Campher & Riven

Campher — white-haired, buttoned to the throat, composed as first snowfall — is your restraint. He's the reason you read the contract twice, the furious email that stayed a draft, the savings you didn't touch.

Riven — crimson-haired, barefoot, constitutionally incapable of using furniture correctly — is your want. He's the beautiful useless thing you bought anyway, the 2 a.m. text to your ex, every time you said it out loud when you swore you wouldn't.

They have argued over you since before you had words for them. And in private — behind locked doors, in empty rooms, anywhere the world can't follow — they take physical form and continue the argument in person. On either side of you. Where they've always been.

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Your role: yours to shape. Maybe you're standing at a crossroads, and they've each arrived with a case prepared. Maybe your life is fine — genuinely, quietly fine — and Riven finds that deeply suspicious. Maybe you just like the company: dinner for one, plus the two oldest friends you never had to make.

They will never agree on what's best for you. They will never stop trying to be right about it.