I'm curious what you'd think Herta, Ratio, Anaxa $ Ruan Mei's reaction to a reader who has one of those mechanical arm rigs on their back? Kind of like radian from arknights or nine from sonic prime.
They have these 4 mechanical arms portruding from their back connected at the base of their spine (kind like doc oct) and they have clothes specifically made to accommodate their unique shape.
I'm curious how you think these smarty pants would react seeing reader use them in everyday life like gesturing, cooking and maybe even inventing since they're probably tech savvy to make something like this. With them multitasking like crazy without much effort exerted.
Thanks and sending good vibes from the Philippines 🇵🇭 👏👏👏
The Erudition of Touch
Tags: The Herta x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, Slice Of Life, Intellectual Tension, Mutual Admiration, Subtle Fluff, Emotional Introspection, Soft Humor, Technological Integration, Found Connection.
You were multitasking again — four mechanical arms moving in perfect sync. One stirred something in the pot, another adjusted a hovering display, while the third and fourth calibrated a crystalline core on the workbench.
“Fascinating,” came Herta’s voice from behind you, calm but laced with amusement.
You didn’t turn. “I assume you mean the project, not the person.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The project’s boring,” she said, pacing closer. The soft click of her boots echoed faintly. “I’m talking about that contraption on your back. The way it reacts to your motor control, the precision… It’s elegant. Too elegant for a casual tinker.”
The corners of your mouth tugged upward. “Coming from you, that’s either high praise or mild mockery.”
“Both.”
When you faced her, her eyes gleamed, reflecting the subtle light of your mechanical rig — four steel limbs folded neatly behind you like wings. You had designed them to respond to your nervous system, mimicking reflex, thought, and instinct. To her, they were a marvel. To you, they were extensions of your self.
Herta tilted her head, arms crossed. “I can see why you move so effortlessly. You’ve turned redundancy into grace. Four extra limbs and yet… you make it look natural. I’d probably just make a mess.”
“You could simulate it,” you suggested. “Feed it into your virtual model.”
“I could,” she said, “but I prefer the real thing. I prefer you.”
You blinked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she continued, tone flat. “I meant I prefer to observe you. You’re more interesting in motion than data form. The way your nervous system adapts — you don’t think about the extra limbs anymore, do you?”
“No,” you admitted. “It’s like breathing. They respond before I consciously command them.”
“That,” Herta said, stepping closer, “is the kind of advancement that borders on artistry.”
Her hand lifted slightly, stopping short of your shoulder. “Do they feel pain?”
You extended one of the arms, the polished metal glinting as it hovered before her. “Not in the way you do. But they respond to damage. I’d say it’s… empathetic pain.”
“Hmm.” She circled the rig, inspecting its base — the junction where it met your spine. “You built this yourself?”
“With a little help.”
“Of course you did,” she muttered, half-proud, half-irritated. “Always the innovators outside my lab who surprise me.”
When you looked back, she was watching you — expression unreadable, curiosity and admiration dancing in her eyes. “You know,” she said, “I used to think my puppets were the pinnacle of remote cognition. But you—”
Her lips curved. “You’ve made the machine part of you.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I am.” She turned away, hiding the faintest smirk. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
As she left, one of your arms quietly waved behind her. Without looking back, Herta called over her shoulder,
“Don’t wave that thing at me. You’ll make me want to dissect you.”
And yet, in her voice, there was something softer — something dangerously close to admiration.
Ruan Mei’s lab was a study in organized chaos — crystalline samples, culture chambers, and faint, symphonic hums. You had been helping her catalog bio-data, using your mechanical limbs to handle multiple tasks at once.
“Left,” she murmured absently, pointing with her brush.
One arm reached for the left-side samples, another logged the data. You didn’t need to look; instinct took care of everything.
She paused mid-writing. “You do that so easily.”
“Habit,” you said, adjusting another vial. “After enough repetition, it’s like—”
“—your own hands,” she finished, eyes glinting with quiet wonder.
She approached, gaze following the gentle mechanical rhythm. “Each limb follows neural impulses, yes? So they move with emotional stimuli too. How fascinating.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re analyzing me again.”
“Can you blame me?” she said softly, the brush stilling in her fingers. “You’ve blurred the line between evolution and invention. It’s beautiful.”
Her words weren’t flattery — they were reverence, quiet and analytical. The kind that made your chest tighten.
She stepped around you, every movement deliberate. “Do you ever forget which are yours?”
“Sometimes,” you admitted. “When I’m in motion, they all feel… mine.”
“That’s how nature evolves,” she said, almost wistful. “Through seamless adaptation.”
One of your mechanical arms extended a towel toward her as she adjusted a lens, and she accepted it without breaking stride — as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“See?” you said. “Even you’re adapting.”
That earned a rare smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply appreciate efficiency.”
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the faint hum of the lab. Then she asked, “Do you ever think of them as companions?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Companions?”
“Your limbs,” she clarified. “They seem almost alive. The way they respond to your tone, your intent. It’s like they’re attuned to your spirit.”
You hesitated. “I never thought of them like that.”
“I have,” she said.
When you met her gaze, it was soft — contemplative, almost tender. “You’ve created something wonderful, you know. A synthesis of life and machine that even Aeons would envy.”
You chuckled. “That sounds like high praise from member #81 of Genius Society.”
“It’s simply the truth,” she replied, returning to her desk. “And truth, like beauty, doesn’t require exaggeration.”
You could tell she meant more than she said — her tone, gentle but precise, carried warmth she rarely revealed. As you continued working beside her, your arms moving in practiced harmony, she glanced up one last time.
“Would you… ever allow me to study the neural patterns?”
“Only if you promise not to dismantle me.”
Ruan Mei laughed quietly — a soft, musical sound. “I wouldn’t dare. I’d rather learn the rhythm of how you move.”
And in that sterile, brilliant space, her words lingered longer than the hum of the machines.
“You’ve got multiple doctorates’ worth of precision in those things,” Ratio remarked dryly as one of your mechanical arms placed a teacup neatly beside him.
You smirked. “Only four, actually.”
He adjusted his glasses — purely decorative, you were convinced. “I was talking about the arms. But yes, modesty suits you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t let it confuse you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m simply fascinated. You wield technology as if it were instinct. You embody the philosophy of the Intelligentsia Guild: function refined into art.”
“Coming from the man who literally wears wisdom as an aesthetic,” you quipped, nodding toward the owl emblems on his attire.
Ratio smirked. “Touché.”
You turned back to your notes, four arms working seamlessly — one writing, one tapping data, one mixing compounds, one pouring tea.
He watched, eyes sharp behind lazy amusement. “Do you ever rest?”
“Do you?” you countered.
“Touché again.”
He sipped his tea, gaze unwavering. “I can’t decide what’s more impressive — your engineering, or your ability to act as though it’s ordinary.”
“I built them to be ordinary. The whole point was integration.”
“Ah,” he mused, “but you’ve done what philosophers and engineers have argued about for centuries — created unity between will and mechanism. The Guild would canonize you.”
“Is that your way of saying you approve?”
He chuckled softly. “Approval implies superiority. I recognize kinship.”
That earned your attention. Ratio wasn’t one to claim connection lightly.
“You see,” he continued, “you’ve eliminated inefficiency — the human flaw I find both tragic and fascinating. Yet you haven’t sacrificed personality for precision. That’s… rare.”
His tone softened. “The way your limbs react to mood — that subtle tremor when you’re deep in thought, the stillness when you’re focused — it’s like reading a second language written on your body.”
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “You’ve been observing that closely?”
He smiled — just barely. “Observation is the duty of the rational mind. And perhaps…” His gaze flicked toward one of the arms, hovering near his cup. “…the privilege of admiration.”
You let one mechanical limb lightly nudge his teacup away before he could take another sip. “Flattery, Dr. Ratio? You must be malfunctioning.”
“Hardly,” he replied smoothly, standing. “Just… recalibrating my logic.”
And with that, he left you in the quiet hum of your machinery — though the faintest trace of amusement lingered in the air like a whisper of static.
You didn’t hear Anaxa enter — only the brush of his coat and the metallic clink as he leaned against the table.
“So it’s true,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’ve grafted four steel arms to your spine. Tell me, does it hurt to carry so much ambition?”
You turned, one mechanical limb folding around your side protectively. “Not ambition. Necessity.”
He smiled, faint and knowing. “Spoken like someone who’s been burned by limitation.”
Your four limbs continued working — tightening bolts, sorting shards, jotting notes — even as your eyes stayed on him. “You talk like you understand.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve carried more ghosts than you have limbs.”
The weight in his voice silenced you for a heartbeat.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer. “But look at you. You’ve turned burden into beauty.” His gaze lingered on the junction where the rig met your back — not with clinical curiosity, but reverence. “A symphony of sinew and steel.”
“Most people stare,” you said quietly. “You… listen.”
“Because I hear what others don’t.” His eye glimmered faintly beneath the fall of his hair. “Every movement sings of defiance. You move like someone who refused to stop reaching.”
The mechanical arms stilled. “You make it sound poetic.”
“Everything is poetry,” he said, stepping closer still, “when it’s born from pain.”
One of your arms rose unconsciously, brushing a strand of his hair aside. He didn’t flinch. “You’ve made yourself a god of efficiency,” he whispered, “but still human enough to tremble.”
“I don’t tremble.”
“You do,” he said softly. “Right now.”
You realized he was right — your fingertips, or perhaps the mechanical claws, had the faintest quiver.
Anaxa smiled, equal parts pride and sorrow. “Good. Keep trembling. It means you haven’t lost yourself to the machine.”
His words sank deep, the kind that stayed even after silence returned.
“Tell me,” he said finally, eye glinting like the last light of dusk, “when you move all those hands at once, does it feel like freedom?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “It feels like I finally have enough hands to hold what I want.”
“And yet,” he murmured, brushing a hand against one metallic limb, “you’ll learn that even with six hands, you can’t hold everything.”
You met his gaze. “And you?”
He smiled faintly. “I let everything burn, so I wouldn’t have to.”
For a long moment, the two of you stood in that soft hum — human and machine, genius and heretic — each recognizing the other’s defiance reflected in steel and sorrow.
Sorry for taking so long, I finally had some motivation to write something. 😭🙏
Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀
“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”
Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation
Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).
Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.
It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.
You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.
But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.
"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.
You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.
"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."
His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.
"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"
Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"
You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."
For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"
It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.
"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."
Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."
You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."
Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."
You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."
For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.
As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.
"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."
He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.
Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.
The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.
You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.
To think is to exist.
He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.
You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.
You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."
Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.
For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.
"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."
His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.
You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."
Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.
"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"
You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."
There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.
For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.
"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."
You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."
Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.
As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.
In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.
But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.
You. The Memokeeper.
A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.
When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.
"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.
You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."
Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.
"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."
"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"
There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.
"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."
Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"
You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."
He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."
Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?
"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."
He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"
"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."
The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.
And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.
"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."
You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.
"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."
For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?
In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.
Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨
Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍♀️
