these ink works like blood. Not to be read, but to be remembered.”

Have you ever wondered how spirit control can go deeper? How the line between the living and the dead can blur without breaking? She is the answer. While others fear the absence of light, she remains open to spirits seeking help. She carries bone ash, sealed salt, and a recorder tuned for silence most people can't hear. She takes stories and pieces them into statements that even the living can't deny. They call her, The Shadecall.

She walks through crime scenes where the air turns heavy, where the candles blow out on their own, and where the dead linger not for revenge but to speak. In a world where mercy comes at a price, she still gives. The deaths they label accidents, she reads the hesitation in every bruise, the choreography behind every fall. They say no one can bring justice to those who forgotten. But they haven’t met her. Her, Sarai Reine Morsevic.

“I didn’t summon it, not even once. I just stopped pretending it was not there.”

 Pages flicker with light, bleeding forgotten symbols that respond to the moon and to those who seek answers too eagerly. 'Relic Guardians' are not chosen by desire, but by fate. They were bound to preserve dark, ancient spells never meant to be found. Relics return with changed purposes, always carrying secrets, and the Guardians place them back in silence, pretending nothing has changed at all.

         “They say the relics only return when the world forgets something it wasn’t supposed to.”

Voices speak in forgotten language, artifacts shift themselves overnight, and memory twists itself across names and timelines like a warning carved in smoke. The past keeps rewritten from time to time, bent to protect the present time. Yet again, if the past were erased for the sake of the present, what exactly are they trying to restore?
      

She walks like someone who carried something too heavy for too long, and still cannot set it down. Her fingers never leave the key, the chain, the seal. The vaults are buried deep, wrapped in metal and memory, each lock holding more than just cursed artifacts, also regret. She is their keeper, not and would never be their master. And the things inside know her name. They call her, The Vaultmourn.

There are screams behind the stone, but she does not flinch anymore. Some relics whisper. Some sing. Some beg to be held again. But she has learned what happens when mercy is louder than mourning. She does not protect the world from them, she protects the world for them. Because every relic was once a miracle, before it became a heavy wound. Her, Hermia Kashvi Morsevic.

“I stay here, not because the danger within.
I stay, because they kept calling my name.”

He once read to understand. Now he reads because he must. The ink runs deeper than skin. It coils in his veins, curls behind his eyes. He does not carry scrolls anymore. The text lives in him, written and rewritten with each breath. Some call him a scholar. Others call him a vessel. He is both. And neither. Because the longer he reads, the less of him remains. They call him, The Scriptbound.

The words speak back now. Whisper in forgotten tongues. Shift under moonlight. When he opens his mouth, it is not always his voice. Knowledge is not quiet, they never were. It claws, it stains, it consumes. And yet he guards it still. Not to protect the books, but to protect the world from what they have already said. He will always be the story’s end, along with the beginning of the story. Him, Asher Jeremiah Morsevic.

“It is not my voice anymore who speaks.
The scrolls are speaking through me.”

She was not born like others. Her breath came after the first word, her skin after the first line. They say a story was written so desperately, so powerfully, it reached across silence and pulled her out. Her veins don’t carry blood, but ink. Thick, shifting, unreadable. Some days her hands smudge when you touch them. Some days, her name won’t stay the same twice. They call her, The Inkborne.

She does not guard the book. She is the page between danger and release. Her eyes scan faster than thought, lips murmuring half-formed verses meant to bind, twist, erase. The texts she protects change her, and in turn, she changes them. One may forget one ever met her. They may remember a different face, a different voice. But if one name appears in her story, it will not end the way one would expect. It will be the opposite. Her, Auryn Claire Morsevic.

“My name changes. And yours will, too.
I wasn’t born like the others, I was written.”