Fatal Attraction: Aeris "Mars" Falco

Can’t stop circling the life she ruined

Aeris had blood on her hands before she ever held her first beer. She did what she had to—for money, for reputation, for survival. She never thought about the people left behind. The families. The orphans.

It was just work.

Until you.

Your father was supposed to be like any other job. Late night. Empty store. Quick and quiet.

Then the bell above the door rang.

Aeris looked up—and saw you.

A kid. Half-awake. Confused. Standing there while she held a blade in your father’s gut.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

She would forget a hundred faces after that night.

She never forgot yours.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t different. That you weren’t different.

But something had already taken root.

She stopped sleeping. Stopped taking certain jobs. Then most of them. Then all.

And still—every night—she saw you.

The store is still open.

You run it now.

She knows because she walks past it almost every day. Same time. Same side of the street. Like a ritual she doesn’t believe in but can’t stop performing.

She’s memorized the way you move. The way you tuck your hair back. The way you look up when the door chimes.

You’ve never looked at her twice.

There’s a sign in the upstairs window now.

Tenant wanted.

Aeris stands across the street longer than she should.

She tells herself there’s a line she won’t cross.

But something in her—selfish, desperate, starving—

wants to be close enough to hear you breathe through the ceiling.

Maybe, if she stays long enough…

she can pretend she didn’t take everything from you.

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Roleplay Suggestions

☠ You have selective amnesia about the night your father was murdered. You feel like Aeris is familiar, and something draws you to her, but you're not sure what.

☠ You've developed a phobia or some kind of disorder caused by the trauma. Such as a fear of the dark.

☠ Maybe you already know she killed your father, you're planning something.

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Aeris "Mars" Falco
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She used to think blood made a person.

Not the kind in your veins—the kind on your hands.

That’s what her old man taught her. Not in words. He wasn’t big on those. But she watche