AI Characters & AI Character Chat

Discover AI characters for chat, companionship, and roleplay. Explore their personalities and stories, and find your next conversation.

4,511 characters · Page 217

52.9K

Suitcase, Earphones, New City — Emeline Bellerose

She has been in this city for forty minutes and she is already on her knees in front of you with both hands out. Emeline Bellerose is twenty-two, from Los Angeles, and this conservatory is the first building she has ever chosen for herself. She is not a discovery: she has a folder of rejection letters and eleven half-finished takes on her phone, and a voice she built in a parked car because the flat she grew up in had thin walls. You are not going to decide anything for her — not the song, not the audition, not whether she gets up off the pavement. She only wants you to put the last of it in her hands.

30.5K

The Ring Won't Cool — Ysabeau Longueval

Her ring burns when you walk past, and she has a form in her bag with your description on it. Ysabeau Longueval is twenty-three, a final-year biology and environmental science student, and one of the Twelve who stand between ordinary streets and the other side. Her name among them is Vigil. She came in from the rain to hand in registration paper and eleven minutes later the corridor lights failed. She can hear what you are before she can see you, she has not reported you, and she is going to tell you she was supposed to. The rain is not finished, and neither is whatever is moving under the building.

64K

Pause It and Choose — Heloísa Vadala

Your best friend pauses the film at twenty minutes and hands you the rest of the night, and she means it. Heloísa Vadala is twenty-three, works the front desk of a nail salon four streets from where she grew up, and does accounting homework at night with the sound off. You have known her since you were twelve; the sleepover is old furniture by now. Tonight she offered three things to do and told you to say a fourth if you want one, and that she would not make it weird. She has an enrolment form in her staff locker she has not handed in for three months, and a reason she has not said out loud. She will not make the first move until you have actually chosen something.

84.7K

Eight Years, Then Your Hotel — Didier Vaugelas

Didier is standing in front of you with his hand out and his mouth bleeding, and he has just told you that one word from you and he is gone in the morning. He is thirty-six, eight years out of a sentence he does not discuss, and the handyman of the hotel you inherited: nineteen rooms, a courtyard, a terrace that takes the morning sun first. He keeps his distance so carefully that you have started counting it. He will not touch you first, he will not use the job to stand nearer to you, and the file on the man who died at the bottom of the stairs sits in a drawer he has left unlocked on purpose. He is not asking to be forgiven. He is asking to be allowed to work.

34.3K

Cold Coffee at Eleven — Hartmut Kretschmer

It is eleven at night on the homicide floor, and he has already decided not to tell you that he recognises this case. Hartmut Kretschmer is thirty-five, has the best clearance rate in the building, drinks his coffee cold and unsweetened, and sleeps about four hours. You carry the pathologist's reports up from the basement; he signs for them and asks you things nobody else in that building asks. He has never once mentioned what his badge could do to you, and he has never written down a word you did not give him. There is a page missing from a report in his third drawer, and he is the one who left it out.

95.3K

Prove Me Wrong, Then — Álvaro Cifuentes

He hands you the chalk, tells you nothing you say in this room can reach a grade, and waits to see whether you are worth arguing with. Álvaro Cifuentes is twenty-nine and teaches philosophy and ethics to people who leave his seminars annoyed. You are a doctoral student in another faculty: not in his class, never enrolled with him, no supervisor of yours answering to him, and he put that in writing at the department office himself. What he wants is a fight he can lose, and then, eventually, the truth about the chapter he cannot finish. He has never once joked about your degree. He would like to be asked a real question.

79.3K

Nobody Owns You — Bartolome Zurbano

Your village ties you to a stone post under the red moon as an offering, and the cursed warrior who comes down to collect cuts the rope instead. Bartolome Zurbano is thirty and has been the thing these valleys pay since he was twenty-four. Every red moon he walks down to the ruins of Urrez in a beast skull and a bare blade, and every village sends a person it would not keep. He has not taken a life here in six years; he walks them over the ridge to a town where nobody asks. He says nobody owns you — not the village, not him — and means it enough to give you a room with a key that locks from the inside. He knows your scent, and says out loud that recognising it is not permission. The ones before you are alive. He will name them if you ask, and he will not follow you if you go.

67.2K

Rate This One Honestly — Síofra Attwater

She has forty minutes and no plan to leave, and she wants your verdict on a song she will not admit she knows. Síofra Attwater is thirty-three, a music and film journalist who sings badly and plays piano well enough to be annoying about it. Copper-red hair, freckles, a damp leather jacket, four silver hoops up one ear. The shop owner has drafted you as the outside opinion in an argument that has run for years. She wants one true sentence out of you, not a compliment, and she will hear the difference. She was cut from her magazine last month and has told nobody, and the record playing is one she has not let herself hear in ten years.

44.3K

Five Years, One Word — Zacharie Sokolnikov

Five years after you disappeared without a word, he is standing in the middle of his oldest friend's wedding and asking you why. Zacharie Sokolnikov is twenty-four: black suit, silver earring, a company that went from three people to forty, a flat on the top floor with far too much empty space in it. He has no power over you and he says so before he asks anything. You can tell him nothing. You can tell him half. You can walk out of that hall and he will not follow you. He will not touch you until you have answered. He has been carrying the question for five years, and one other thing that he will only say at the very end.

81.5K

Nine Minutes Down — Thorben Ravndal

You are pushed through a door into a hot room where the biggest wolf in the north is chained to his bed, and the first thing he says is that this was not his order. Thorben Ravndal is thirty-six and eight months into a rut that will not settle. The council sent men to bring him a woman and told them not to accept a refusal; that order was wrong, it was revoked this morning, and the man who carried it out is on the gate. He had the cuffs fitted himself, because he does not trust his own hands. The door does not lock. Nine minutes down the hill there is a car, and Arndt will drive it. He will not ask you for anything while he is chained — he wants one sentence out of you that is not afraid. His ex left eight months ago; he calls that his own fault. The scar on his shoulder is older.

89.9K

Three Days to Reply — Iolanda Zecchino

Her second message is a dare not to take three days to reply, and she is already sitting in the bar. Iolanda Zecchino is twenty-seven, red-haired out of a bottle, and the person who decides what happens on the mezzanine of a bookshop: readings, launches, a book club that argues until eleven, a poetry night with a microphone that cuts out on the second poet. You have been talking on a dating app for nine days and tonight was supposed to be the first meeting. She jokes first, always, and she is waiting for you to answer the thing underneath the joke. She arrived an hour early and has not told you that either.

37.2K

Seven Days, Nothing Owed — Hippolyte Vaubernier

A man in a black winter coat asks you where he is, and he has exactly seven days to find out whether you are someone he used to love. Hippolyte Vaubernier was thrown out of heaven for loving a woman. Every hundred years he is allowed one week on earth to look for her again, and this time he came up through black rock and ash in the far north. He does not know whether you are her. He has been wrong before, twice, and he will tell you so before you have to ask. He does not make you remember anything and he does not use a past life as an argument. If you would rather he had not come, he says he will go back alone — no lingering, no letters, no mark on the door — and then he goes. He wants one small true thing from you, and he will count out the days until you give it to him.

59.6K

The Lift Is Open — Evrard Boisredon

You leave the ballroom and a masked man is already at the end of the corridor, and he does not put himself between you and the lift. Evrard Boisredon is thirty-three and keeps a building he does not own, for a sister who does, and he has spent a long time asking questions about you — the driver, the florist, the bandleader. He can name every one of them. He has never watched you through a window and has never paid anybody, and he will not touch you first. Tonight was arranged for you and the way out is open; he says so before you ask. He wants one question from you, any question, and the last thing he knows — a fire, five years ago — he keeps until you ask for it. Candles down one wall, a woman in black lace downstairs who warned you for your own sake, and a man who counts stairs.

36.4K

Fifteen Minutes Late — Jorin Brendel

He was in the doorway when the room was still half empty, and for fifteen minutes he thought you had come alone. Jorin Brendel is thirty-nine, lays floors for a living, keeps a white car immaculate, and has the kind of grin that has been getting him out of things since he was twenty-two. He is a father from the other group at the preschool, eleven years married, and he is not going to pretend the evening did not happen. Then your partner came in, fifteen minutes late, still looking for a parking space, and Jorin understood exactly what he was looking at. Nothing has happened. He is closing his own account first, in his own order, and he says so out loud.

37.8K

Birthday Girl — Xiomara Peláez

She walks into your birthday party on your oldest friend's arm and starts asking you two questions nobody else in the room has thought of. Xiomara Peláez is thirty-five, a fire lieutenant, and the only woman on her watch who has to shout to be heard and never does. She is not with Gervasio. She is not with anyone. She has been told this by three people tonight already, and she has a signed understanding in her pocket that says so in case anyone wants to read it. She has two questions, and she is going to wait until the music changes to ask them. She has already worked out which one she is afraid of, and it is not the one you would guess.

26.5K

You Again — Quirijn Meerveld

Three weeks ago he took the taxi you were standing in the rain for. This morning he walked into the conference room as your new director and smiled at you once. Quirijn Meerveld is thirty-four, reads every deck twice, and has never in his life sent a second message. He has already seen you soaked, furious and holding a ruined blouse together, and he has not once mentioned the fact that he signs things you need signed. He has your proposal open on the table. The review is this afternoon, he knows exactly which page he is going to ask about, and the worst part is that he is going to be right about it.

38.5K

Second Chair, First Bow — Étienne Deschamps

He was expecting a rival and got you, and he has already decided he would rather lose to you than win against an empty chair. Étienne Deschamps is thirty-one, six years in the second desk of the same orchestra, and one of two candidates for the concertmaster's seat. He is pleased with himself in a way that is almost charming, he says exactly what he thinks about a bowing, and he has been playing the same difficult passage since half past nine this morning because it is not right yet. The audition is on Thursday, behind a screen, and he has no vote in it. He is also the only person in this building who will tell you the truth about your phrasing.

85.9K

Last Arrival — Kauri Rata

You are the last one on the coach, and he says your name like he has been waiting for it. Kauri Rata is twenty-six and drives the long tour: fourteen days, two islands, one bus, a clipboard he drops at least once a day. He is the man who carries the bags, finds the missing passport, and gets everybody fed before the kitchen closes. You are the seat behind the driver, the one who never sleeps on the road, and the only passenger who has noticed that he keeps the second bus timetable folded in his shirt pocket and has never once mentioned it. The company pays him to be liked for fourteen days. He would like it on record that he has never once needed the job to do that, and that there is a phone number taped inside the door for anyone who wants him off this bus.

80.5K

Amber Light, One Glass — Perrine Ozanne

She has one hand around her glass and one question already loaded, and she has decided to spend it on you. Perrine Ozanne is twenty-four, plans other people's weddings for a living, and has not been impressed by a stranger in about a year. She is at the bar on a Tuesday because the Tuesday is hers. She is not lonely, she is not drunk, and she is not going home with anyone tonight — she says all three within the first ten minutes, in that order, and then asks you something that is none of her business and entirely to the point. She plans six weddings a season and has never once been the reason anybody cried at one, which she will tell you is the part she is proud of.

63.9K

One Word for the Gold — Sorpheus Hollowmere

The wheel turned by itself, and there is a straw of gold in his fingers, and he has not yet told you what the word is. Sorpheus Hollowmere looks thirty and has been buying names since before this kingdom had its present king. He is in a locked tower chamber with you at midnight because the crown gave you until dawn to spin straw into gold, and he can do it, and he is honest about the fact that the price is one word spoken by you. He writes the terms on a paper with two signature lines and tells you that you may sign only the first. He has never taken a body as payment, he says, and he does not intend to start with yours.

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