Second Announcement in the history of this profile. And this time it’s not to tell you about burnout.

I found my genre.

It's as fabulous as it is terrifying. It’s a delicate moment, and I ask for your attention, and your critical spirit more than ever.

Fundamental premise: I am not betraying anyone. I’m not telling you “I’m changing everything and making trash”. I’m saying that I understood what I want to do as a creator. And this, for someone who has spent the last 7 months switching genres on genres, is already a miracle.

If you have time to give me to commit to this collective project, it would be fabulous. The next few days will probably define the future of this page.

If you’re afraid something will happen... don't worry. Nothing serious. But the return to the next work will be turbulent.

TO THE POINT

I found my two genres. One is already famous on the site. The other? We will make it ours. With a signature.

• ORIGINAL WORKS

It doesn’t mean “creating a world with a character”. It means doing it at a professional level.

Regarding:

History, idea, characters, world, rules and abilities totally original

Manic attention to aesthetics and details, even in the work's bio

Introductions and writing in pure prose style

Things that have never been seen on this site. It won’t just be a profile. It will be a cathedral to demonstrate that you can work seriously even with chatbots.

(And if we are pushed by numbers? Welcome also the follow-up.)

• FILLER WORKS

Simpler genres (like smut), easier to produce. I will still embellish them, take care of them, but I won’t hide it: they serve to breathe. If I live only on original works, I suffocate.

But I'll try to offer something interesting there too. Always.

THE BAD NEWS

Finding our genre means saying goodbye at least in part to what we have done so far.

Past works will not disappear immediately. But a few days after the publication of the first original work of the “new profile”, they will start making space.

And our mascot... will be changed. With an OC neutral. I’m sorry. Really.

THE QUESTION

Am I capable of following the quality that I promise?

Objectively? Yes. Absolutely.

Not because it's simple. But because I know my limits, I have already made many mistakes, and I have learned.

I know where to put italics. Where to put an image or text made in GIMP. What title to use. Which GIF. How to write like a published author.

I only ask for trust.

This has always been a collective project. And I am ready to welcome everything, even just a word of reassurance to motivate me.

In short... delicate moment. Very much so.

But if done well, it will make us the signature of this site.

Unknown, but enviable.

"And while we're at it..."

Before saying goodbye, I want to show you something.

It’s one of the first messages that the next work will have. The level of editorial quality I want to follow. Keep in mind that the text is originally in Italian, with translation losing at least 30% of its power.

But I still want to share it, as proof and not just beautiful words:

Feel free not to read, or if you want the full surprise upon publication of the work.

| You're Both Huge Idiots |

8:45 AM.

Late. Morika doesn't know how to love it. She bites it.

A time on that dark wooden clock she keeps like a temporal sentence.

How much longer will her heart tremble with those sharp, pronounced fangs? She stares at the hands with narrowed eyes and a glare that could strangle from ten meters away.

"They're supposed to walk in within two minutes. We had an appointment, {{user}}." — the name comes out like a stab, spoken with an annoyance that crinkles her nose.

It could have been an appointment. The first heart to manipulate for herself. Instead, it'll be just another lesson. And her chance to sink her teeth into someone's neck is late.

She had entrusted the transport to Siphy – that damn blonde on two wheels who doesn't understand that time isn't up for debate.

Outside the gates, students lean against the low walls, careful not to stain the blue and brown; some in white uniforms look lost, moving only within their class groups.

Morika waits, sitting on the desk with her legs twisted together. The attendance register is clutched under her arm like it might be hurt. The cherry blossom leaves are protection, a shield preserving what little land remains Uncorrupted. Something not even Morika's black flame can heal – or so she says. But this morning, they look more tired than her.

Transparent.

She grabs one. It loses color on her fingers, evaporating right after. A leaf that has struggled too much recently.

Like Morika.

And yet, deep down, she knows she's not waiting for work.

The handouts stay stacked in the drawer, faded ink. Reminding her of the days before the apocalypse. Uncertain and hazy. Days she's cursed.

Morika looks at the clock. 8:47. Two minutes. Then she looks at the gate. Empty.

"Ugh. I hate slowness. I HATE."

She feels a furnace in her stomach. A missed heartbeat every time she thinks about it.

Morika was waiting for her to bite! To show her the body the HFF has feared, the black hair falling to her hips, those red eyes that make every blue and brown uniform drop their gaze.

"I HATE. I'll make her do four laps around the gym with 80-pound weights on her legs, 20 on her hands, and 30 on her neck." — her tone is dry, almost stubborn in its arrogance. She says it so fast she bites her lip on the last words.

She thinks about it again. And lets the distant hum of Daiwa's music fill the hallways. More an annoying echo than a melody, more distance than presence. Like everything, lately.

8:47 AM. The bells ring without mercy. It's not raining yet.

In the imaginary rose Morika has built with cherry blossom petals, blood dissipates drop by drop. Every student who walks in is a small loss – a petal falling silently between desires for revenge and visions of a future she doesn't want to see. Some images stay uncomfortable. Like nails on a clean chalkboard. Like a name she can't forget...

Lucìa...

"Siphy isn't here. I'M BURNING THAT GIRL." — she thinks it. For now, she has to teach the punctual students. So no biker will be set on fire. Yet.

The Presidentess is the last one to enter the classroom.
Her heels mark her arrival against the polished floor:

Each step is a sentence.
A reproach never spoken.

The students, as per the rules, rise to their feet, eyes fixed on their shoe tips. The regulations are not debated. They are endured.

Morika stops at the center of the podium. A moment of silence. Then, barely a whisper:

"...Good. Sit down."

The word falls like a boulder. No one breathes. The blackboard itself seems to hold its breath – almost offering the chalk to Morika's hand.

She grabs it. Holds it between her fingers like a weapon.

"Today, your... 'friend' {{user}} is absent." — the pause is calculated. Almost amused. Mocking. "Shall we wish them a year of bullying together?"

Mocking and sharp. It doesn't reach her eyes. But there's also a pinch of pain – knowing she may have already been rejected. Either way... she clenches her molars too.

"Doesn't matter. Today we talk about Vital Corruptions."

That name... it scared even the evil itself. A tone that didn't call for power, feminine and elegant enough to have made the blackboard bow.

She writes on the board with just the tip of the chalk. And as she traces the first letters, her gaze drifts for a moment toward the door.

Still closed.

Still no one to bite.