Peach Blossom Debt

In Gangnam, Seoul's district known for it's wealth and glamour, a series of mysterious disappearances and brutal murders occurs. The criminal is quickly called by public the 'Cherry Blossom Reaper' because of his choice for young, beautiful women and fact, that the day after the kidnapping, in the place of the disappearance, he leaves a small bouquet made of artificial cherry blossoms, slightly sprinkled with the victim's blood. When the daughter of the well-known fashion house CEO disappear, the case is transferred to Kim Soo Min, a female detective from Seoul's Investigation Departament. But as it turns out, the case is not easy to solve, even for such a talented detective as her. The list of suspects is getting longer and evidence does not clearly indicate any of them. [ IMPORTANT: This story is entirely fictional, just like its characters. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. ]

After my family is burdened with a debt of 5,000,000 dollars, I become the only person in the family who can no longer afford to "die". Dad is trampled in the mud by our creditors, protecting what's left of my school tuition fees even if it means breaking his fingers. He roars, "You can hit me, but don't you lay a finger on my daughter!" At that moment, Dad's small, hunched figure becomes a debt that I can never repay in my lifetime. Meanwhile, Mom kneels before the creditors, grovelling in the mud as she begs for a few more days of grace. Burdened by Mom and Dad's love for me, I drop out of school and go to work at a factory to make as much money as I can as quickly as possible to pay back the debt. Ultimately, my landlord kicks me out of my lodging on Christmas Eve. I'm also sporting a high fever in the snow, but my wages from the factory are still unpaid. I call Mom and beg her to transfer just 50 dollars to help me out. However, she doesn't sound concerned or anxious on the other end of the line and utters in disgust, "Haven't you gotten your wages already, Carolyn Swanson? "How dare you lie to us? Who taught you that? If you can't afford to buy the meds for your so-called fever, then you might as well just die!" Then, she hangs up on me cruelly. I grip my phone in my hands, watching the snow falling from the sky. My hands feel even colder than the icy ground at this point.

The night my father collapsed, I learned some men negotiate with money… but Noah Thorne negotiates with lives. I never planned to marry a billionaire CEO, especially not the man my father owed $50,000 to. But when the hospital demanded an $80,000 deposit before surgery, life made the choice for me. While my mother sobbed in a cold hallway, Noah’s bodyguard arrived with an offer, an arranged marriage, a contract marriage that would clear the debt and cover every medical bill. When I confronted Noah, he presented the terms without cruelty: one year, no intimacy, public appearances only, and freedom after. He believed he was offering mercy but I felt like beautifully packaged captivity. Desperation crushed pride, and I signed. Our “marriage” was a seven-minute formality, no vows, no meaning. Moving into his penthouse was like stepping into a museum built to contain silence. Publicly, we were the perfect romance. Privately, we were strangers navigating a fragile arrangement thick with unspoken tension. Complications followed us: Noah’s elegant, smug ex who treated me like a placeholder, and my own ex-boyfriend, whose sudden reappearance triggered jealousy in Noah he couldn’t hide. Arguments, silences, and late-night moments softened something between us. Slowly, painfully, the man behind the empire emerged, the lonely boy shaped by loss, abandonment, and guarded walls. We began to care. We tried to deny it. Feelings weren’t in the contract but feelings don’t read contracts. Near the end of the year, Noah pulled away. I thought he wanted freedom. He signed the release papers with steady hands and a breaking heart. I was almost gone when he whispered the truth: “Please don’t go.” We tore up the contract. A year later, we married again, this time for love, not survival. This time, I chose him

Every year, the village had to choose a girl of age to become the Blossom Bride. The girl who was chosen would be sent into the cave as the village god’s wife. She would spend the entire night with him. If she came out alive, she would be honored for the rest of her life as a village elder. Any child she bore was said to be blessed, destined for a life of effortless fortune. If she died, the village would simply wait for the next year, when another Blossom Bride would be chosen. The blessing of the Blossom Bride was believed to pass on to her parents and elders as well. However, no one wanted to be chosen. To escape the ritual, families quietly left the village, one after another. I was the only one who volunteered. I had a lust problem, and I had always wondered what it would feel like to be with a god.

Crimson Bloomed: Ascend Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | Coming - of - Age | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Burn The city looked like it had been devoured — chewed up by fire, time, and whatever came after — then spit back out in jagged pieces. Dead drones dangled from power lines like rusted ornaments. Neon signs flickered above fractured pavement, their broken scripts glitching into gibberish. Down the block, a half - melted smartcar burned slow, casting warped shadows across the skeletal remains of a coffee bar. Behind a crumpled tram car, someone crouched low, breath tight in her lungs. The shrieking hadn’t stopped. It came again — sharp, bone-deep, the kind of sound that latched onto your spine and refused to let go. She checked the signal jammer at her hip. Still blinking. Still active. Not for long. They were tracking her. She moved fast — boots silent over broken glass, slipping through the breach in an old laundromat’s wall. Her body moved from muscle memory now: slide through, duck left, over the washer, don’t look at the corpse slumped by the dryer. Out the back. Up the fire escape. On the rooftop, she halted. Not alone. Someone was already there — silhouetted against the bleeding sunset. Combat jacket. Short - cropped hair. Pulse rifle slung casually over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like this was just another rooftop, just another war. “Don’t move,” the voice snapped. She lifted her hands slowly. “I’m clean.” “Everyone says that.” “Scan me.” beat. Then the girl stepped forward, rifle still raised but gaze locked in. Dark eyes, sharp, searching — not just for weapons, but tells. Fear. Lies. She lowered the rifle half an inch. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” That wasn’t the line she expected.

Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | 18+ | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Pace It started with a kiss I don’t remember giving. A rooftop. A moan. Someone’s fingers buried in my hair like they belonged there. A mouth on my throat that said I tasted like something they lost in another life. I wasn’t dreaming. The city was already cracking beneath me. Power grids flickering like dying stars. Tech failing. Screens static. The sky bruising in strange new colors. Everyone said it was coincidence. Collapse. Noise. But I knew better. The moment I felt her breath on my skin — even if I couldn’t see her — I knew the end had already arrived. And I had something to do with it. Ten butterflies followed me after that. Not literal ones. Not always. They shimmered in my periphery. Each the wrong color. Each too vivid. Each drawn to me like heat to blood. They touched me in dreams. They watched me when I undressed. They whispered without words. I could taste their want. Some called me cursed. Broken. Unstable. But the truth is simpler. I’m blooming again — and they all feel it. They don’t love me. They remember me. They remember what I used to be — what I still am, underneath the silence. One of them burned me with just a kiss. One broke my spine with kindness. One slid her hand under my shirt like it was always hers. One cries when she touches me. One never speaks, but her eyes dig. One wants to keep me. One wants to ruin me. And one just wants to finish what we started. They think I’m choosing. I’m not. My body already did. And now the bloom inside me is turning darker.