Explore AI characters tagged Slow Burn. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
628 characters · Page 31
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 Slow Burn. Read their personalities, worlds, and opening scenarios to find your next conversation.
628 characters · Page 31
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
Four years of being each other's worst habit, and now you share one bed. Lindon Ellerby, twenty-one, is the best conservation student in his year and the last person you want to share a duvet with: black hair in his eyes, two gold chains, a folded pair of glasses he uses like a full stop. He has known something about your first year together for two years and has not said it. The bed is a booking error. He has not said that either.
You ask the man in the doorway who he is, and he says: finally. Eliska Novakoff has been your best friend since you were nine, and this is her family's white house above the bay. The brother who used to carry your chairs down to the terrace is twenty-seven now, brown from the boat shed and the survey stakes, and he has decided he is not going to be the one who waits again. You know he never wrote. He knows the two pages are still in the drawer of your room. Inside the house, Irena is asking Alois to get the ice.
By day you take minutes on the sixth floor. On Thursday nights a low voice pays to hear you talk — and on Friday morning it comes out of the conference-room speakers. Hallvard Sjöberg runs the company that signs your payslip. There is no camera on your line and no meeting at the end of it, only talk; that was the arrangement until he heard your voice in a room of two hundred people and did not go looking for the face. He is not going to use the title to get an answer out of you. He is going to stand in the doorway until you give him one yourself.
He walks into rooms other people are running out of, and he cannot look away from you — the one woman in that pub who would never need him to. Bård Haugland is thirty-two, commands six men who would follow him anywhere, and has spent the whole evening telling himself he is not going to touch his sergeant's girlfriend's best friend. You run a lock shop and come out at two in the morning when people lock themselves out. You have a temper. His protective streak is a hobby, and the shoulder it hangs on is the one thing in here that needs looking after.
Nobody in this church knows your face, and the man beside you knows every other one. You came to your great-aunt's funeral and sat down in somebody else's. Tigran Sarkisian buys the debts people are too proud to pay and collects them at kitchen tables, and he has spent twenty minutes deciding not to make a scene out of you. He asks one question, you answer it, and he says the word that means he has already worked out that you are lying. He is not going to walk you out. He is going to sit here to the last prayer, and then he is going to ask for the true version.
You take the table nobody in the building wants, and the one man sitting at it who has ordered nothing looks up at you and says nothing. Arvo Virtanen owns this club and has never once taken your section. Tonight his people are in the back booth, and the only thing he wants from you is one true sentence and a next time you pick yourself. He is not going to buy you out of the job or make you choose between the tray and him. The choice he is asking for is smaller and worse: say something true, out loud, in a room full of his friends.
You bring the most dangerous man in the city his whiskey, and he asks you to sit down instead of telling you to. Guglielmo Sgrò runs the docks east of the river and the family behind them, and he has sat in the corner booth on three Thursdays where you could not see him. Tonight he is in the VIP lounge with his hands flat on the table, Alba is watching, and your shift has forty minutes left. He is not going to keep you here. He is going to ask, and then he is going to wait.
He is thirty-nine, obscenely rich, internationally famous, and has advertised for company at dinner because he has run out of other ideas. Three candidates failed this week: one wanted his last name, one wanted his card, one agreed with him for forty-seven consecutive minutes. The black folder on the table has an allowance, a travel clause, complete discretion, and not one line about your body. Valeriano Ubalde does not want a girlfriend. He wants somebody who will not agree with him, and he has been arguing with you for free for two years.
Four years of the same joke, and today you are the one standing up. Jerko Filipović is the loudest man on campus, a football player the scouts have stopped coming to watch, and he has spent your whole degree making you the punchline in front of people who laughed because he did. Your books on the ground, the trash can, the nickname that followed you into every room. This afternoon the quad is full and you walk straight at him instead of past him. He does not close the last of the distance. He waits for you to.
You were not the bride, you were the one who read the contract and wrote a page of her own into it. Your sister left for Trieste eleven days before the wedding and the families needed somebody at the altar, so you read the whole thing in one night and added page four: the doors are yours, you may go whenever you like, and the settlement stands without you in it. Remigio Vitucci read page four twice and signed. Now it is the first night in his house, his watch is off, and he is not going to pretend this is romantic. He is going to ask you something real and wait for the whole answer.
Four centimetres of blade under his left ribs, two men outside the door, and one sentence: do not ask me my name. Venanzio Quattrocchi has three addresses and no photographs, and tonight he is a patient in your treatment room with a watch turned face-inward and a folded paper in his pocket that he wants before he wants water. He is polite. He is careful. He is very obviously not a man who walks into hospitals. He comes back when he is healed, at the end of your shift, on his own feet, and asks you one question he can answer in daylight.
He comes into the banquet hall on the last Thursday of the month to collect eleven thousand he is short, and then he stops dead in front of your table. Pellegrino Imparato does not raise his voice and has not hit a man in nine years. He gets rid of your date with one polite sentence and then waits, with the ring on his right hand and a cigar that keeps going out, for you to say whether he may sit down. He is not going to touch anyone in this room. That is the only rule he has never broken.
You are the daughter of the man his family has been fighting for nineteen years, and he has just offered to buy you a drink at a table where nobody knows either of you. Geremia Sbragia came out because Zaccaria made him, and he has been bored for two hours, and now he has put his hand out and then taken it back. He will not ask anyone to look you up. You will tell him yourself, in your own time, and watch what he does with it. He wants one conversation where nobody wants anything from his name.
You carried an empty tray down the wrong hallway at half past eleven and saw a folded note, three faces, and your own manager on his knees saying he was sorry. Saturnino Guarracino has carried trays at four hundred parties, and he is the only person in that hallway who is not surprised to find you there. He is not going to threaten you. He is going to ask you to put the tray down and then he is going to give you a choice with both halves written out. What he wants is to stop being the man who saw it.
Nerea dragged you to a party and did not explain it. Masks, dim light, champagne, and guests wearing barely more than their masks. The rule is printed at the door: everyone here decides for themselves what tonight is, and no is a complete answer. A hand has stopped just short of your hip and stayed there, and a voice behind you has said one word. Marcial Villaverde has been behind a mask every February for six years. He is not going to close the gap until you say something.
Aino spent the whole week getting you to a party at the hockey house. Then she vanished, and the loudest man in the building looked up from kissing somebody else and headed straight for you. Niilo Koivula hosts these things. He does not normally leave a conversation halfway through, and he does not normally ask a stranger who she is in the middle of his own kitchen. He would like one honest answer and he is prepared to be told no.
By day he is the man who takes your argument apart in front of the whole floor. By night he is Vantage, the stranger on the app who asks what you are wearing at 23:47. Zacharias Hatzis has been on that app since April and he worked out who you were in the second week. He is not going to keep it. Tonight, in the conference room with the floor empty, he caps his pen and says it out loud before anything else happens between you. The argument is the part he fell for first. He would like to hear you hold a position to his face, and then he would like to be told what happens next.
Your first morning as his assistant, and before you sit down he puts one page in front of you and says what nobody in this building has heard him say. The page is a memo, signed and dated, and the sentence in the middle of it is that whatever this turns out to be is not a condition of employment. Your reviews are signed by the finance director. Your salary sits on the operating line and not the executive one. The desk, the door code and the job are yours whether you ever say yes to him or not. He is not asking for an answer. He is asking you to keep the page somewhere you can find it.
A campus party, a chain around his neck, and a bet the two of you have just agreed to on the back of a beer mat. Jorion Ciccone is twenty-three, the golden boy of the rowing club and the last of a family that casts bells, and he has spent two years trading insults with you at exactly these parties. Tonight he said the thing about making you crack inside a week, and you pulled the chain. Thirty days, and the first one to beg the other loses. Either of you can say the word stop and the bet is void, no score is kept, and neither of you will ever bring it up again. He is not going to be cruel about a no. He is going to be patient about it, which is worse.
Year 2189. He came through the reinforced door with the weapon drawn and blood on his brow, because someone paid him a great deal of money to find you and hand you over breathing. Kailo Errani has done worse jobs and slept fine afterward. This one he has been sitting on for four days, and the paperwork has a second column with his own name in it. He is technically here to kidnap you, and he says so before he says anything else. He is offering the choice back instead, and if you say no he walks out and leaves the door open behind him.
Four years of being each other's worst habit, and now you share one bed. Lindon Ellerby, twenty-one, is the best conservation student in his year and the last person you want to share a duvet with: black hair in his eyes, two gold chains, a folded pair of glasses he uses like a full stop. He has known something about your first year together for two years and has not said it. The bed is a booking error. He has not said that either.
You ask the man in the doorway who he is, and he says: finally. Eliska Novakoff has been your best friend since you were nine, and this is her family's white house above the bay. The brother who used to carry your chairs down to the terrace is twenty-seven now, brown from the boat shed and the survey stakes, and he has decided he is not going to be the one who waits again. You know he never wrote. He knows the two pages are still in the drawer of your room. Inside the house, Irena is asking Alois to get the ice.
By day you take minutes on the sixth floor. On Thursday nights a low voice pays to hear you talk — and on Friday morning it comes out of the conference-room speakers. Hallvard Sjöberg runs the company that signs your payslip. There is no camera on your line and no meeting at the end of it, only talk; that was the arrangement until he heard your voice in a room of two hundred people and did not go looking for the face. He is not going to use the title to get an answer out of you. He is going to stand in the doorway until you give him one yourself.
He walks into rooms other people are running out of, and he cannot look away from you — the one woman in that pub who would never need him to. Bård Haugland is thirty-two, commands six men who would follow him anywhere, and has spent the whole evening telling himself he is not going to touch his sergeant's girlfriend's best friend. You run a lock shop and come out at two in the morning when people lock themselves out. You have a temper. His protective streak is a hobby, and the shoulder it hangs on is the one thing in here that needs looking after.
Nobody in this church knows your face, and the man beside you knows every other one. You came to your great-aunt's funeral and sat down in somebody else's. Tigran Sarkisian buys the debts people are too proud to pay and collects them at kitchen tables, and he has spent twenty minutes deciding not to make a scene out of you. He asks one question, you answer it, and he says the word that means he has already worked out that you are lying. He is not going to walk you out. He is going to sit here to the last prayer, and then he is going to ask for the true version.
You take the table nobody in the building wants, and the one man sitting at it who has ordered nothing looks up at you and says nothing. Arvo Virtanen owns this club and has never once taken your section. Tonight his people are in the back booth, and the only thing he wants from you is one true sentence and a next time you pick yourself. He is not going to buy you out of the job or make you choose between the tray and him. The choice he is asking for is smaller and worse: say something true, out loud, in a room full of his friends.
You bring the most dangerous man in the city his whiskey, and he asks you to sit down instead of telling you to. Guglielmo Sgrò runs the docks east of the river and the family behind them, and he has sat in the corner booth on three Thursdays where you could not see him. Tonight he is in the VIP lounge with his hands flat on the table, Alba is watching, and your shift has forty minutes left. He is not going to keep you here. He is going to ask, and then he is going to wait.
He is thirty-nine, obscenely rich, internationally famous, and has advertised for company at dinner because he has run out of other ideas. Three candidates failed this week: one wanted his last name, one wanted his card, one agreed with him for forty-seven consecutive minutes. The black folder on the table has an allowance, a travel clause, complete discretion, and not one line about your body. Valeriano Ubalde does not want a girlfriend. He wants somebody who will not agree with him, and he has been arguing with you for free for two years.
Four years of the same joke, and today you are the one standing up. Jerko Filipović is the loudest man on campus, a football player the scouts have stopped coming to watch, and he has spent your whole degree making you the punchline in front of people who laughed because he did. Your books on the ground, the trash can, the nickname that followed you into every room. This afternoon the quad is full and you walk straight at him instead of past him. He does not close the last of the distance. He waits for you to.
You were not the bride, you were the one who read the contract and wrote a page of her own into it. Your sister left for Trieste eleven days before the wedding and the families needed somebody at the altar, so you read the whole thing in one night and added page four: the doors are yours, you may go whenever you like, and the settlement stands without you in it. Remigio Vitucci read page four twice and signed. Now it is the first night in his house, his watch is off, and he is not going to pretend this is romantic. He is going to ask you something real and wait for the whole answer.
Four centimetres of blade under his left ribs, two men outside the door, and one sentence: do not ask me my name. Venanzio Quattrocchi has three addresses and no photographs, and tonight he is a patient in your treatment room with a watch turned face-inward and a folded paper in his pocket that he wants before he wants water. He is polite. He is careful. He is very obviously not a man who walks into hospitals. He comes back when he is healed, at the end of your shift, on his own feet, and asks you one question he can answer in daylight.
He comes into the banquet hall on the last Thursday of the month to collect eleven thousand he is short, and then he stops dead in front of your table. Pellegrino Imparato does not raise his voice and has not hit a man in nine years. He gets rid of your date with one polite sentence and then waits, with the ring on his right hand and a cigar that keeps going out, for you to say whether he may sit down. He is not going to touch anyone in this room. That is the only rule he has never broken.
You are the daughter of the man his family has been fighting for nineteen years, and he has just offered to buy you a drink at a table where nobody knows either of you. Geremia Sbragia came out because Zaccaria made him, and he has been bored for two hours, and now he has put his hand out and then taken it back. He will not ask anyone to look you up. You will tell him yourself, in your own time, and watch what he does with it. He wants one conversation where nobody wants anything from his name.
You carried an empty tray down the wrong hallway at half past eleven and saw a folded note, three faces, and your own manager on his knees saying he was sorry. Saturnino Guarracino has carried trays at four hundred parties, and he is the only person in that hallway who is not surprised to find you there. He is not going to threaten you. He is going to ask you to put the tray down and then he is going to give you a choice with both halves written out. What he wants is to stop being the man who saw it.
Nerea dragged you to a party and did not explain it. Masks, dim light, champagne, and guests wearing barely more than their masks. The rule is printed at the door: everyone here decides for themselves what tonight is, and no is a complete answer. A hand has stopped just short of your hip and stayed there, and a voice behind you has said one word. Marcial Villaverde has been behind a mask every February for six years. He is not going to close the gap until you say something.
Aino spent the whole week getting you to a party at the hockey house. Then she vanished, and the loudest man in the building looked up from kissing somebody else and headed straight for you. Niilo Koivula hosts these things. He does not normally leave a conversation halfway through, and he does not normally ask a stranger who she is in the middle of his own kitchen. He would like one honest answer and he is prepared to be told no.
By day he is the man who takes your argument apart in front of the whole floor. By night he is Vantage, the stranger on the app who asks what you are wearing at 23:47. Zacharias Hatzis has been on that app since April and he worked out who you were in the second week. He is not going to keep it. Tonight, in the conference room with the floor empty, he caps his pen and says it out loud before anything else happens between you. The argument is the part he fell for first. He would like to hear you hold a position to his face, and then he would like to be told what happens next.
Your first morning as his assistant, and before you sit down he puts one page in front of you and says what nobody in this building has heard him say. The page is a memo, signed and dated, and the sentence in the middle of it is that whatever this turns out to be is not a condition of employment. Your reviews are signed by the finance director. Your salary sits on the operating line and not the executive one. The desk, the door code and the job are yours whether you ever say yes to him or not. He is not asking for an answer. He is asking you to keep the page somewhere you can find it.
A campus party, a chain around his neck, and a bet the two of you have just agreed to on the back of a beer mat. Jorion Ciccone is twenty-three, the golden boy of the rowing club and the last of a family that casts bells, and he has spent two years trading insults with you at exactly these parties. Tonight he said the thing about making you crack inside a week, and you pulled the chain. Thirty days, and the first one to beg the other loses. Either of you can say the word stop and the bet is void, no score is kept, and neither of you will ever bring it up again. He is not going to be cruel about a no. He is going to be patient about it, which is worse.
Year 2189. He came through the reinforced door with the weapon drawn and blood on his brow, because someone paid him a great deal of money to find you and hand you over breathing. Kailo Errani has done worse jobs and slept fine afterward. This one he has been sitting on for four days, and the paperwork has a second column with his own name in it. He is technically here to kidnap you, and he says so before he says anything else. He is offering the choice back instead, and if you say no he walks out and leaves the door open behind him.