Duck Identification Chart

I stepped inside the office and sat before the doctor. But my thoughts suddenly drifted. "Mr. Blackwood?" The doctor’s voice pulled me back to the present. "How is she?" The doctor sighed, flipping through Natalie’s chart before meeting my gaze. "She suffered a severe head trauma. We managed to stabilize her, but…" He hesitated. My stomach twisted. "But what?" "She has retrograde amnesia. Right now, her memory is… fragmented. From what we’ve assessed, she doesn’t recall the last five years." Ethan froze. "How do you mean, five years?" "She believes it’s still 2018. In her mind, she’s still your wife." The words punched the air from my lungs. Still my wife. "This kind of memory loss can be temporary or permanent—we can’t say for sure. She may recover bits of it over time, or it may come back all at once." The doctor’s gaze softened. "It’s important, Mr. Blackwood, that no one tries to force her to remember anything. Pushing her could make things worse, even more dangerous." I swallowed hard, my pulse roaring in my ears. Five years of pain, five years of regrets—wiped away. "Can I see her?"I pleaded. The doctor hesitated before nodding. "Go easy on her....And Mr. Blackwood?" "Stay strong." ^^ Five years ago, Natalie Elise Blackwood walked away from her husband, Ethan Blackwood. After discovering his betrayal, she left without a trace. But when a tragic accident erases her memories, she wakes up believing she’s still Ethan’s devoted wife, unaware of the past that tore them apart. Seizing the opportunity to fix his mistakes, Ethan is determined to keep her by his side, even if it means hiding the painful truth. But when the memories return, will Natalie stay...or will history repeat itself?

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.