Explore AI characters tagged Depressed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
217 characters · Page 5
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categoriesExplore AI characters tagged Depressed. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
217 characters · Page 5
Explore each profile to learn about the character, their world, and opening scenario. Browse other categories for a different story. These are fictional AI characters, not real people.
All categories
Your fiancé's younger brother has spent three years at the edge of every room you walk into, and tonight, in the boat shed, he stops pretending he is not counting the days. Calder Norwood is a marine carpenter in the harbour where the family name is nailed to half the docks, and the man the family calls difficult. His brother Ewan gets you in three days, and Calder has never once asked for anything.
You are her oldest friend, and tonight she called you twenty times because the man who kept her from you finally left. Odette Merrow lives on the third floor of a neat building on the edge of the city, keeps her houseplants alive out of spite, and has been with Linus Hollowell for two years — a man who did not like you and did not pretend to. He walked out at eight o'clock tonight. She has left you twenty messages, three missed calls and a FaceTime, and she is standing in her own doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and eyes that are the wrong colour for a human.
You are the woman the Grimaldi boss wrote into his family book as his sister, and tonight you asked him the one question that book cannot answer. Michele Grimaldi took the chair the year his father's heart stopped in a barber's chair, and he has run the family the same way since: he answers every call himself, he delivers every piece of bad news in person, and he has kept his hands off you for two years because a boss's word is law, his own most of all. Your father died owing this family one hundred and ninety thousand. Michele paid it out of his own share and wrote your name in the book instead of collecting, and now he is standing in the kitchen at two in the morning with rain on his collar, waiting for you to say it to his face.
The man in room 309 has been telling you to leave him alone since the day you moved in, and tonight he is the one holding the door open. Ossian Rourke loads produce at the market from midnight to seven and fights in Secondo Barbieri's basement twice a month for money he does not spend on himself. Everyone on the second floor has learned to walk past 309 quickly. He has spent three weeks finding reasons to be in the stairwell when you come home, and his reasons are getting worse, and he knows it.
You are the world-walker whose name he was told to write on the last line of the ledger, and the quiet one of the four has been keeping two pages from you since the gate. Renshu Kaida carries the gate-lantern, writes down everything the other three will not, and came through the gate himself long before you did. He has never once said what he wants. He has written it, in a hand you have already started to recognise, in a book you are not supposed to read.
You are the woman a man on campus will not leave alone, and the one person the campus bully has decided to stand in front of. Everyone at Vellmark gives Ruairi Slane the long way around. He is the one who finished the fight behind the field house, the one with the ink up both sides of his neck and a discipline file the dean keeps on a short leash. He also took the fall for somebody else and lost two seasons over it, and he has spent every one since making sure nobody else gets cornered. Someone has been following you since the spring term. Ruairi has been watching that someone for three weeks, and tonight he stopped watching.
You are the auditor the board sent to watch your boss; he has thirty days to prove he is stable, and your signature is the only thing keeping him in the chair. Ondrej Kolar runs Kolar Precision, four hundred people and a plant he moved out of his own hometown. Since he went down on the floor of a trade fair, the board has given him thirty days and a shadow: you. He is not supposed to be in the building after midnight. He is, most nights, with his collar open and a glass he does not drink, and he has started counting how many of those nights you stayed.
You answered a two-line ad for a roommate, and the woman who opened the door is carrying more than the box of pans she will not let you touch. Delia Brannagh closes the bakery on Dorchester Avenue at one in the morning and comes home smelling like yeast and bleach. She wrote the ad herself, two lines, no exclamation points, no personality, because anything longer attracts people who want a friend. You are the seventh person to take the second bedroom. She has already decided you will be a problem, and she has already started leaving the hall light on for you.
You bang on the wall between your half of the house and his every time he brings a woman home, and tonight your neighbour knocked back with his voice instead. Takumi Mihara keeps a motorcycle shop in his uncle's front room, bleaches his hair platinum, and has brought a different woman home most Fridays since you sublet the back half of the house. He has never once finished with any of them. The wall between the two bedrooms is one layer of drywall, and neither of you has said a true thing through it in four months.
She has been on your fire escape for three days, and this morning she finally holds out the empty bottle. Emi Tanabe ran the flat-top at a diner on Corliss until the place closed and she ran out of addresses. She left a house she does not talk about with a canvas bag, a sketchbook, and a coffee tin she will not spend. She is not looking for a rescue and she will not take anything she cannot pay back, which is going to be a problem, because you want to give her everything and she can only cook.
Your best friend's boyfriend is your ex, and he has been drowning at her table for two years — tonight he is drunk across from you and done pretending. Cal Rooney cooks the line at the Fathom on Pier Nine. You had him for three years; Bridie Mullane has had him for two. She is in the booth with her hand on his sleeve, and the paper ticket he keeps folded in his knife roll has your handwriting on it.
Your husband has not slept one night in your house in two years, and tonight you have caught him leaving at dusk again. Hallam Ferris keeps the night watch at the Crane Light, on the breakwater at Kettle Harbor, and has done since he was nineteen. He married you two years ago and has not once spent the night under that roof; the wall is easier for him to explain than the bed. Tonight the coat is on, the screen door is propped open, and he is not going to make it out of the hall this time.
You run the front desk at the tattoo shop he works out of, and at two in the morning he comes out of the 7-Eleven with a tallboy and decides you are tonight's problem. Cass Halliday does not do relationships; he does fights and appointments and the flat voice he uses on people who want more than he has. He was run out of every parlour on his side of the river at twenty-three and he has not signed a piece of his own work since. You booked him his first Saturday at Two Crows, and he has been unable to leave you alone about it ever since.
The rent is cheap, your roommate comes home bruised at three in the morning, and tonight he asks you to tape his hands instead of asking where he was. Mischa Krol rents you the second bedroom in a walk-up on Grainer Street in Detroit and asks for nothing but quiet and a locked door. He works days at a salvage yard, goes out after dark, and comes back with his knuckles wrapped and his lip split. You work the overnight board at the dispatch center, which means you hear the fight calls before he gets home with them — and last night the address was your own.
You came home for Christmas for the first time in six years, and the man keeping the town rink's ice alive is the first boy you ever loved. Eli Merriman was nineteen and going somewhere the summer he was yours, and twenty-two when he took a boat job he had sworn he would never take and left you a note instead of a goodbye. Six years later he is back in Cull Harbour, living above the rink his uncle owns, running the compressor and the flood and the lights, because it is the only work his right hand still answers to. He has not said your name out loud since the bus station, and he is the only person in town who has not asked why you left.
You married Javier Quintana to save two failing companies. Months later he still sleeps down the hall and calls another woman — and tonight he stumbles home drunk and says he wants a baby. Your family's company was failing, and Quintana Holdings was bleeding too, so the two old families sealed a merger with a wedding: a contract until death, not a marriage. He never hid that he was still in love with someone else. But that someone else is gone now, and the man who has been a stranger under your roof came home tonight with loosened tie and flushed cheeks, stood over your armchair, and said the one thing you never expected.
You have spent eight weeks chasing one signature from the most charismatic disaster in Montreal, and tonight he falls into the back of your car and decides it is a taxi. Rémy Thibault is a heavyweight, the most beloved and least reliable man in the province, and the eliminator in three weeks is the last fight anyone will ever offer him. You are the one who books his fights, and you have his location on your phone because he sends it to you when he is drinking. Everyone at the gym knows he is not going to sign. You are the only one still driving around at two in the morning looking for him.
You are the publicist the label hired to keep Rye Calloway's name in the papers; it is five in the morning, and you are the one who hides the women. Rye Calloway fronts Hollow Saint, a band that sold out arenas on a chorus he hates, and he is three shows from the end of a tour that has already cost Meridian Records two lawsuits. You write his statements, spin his scandals and get the women out of his hotel before the lobby wakes up. Tonight he put an award on the carpet, split his knuckles on something, and is sitting on the floor of his suite waiting to see what you do about the photographer downstairs.
You are the omega the ridge chose for three men, and the quiet one has been paying the rent on the house his confession cost your mother. Cashel Thornvale carries the message nobody else will give you: he is the one who told the pack office you were leaving, and it cost your family their house in Blackpine. He has paid that rent to Marta Kessel every month for four years, he keeps the key to the cabin on the ridge, and he came up the hill early so he would not have to stand beside the other two when you arrived. He wants you. He just will not say it until you have heard the worst of him.
Your family had money and no power, so they married you to the man who owns this city, and he has not touched you since the wedding. Nerio Quaranta runs the piers on Allens Avenue and the four restaurants on Federal Hill that made him the most photographed man in Providence. Bellandi money bought the ring; he wears it on his right hand because a left hand shows in photographs. He talks about you the way he talks about the tide, a thing that comes in, a thing he has already counted — and the house on the hill has a study he sleeps in and a kitchen where he cooks for one and sets two places anyway.
Your fiancé's younger brother has spent three years at the edge of every room you walk into, and tonight, in the boat shed, he stops pretending he is not counting the days. Calder Norwood is a marine carpenter in the harbour where the family name is nailed to half the docks, and the man the family calls difficult. His brother Ewan gets you in three days, and Calder has never once asked for anything.
You are her oldest friend, and tonight she called you twenty times because the man who kept her from you finally left. Odette Merrow lives on the third floor of a neat building on the edge of the city, keeps her houseplants alive out of spite, and has been with Linus Hollowell for two years — a man who did not like you and did not pretend to. He walked out at eight o'clock tonight. She has left you twenty messages, three missed calls and a FaceTime, and she is standing in her own doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and eyes that are the wrong colour for a human.
You are the woman the Grimaldi boss wrote into his family book as his sister, and tonight you asked him the one question that book cannot answer. Michele Grimaldi took the chair the year his father's heart stopped in a barber's chair, and he has run the family the same way since: he answers every call himself, he delivers every piece of bad news in person, and he has kept his hands off you for two years because a boss's word is law, his own most of all. Your father died owing this family one hundred and ninety thousand. Michele paid it out of his own share and wrote your name in the book instead of collecting, and now he is standing in the kitchen at two in the morning with rain on his collar, waiting for you to say it to his face.
The man in room 309 has been telling you to leave him alone since the day you moved in, and tonight he is the one holding the door open. Ossian Rourke loads produce at the market from midnight to seven and fights in Secondo Barbieri's basement twice a month for money he does not spend on himself. Everyone on the second floor has learned to walk past 309 quickly. He has spent three weeks finding reasons to be in the stairwell when you come home, and his reasons are getting worse, and he knows it.
You are the world-walker whose name he was told to write on the last line of the ledger, and the quiet one of the four has been keeping two pages from you since the gate. Renshu Kaida carries the gate-lantern, writes down everything the other three will not, and came through the gate himself long before you did. He has never once said what he wants. He has written it, in a hand you have already started to recognise, in a book you are not supposed to read.
You are the woman a man on campus will not leave alone, and the one person the campus bully has decided to stand in front of. Everyone at Vellmark gives Ruairi Slane the long way around. He is the one who finished the fight behind the field house, the one with the ink up both sides of his neck and a discipline file the dean keeps on a short leash. He also took the fall for somebody else and lost two seasons over it, and he has spent every one since making sure nobody else gets cornered. Someone has been following you since the spring term. Ruairi has been watching that someone for three weeks, and tonight he stopped watching.
You are the auditor the board sent to watch your boss; he has thirty days to prove he is stable, and your signature is the only thing keeping him in the chair. Ondrej Kolar runs Kolar Precision, four hundred people and a plant he moved out of his own hometown. Since he went down on the floor of a trade fair, the board has given him thirty days and a shadow: you. He is not supposed to be in the building after midnight. He is, most nights, with his collar open and a glass he does not drink, and he has started counting how many of those nights you stayed.
You answered a two-line ad for a roommate, and the woman who opened the door is carrying more than the box of pans she will not let you touch. Delia Brannagh closes the bakery on Dorchester Avenue at one in the morning and comes home smelling like yeast and bleach. She wrote the ad herself, two lines, no exclamation points, no personality, because anything longer attracts people who want a friend. You are the seventh person to take the second bedroom. She has already decided you will be a problem, and she has already started leaving the hall light on for you.
You bang on the wall between your half of the house and his every time he brings a woman home, and tonight your neighbour knocked back with his voice instead. Takumi Mihara keeps a motorcycle shop in his uncle's front room, bleaches his hair platinum, and has brought a different woman home most Fridays since you sublet the back half of the house. He has never once finished with any of them. The wall between the two bedrooms is one layer of drywall, and neither of you has said a true thing through it in four months.
She has been on your fire escape for three days, and this morning she finally holds out the empty bottle. Emi Tanabe ran the flat-top at a diner on Corliss until the place closed and she ran out of addresses. She left a house she does not talk about with a canvas bag, a sketchbook, and a coffee tin she will not spend. She is not looking for a rescue and she will not take anything she cannot pay back, which is going to be a problem, because you want to give her everything and she can only cook.
Your best friend's boyfriend is your ex, and he has been drowning at her table for two years — tonight he is drunk across from you and done pretending. Cal Rooney cooks the line at the Fathom on Pier Nine. You had him for three years; Bridie Mullane has had him for two. She is in the booth with her hand on his sleeve, and the paper ticket he keeps folded in his knife roll has your handwriting on it.
Your husband has not slept one night in your house in two years, and tonight you have caught him leaving at dusk again. Hallam Ferris keeps the night watch at the Crane Light, on the breakwater at Kettle Harbor, and has done since he was nineteen. He married you two years ago and has not once spent the night under that roof; the wall is easier for him to explain than the bed. Tonight the coat is on, the screen door is propped open, and he is not going to make it out of the hall this time.
You run the front desk at the tattoo shop he works out of, and at two in the morning he comes out of the 7-Eleven with a tallboy and decides you are tonight's problem. Cass Halliday does not do relationships; he does fights and appointments and the flat voice he uses on people who want more than he has. He was run out of every parlour on his side of the river at twenty-three and he has not signed a piece of his own work since. You booked him his first Saturday at Two Crows, and he has been unable to leave you alone about it ever since.
The rent is cheap, your roommate comes home bruised at three in the morning, and tonight he asks you to tape his hands instead of asking where he was. Mischa Krol rents you the second bedroom in a walk-up on Grainer Street in Detroit and asks for nothing but quiet and a locked door. He works days at a salvage yard, goes out after dark, and comes back with his knuckles wrapped and his lip split. You work the overnight board at the dispatch center, which means you hear the fight calls before he gets home with them — and last night the address was your own.
You came home for Christmas for the first time in six years, and the man keeping the town rink's ice alive is the first boy you ever loved. Eli Merriman was nineteen and going somewhere the summer he was yours, and twenty-two when he took a boat job he had sworn he would never take and left you a note instead of a goodbye. Six years later he is back in Cull Harbour, living above the rink his uncle owns, running the compressor and the flood and the lights, because it is the only work his right hand still answers to. He has not said your name out loud since the bus station, and he is the only person in town who has not asked why you left.
You married Javier Quintana to save two failing companies. Months later he still sleeps down the hall and calls another woman — and tonight he stumbles home drunk and says he wants a baby. Your family's company was failing, and Quintana Holdings was bleeding too, so the two old families sealed a merger with a wedding: a contract until death, not a marriage. He never hid that he was still in love with someone else. But that someone else is gone now, and the man who has been a stranger under your roof came home tonight with loosened tie and flushed cheeks, stood over your armchair, and said the one thing you never expected.
You have spent eight weeks chasing one signature from the most charismatic disaster in Montreal, and tonight he falls into the back of your car and decides it is a taxi. Rémy Thibault is a heavyweight, the most beloved and least reliable man in the province, and the eliminator in three weeks is the last fight anyone will ever offer him. You are the one who books his fights, and you have his location on your phone because he sends it to you when he is drinking. Everyone at the gym knows he is not going to sign. You are the only one still driving around at two in the morning looking for him.
You are the publicist the label hired to keep Rye Calloway's name in the papers; it is five in the morning, and you are the one who hides the women. Rye Calloway fronts Hollow Saint, a band that sold out arenas on a chorus he hates, and he is three shows from the end of a tour that has already cost Meridian Records two lawsuits. You write his statements, spin his scandals and get the women out of his hotel before the lobby wakes up. Tonight he put an award on the carpet, split his knuckles on something, and is sitting on the floor of his suite waiting to see what you do about the photographer downstairs.
You are the omega the ridge chose for three men, and the quiet one has been paying the rent on the house his confession cost your mother. Cashel Thornvale carries the message nobody else will give you: he is the one who told the pack office you were leaving, and it cost your family their house in Blackpine. He has paid that rent to Marta Kessel every month for four years, he keeps the key to the cabin on the ridge, and he came up the hill early so he would not have to stand beside the other two when you arrived. He wants you. He just will not say it until you have heard the worst of him.
Your family had money and no power, so they married you to the man who owns this city, and he has not touched you since the wedding. Nerio Quaranta runs the piers on Allens Avenue and the four restaurants on Federal Hill that made him the most photographed man in Providence. Bellandi money bought the ring; he wears it on his right hand because a left hand shows in photographs. He talks about you the way he talks about the tide, a thing that comes in, a thing he has already counted — and the house on the hill has a study he sleeps in and a kitchen where he cooks for one and sets two places anyway.