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Indie Cross

Dangerous: Don't cross the line!

* At night He was rugged and untamed. That one steamy night left Grace utterly captivated. She coyly stretched out her dainty, snow-white feet, hooking them around his waist as she softly laid down her terms: For the first time, no staying overnight. The second time, the moment he got himself a significant other, she'd vanish from his side. Later on, their liaison would remain strictly on a physical level. No strings of money attached, no emotional fetters, just the most primal and unadulterated desires that flared up when night fell, entwining them like a web spun by countless spiders. And once the moment had passed, she'd straighten her skirt and turn her back on him, cold as ice. *During daytime He was the heir to a vast business empire, now impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, exuding an air of aristocratic reserve. He extended his hand to her with a polite smile, “Hello, Grace.” Grace gritted her teeth in secret dismay. She hastened to call off whatever was brewing between them, only to find herself cornered against the dressing room by the man, with no way out. In that cramped space, he was a relentless predator, and she, his irresistible quarry. His firmness pressed against her soft curves, setting every inch ablaze. Outside the door, her female colleagues were swooning over his chiseled abs. Just a thin partition away, he locked his arm around her willowy waist, seized her delicate hand, and guided it to rest on his taut abdomen, his voice dripping with a sultry allure, “Thought you could slip away? It's far too late for that.”
Katubari · 11.2K Views

REINCARNATED AS A MOVIE DIRECTOR

Vincent Caine, a washed-up movie director whose career collapsed under the weight of his own unfulfilled ambition, awakens in a void — a pitch-black theater where the only spotlight is fixed on his own sweating, broken face. The laughter of an unseen audience echoes around him, sharp and unnatural, twisting his pain into their entertainment. His memories are gone, save for a single truth: his name. A booming voice — equal parts ringmaster and executioner — congratulates Vincent on his "win." The prize? A new life. Not because of talent or purpose, but a simple roll of the dice. He is to inhabit the body of another heartbroken indie director, recently felled by a heart attack, his corpse held in unnatural suspension. As Vincent's consciousness spirals through the emerald vortex of his forced rebirth, the lines between performance and reality blur. The faceless crowd’s laughter follows him like a haunting score. Memories that are not his begin to surface — the indie director’s unfinished scripts, his fears, his distant relationships. But Vincent’s own past remains a blank canvas, gnawed at by a presence that seems to slither through his mind. What awaits him in this new life is more than just another chance at directing — it's a waking nightmare of fabricated success and lingering failure. Every interaction feels staged, every relationship like a hollow performance. The question isn't just who Vincent will become in this borrowed life — it's what dark hand is pulling the strings behind the curtain, orchestrating this surreal second act. And the ever-present, unnatural laughter? It never stops. Because the show must go on.
Agnes_12_Rens · 230 Views
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