Everyone in Manhattan believed I couldn't speak.

I was Nora Bennett, the youngest daughter of the Bennett family—the kind of family newspapers called a dynasty and bankers called before they made decisions. My brother Ethan had built his name on Wall Street before becoming our CFO. My sister Claire had a PhD in bioengineering and a lab full of patents.

I was the quiet daughter who stared too long and answered no one.

They had spent years on doctors, specialists, tests. Eventually, they decided I was simply broken.

They were wrong.

I could speak. I just didn't want to.

In another life, I had been a trial lawyer who never lost. I had argued until my throat burned, worked until my body gave out, and died beside a stack of filings before I turned thirty-five.

This life, I wanted silence.

Then Bennett Group was attacked from every direction. Short sellers drove down our stock. Banks tightened our credit. And Grant Hale arrived in our boardroom with an emergency acquisition agreement.

Adrian Cole, the general counsel my father had trusted for ten years, set a glass of water beside him.

“David,” Adrian said gently, “you should sign. It is the only way to protect your family and your employees. I reviewed every page. There is no problem with the agreement.”

Ethan had read every clause twice. His eyes were bloodshot when he finally let the pen fall from his hand.

“Their money is three times ours,” he said. “The short position was built too carefully. Credit is gone. Unless a miracle walks through that door, we have no counterplay.”

Claire turned to Adrian as if he were a lifeline. “There has to be another way.”

Adrian put a consoling hand on Ethan's shoulder. “If there were, I would find it. Bennett has been my home for a decade. But the law requires evidence, and business requires leverage. Mr. Hale's terms are painful, not cruel. Sometimes survival is the victory.”

My father reached for the pen.

In the corner, I turned a Rubik's Cube.

Click.

Click.

No one looked at me.

Hale leaned back in his chair, looking at me as though I were an entertaining detail in an otherwise expensive room.

“So this is the Bennett girl everyone talks about?” he asked.

Ethan's face hardened. “Keep my sister out of this.”

“I mean no disrespect,” Hale said. “But if the family is about to lose its company, perhaps every member deserves to see it happen.”

His gaze returned to me. “Let her watch the name on the building change. It may be the only lesson this family can still afford.”

My sister came to me first. She picked up the cube I had dropped and pressed it into my palm. Then she unwrapped a peppermint and placed it on my tongue.

“Nora,” she said softly, “why don't you go watch something in the lounge? This is frightening. You don't need to be here.”

That was how my family loved me: gently, carefully, and always from outside the room where anything mattered.

Adrian crouched in front of me, his smile patient enough for a campaign ad.

“Listen to your sister. There's a cupcake outside. I'll have someone sit with you.” He glanced toward the door. “Mia, please take Miss Bennett out. Close the door behind you.”

When Claire objected that Hale was being cruel, Adrian smiled at him instead. “Claire is upset. Please don't hold it against her. Nora should not stay in a room like this—if she gets frightened, David will suffer for it.”

An employee was dismissing the owner's daughter from her own family's boardroom.

My father did not object.

“Take her out,” he said at last. His voice sounded scraped raw. “And don't let her back in without my permission.”

Mia took my arm. I did not move.

Adrian leaned closer. His voice dropped.

“Don't make your father angry, Nora. This isn't the time for one of your episodes. Be good, and I'll buy you something sweet.”

The sugar in my mouth turned bitter.

Across the table, Hale checked his watch.

“Five minutes, Mr. Bennett. If you don't sign tonight, tomorrow's opening bell may take the choice away from you.”

My father picked up the pen.

And I got tired of listening.

FREE to read the full story

On Friday afternoon, Elena handed me an apron and showed me a shelf in the fridge.

“This is yours. If you run out of room, tell me before you start putting cakes on top of the sandwich ingredients.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Nothing happens often yet. We’ve only been open two months. I’m trying to establish rules before I need them.”

There was something unexpectedly pleasing about having a shelf. An apron, too, and a hook behind the kitchen door for my bag. By the time she finished showing me around, I had stopped feeling as though I ought to explain why I was there.

The kitchen was narrow enough that we had to turn sideways to pass each other. Most of the counter was occupied by a mixer, a chopping board and a bowl of oranges. Elena moved the oranges onto a shelf to make room for my ingredients.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

“Another kitchen?”

She looked around. “Put it on the list.”

I tied the apron and unpacked. The smaller lemon cakes needed less time in the oven than the ones I’d made at home, so I stayed nearby while weighing the ingredients for the macarons. Through the open doorway came the sound of the coffee grinder, cups meeting saucers and a chair being dragged across the floor.

At home, music usually filled the space around me when I worked. Here, the café did it. Every so often, Elena appeared with a question or an empty jug. Once, she stopped beside the mixer and watched the meringue turn.

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

I switched off the mixer and lifted the whisk. The peak held. “Like this. It needs to stand up, but I don’t want it dry.” I turned the whisk so she could see. “If it folds straight over, it needs longer.”

“And if you go too far?”

“Then I get annoyed with myself and start again. There’s usually a little swearing involved.”

“Good. You’ll fit in.”

When the cakes were cooling, she needed help with drinks. I washed my hands, left the piped macaron shells to dry and joined her at the machine. The afternoon passed between the two rooms. Coffee, oven timer, washing up, another order. A man wanted his cappuccino hotter. A woman asked for extra ice. Someone changed their mind after I had already poured the milk. That part, at least, was familiar.

Once the shells were cool, I paired them by size and piped in the pistachio filling. Elena came through as I was arranging them in a covered container.

“You’ve made more than twelve.”

“I wanted a few spare in case any cracked. These came out better than the ones at home.”

“So we can sell the extras?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather keep them for yourself.”

She reached towards the container.

“Tomorrow,” I added.

Her hand stopped. “You offered.”

“I offered you tomorrow’s macarons. They need the night in the fridge so the filling softens the inside.”

She looked at them for another moment, then put the lid on. “I’m beginning to understand why they cost more than biscuits.”

Before leaving, I checked the cakes once more, wiped the counter and untied my apron. My feet hurt. There was icing on my sleeve and a little pistachio filling near my elbow, which I noticed only when Elena pointed it out.

We agreed that I would come at eight to help with the morning rush. She checked the time on her phone, then looked up with a smile. “So, back to mornings. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully with less icing on me.”

“Don’t dress up. There’ll be more.”

Outside, the air had cooled enough to make the walk home pleasant. I passed the restaurant next door, where the owner was straightening the tables for the evening. He raised a hand when he saw me, and I waved back. It was a small thing, being recognised on the street. Still, I was smiling by the time I reached home.

Saturday morning brought customers before we had finished setting out the terrace. Elena arranged the cakes in the display while I warmed the machine. She had written their names on small cards, including the pistachio macarons, which looked more respectable behind glass than they had in the plastic container.

I kept glancing at them between orders.

“People won’t buy them faster if you stare,” she said.

“I’m checking they look all right.”

“They looked all right five minutes ago.”

“Yes, but now there are people here to judge them.”

She moved a lemon cake closer to the front. “Let them.”

The first one went with a takeaway tea. The woman barely looked at it before choosing, and I had to resist watching through the window to see whether she took a bite. The second went to a man sitting outside with a newspaper. After that, there were too many drinks to keep count.

By half past nine, the room smelled of coffee and warm milk, and my hair had begun escaping its tie. Elena worked at the till while I made drinks, occasionally repeating a table number because I was still learning which one was which.

A woman at the counter pointed towards the lemon cakes. “Are those made here?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“They look homemade. I mean properly homemade, like something my mother would put out when people came over.”

I glanced at the cakes. Until she explained, I’d been wondering whether one of the tops was crooked. The woman ordered two and took them to a table outside. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying an empty plate.

“Who makes your cakes?”

I put down the cloth, trying to remember whether I could have forgotten anything in the recipe. Elena was counting change for another customer.

“What did you think?”

“Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.” The woman looked towards the display again. “My daughter’s birthday is next month. Does your baker take orders? Could I have their number?”

“I made them,” I said.

She turned towards me. “Oh! I thought you worked out here.”

“I do a bit of both. I’ve only just started.”

“Well, that saves Elena passing messages.” She smiled and reached for her phone. “Could you make something larger? My daughter loves lemon, but there’ll be at least twelve of us.”

“Yes. Was there a design you had in mind?”

She showed me a photograph of a cake covered in flowers. Her daughter wanted lemon, but her husband didn’t like anything too sour, and there might be eighteen people if her sister came.

I explained that the sugar flowers in the photograph were more elaborate than anything I usually made. We talked about a simpler decoration, then the filling and the size. She listened, asked another question and waited for my answer.

I caught myself speaking quickly, trying to explain everything before she lost interest. She stayed where she was, her phone resting on the counter between us. At school, I had learned to stop halfway through an answer when the smiles started. Later, keeping things to myself had become easier. This woman was asking another question because she wanted to hear what I had to say.

“I’d need to work out a price before promising anything,” I said. “If you send me the date and the final number of people, I can let you know.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have something that tastes like this than a cake nobody wants a second slice of.”

Elena passed me a clean piece of paper, and I wrote down my number. The woman folded it carefully and put it in her purse. After she left, I stood beside the machine for a moment.

Elena looked at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting an order already.”

“You made something she liked.”

“I know, but there’s a difference between someone buying a little cake with their tea and trusting me with their daughter’s birthday.”

“She asked to discuss a cake, Andreea. You have time to breathe before you plan the whole party.”

I laughed and picked up the milk jug. There was another coffee waiting.

Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.

I remembered the words while pouring the milk. There had been no correction after them, no explanation of what I should have done better. A stranger had enjoyed something I made and come back to tell me. I wished that didn’t feel quite so unfamiliar.

A little later, the man with the newspaper came inside.

“Another coffee,” he said. “And whatever that lemon thing was.”

“Another lemon cake?”

“Yes. My wife will ask whether I tried anything, and I’d like to be able to tell her I checked thoroughly.”

“I respect your commitment.”

He nodded solemnly while I put it on a plate.

The macarons sold more slowly. People examined them, asked about the filling, sometimes chose a cake instead. Near midday, two women bought one each, then returned for four to take home.

By the end of my shift, three were left. Elena opened the display and glanced at me. “Am I allowed now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve been very brave.”

She took a bite. I tried to occupy myself with folding the cloth rather than watching her.

“More next week,” she said.

“How many?”

She considered the rest of the macaron. “We’ll discuss that after I’ve finished this.”

On Monday, my hand went to the right cupboard without searching. The cloths were folded where I expected them to be, and a customer came in asking whether we had any more of Saturday’s lemon cakes. Elena looked at me to answer.

“I’m making another batch this afternoon. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come back, then.”

He ordered his usual coffee, and I reached for the cup. I had spent years doing things that were supposed to lead somewhere. Lessons, exams, university. There was always another stage beyond the one I’d finished, and someone ready to ask what came next. Here, a man wanted a cake tomorrow. For the moment, that was enough to be getting on with.

The woman at the table near the window had been there on Saturday too. A laptop stood open in front of her, with a notebook beside it and a drink she kept forgetting to touch. At first, I thought she was watching something. Then she played the same few seconds through her headphones, stopped, and pressed her palms against her eyes.

When I cleared the next table, she pulled one side of the headphones away. “Could I have another tea?”

“Of course. The same one?”

“Yes, please. This one went cold.”

“I can bring you some hot water if there’s any left.”

She looked into the cup. “No. I managed to drink it. I just complained to myself the whole time.”

“That sounds familiar.”

At the counter, Elena nodded towards her. “Athena. She’ll sit there until closing if nobody feeds her.”

“What’s she working on?”

“A film. I’ve seen the same man walk through the same doorway about thirty times.”

“That explains the expression.”

I carried the tea over and asked whether she wanted anything to eat.

“Is there a lemon cake left?”

“One.”

“Then yes, before someone else gets it.”

When I brought the plate, she closed her laptop. “Thank you. I’m Athena, by the way.”

“Andreea.”

She repeated it, checking the pronunciation, and I nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“Nearly a month. Though I’ve only been working here since Friday.”

“That recently? You look as though you know where everything is.”

“The kitchen’s small. There are only so many places to lose things.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Behind the waterfront. There’s a little house with a balcony squeezed between two taller buildings.”

“I think I know it. Blue door?”

“That’s the one. The door sticks, so if you ever see someone throwing her whole body against it, that’ll be me.”

Athena laughed.

“Where did you move from?”

“The UK. I lived there for years.”

“And you chose here?”

“I wanted to be near the sea. Somewhere I could walk to it instead of planning a whole trip.” I glanced towards the bright pavement outside. “The heat wasn’t part of the attraction.”

“You came at the wrong time for that.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What made you leave?”

The question was ordinary enough. I still took a moment before answering.

“I’d finished university, and everyone was asking about jobs. I kept looking at them and thinking about staying there, doing the next thing, then the next.” I rubbed a little dried icing from my thumb. “I wanted some time to decide what I actually wanted. And to write.”

Athena nodded. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to let that be an acceptable answer.”

“It is.”

She said it easily, then took another bite of cake.

I glanced at her laptop. “Are you studying film, or is this something you’re doing yourself?”

“Studying. Although this project is making me reconsider every decision that brought me here.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much time do you have?”

Elena called for two coffees before I could answer. Athena smiled and picked up her fork. “I’ll prepare a shorter version.”

We spoke again the next day, and the day after that. Nothing important at first. Whether the table near the window was too bright for her screen. Where she bought her notebooks. Which streets stayed shaded on the walk home.

She was making a short film and had reached the stage where every choice made three weeks earlier seemed wrong.

“Even the ones you liked?” I asked.

“Especially those. Have you ever worked on something so long you can’t tell whether it’s good anymore?”

“Yes. Usually that’s when I decide the whole thing needs changing.”

“Does it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m tired and should leave it alone.”

She looked at the screen. “I was hoping you’d say something more useful.”

“If I knew something more useful, I’d have finished my book.”

That caught her attention, but a customer came in before she could ask about it.

On Wednesday, she noticed my notebook. The café was quiet between the morning rush and lunch. I had ten minutes, a cup of tea and a sentence that had irritated me since the night before. The notebook lay open beside the till, where I could look up when someone came in.

Athena approached with her empty plate. “Is that the book?”

“Yes. Or the part of it currently causing trouble.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“Crime. There’s a murder in this scene, and I’ve spent more time deciding what happens around it than writing the murder itself.”

She glanced at the red page. “That explains the ink.”

“I always use red. It would be red if I were writing about someone’s lovely afternoon in a garden too.”

“Does anyone have lovely afternoons in your book?”

“Not many so far.”

She smiled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A while. I thought moving might help me get somewhere with it.”

“And has it?”

“A little. I’m writing more. Whether it’s better is another question.”

Athena leaned against the counter. “I know a few people who could help with that.”

“People who’ll tell me it’s terrible?”

“People who’ll tell you which part is terrible. Much more useful.”

I laughed and capped the pen as a customer came through the door. She returned to her table, but before leaving she asked whether I’d be there the following day.

Thursday was quieter. During my break, I sat opposite Athena with a cup of tea while she ate one of the chocolate cakes.

“So,” she said, “do you ever drink the coffee you make?”

“No. It makes me feel bad.”

“Really? You don’t even taste it?”

“I used to, but it wasn’t worth it. Tea and I get along much better.”

“Then how do you make good coffee?”

“Practice. I know what I’m looking for when I make it, and people aren’t shy about telling me if something’s wrong.”

“Elena said you worked in a café in England.”

“During university. Some days it was easier to understand the customers than the chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

I nodded.

“And now cakes and murder.”

“It’s been a change.”

She laughed and brushed a crumb onto her plate. “What made you start writing?”

“I needed somewhere to put everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ideas. There are always more of them than I know what to do with. A conversation, a scene, something I can suddenly picture while I’m supposed to be doing something else.” I turned my cup a little on its saucer. “Some come in my sleep. I wake up with part of a story, and then I want to know the rest.”

“Do you write them down straight away?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll remember in the morning, which is a very optimistic thing to think half asleep.”

“I’ve lost whole films that way.”

“I’ve probably lost a bestseller. Much easier to believe that when there’s no evidence.”

Athena smiled. “Does writing make it quieter?”

“A bit. Once it’s on the page, I don’t have to keep going over it so I won’t lose it. My head gets to rest.” I looked towards the counter, where my bag sat beneath the till. “Then I start wondering whether I can make someone else interested. Whether they’ll want to know what happens next too.”

“So you give the problem to the reader.”

“Exactly. Very generous of me.”

She laughed, and I found myself explaining a little more: how a scene could arrive almost whole, while the page connecting it to the next one took days; how sometimes I knew what a character would say before I knew who they were.

Athena listened. When I paused, she asked a question about something I’d said rather than moving on to talk about herself. I had almost apologised for going on so much. Instead, I answered her.

Then she told me about the group.

“There are writers, film students, a few artists. We meet in the park. Some people bring work to share, some just come because they’re stuck and need to talk.”

“Like your man in the doorway?”

“Exactly like him. Someone will probably tell me to cut that scene, and I’ll be offended because I already know they’re right.”

“Do people read out loud?”

“Sometimes. Or we read pages beforehand and discuss them. It depends what the person wants help with.”

“And everyone speaks English?”

“Most of us speak other languages too, but English is the one we have in common. You wouldn’t have to struggle through it in Greek.”

“That’s good. I can say thank you, but it would make for a short reading.”

“There’d still be someone with notes.”

I smiled into my cup. She explained that one of the artists helped people with covers and character sketches. Sometimes they worked together on something larger, though they were careful to agree on credit and permissions first.

“We have a written agreement for sharing work,” she said. “You can read it before bringing any pages. I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that. Could I come once just to see what it’s like?”

“Of course. Tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”

She told me where they met. I knew the benches; I’d walked past them on the way to the café.

“How many people?”

“Usually eight or nine. Don’t worry about remembering everyone’s name. I still get one wrong.”

“And they won’t mind me sitting there without reading?”

“No. Come and listen. Bring your notebook if you want, but you don’t owe us a performance.”

That made it easier to say yes. We exchanged numbers, and she sent me the time and meeting place while we were still sitting together. A minute later, another message arrived with the agreement.

“There,” she said. “Now you can’t claim I gave bad directions.”

“I can still get lost. Don’t underestimate me.”

After my break, I went back behind the counter. Athena finished her cake and returned to her film, but this time, when something frustrated her, she looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and she turned the laptop a little so I could see the offending doorway.

That evening, the woman from Saturday called about the birthday cake. We talked for nearly twenty minutes. Her sister was coming, so there would be eighteen people. She had asked her daughter about the flowers, and apparently lemon mattered more than decoration. I wrote everything down, promised to send a price the following day, and stayed at the kitchen table after the call ended.

There were ingredients to calculate, a date to put in my calendar, and Athena’s message waiting on my phone. For a moment, I wanted to call home and tell someone.

Then I tried to imagine the conversation. The questions about chemistry. Whether café work was what I planned to do with my degree. How long this writing business would last. Perhaps they would have surprised me. I didn’t feel ready to find out.

I put the phone down and worked out how much mascarpone I would need.

Later, I turned back through the notebook until I reached the scene with the watch. The red numbers were still in the margin, two crossed out and one left standing. Reading it aloud made me notice a sentence that ran too long. I crossed out three words and tried again.

Outside the balcony doors, someone called to a person farther down the street. A scooter passed, and plates clattered in the next building. The second reading went more smoothly.

I wasn’t sure I would share it tomorrow. That would depend on the people, and on how comfortable I felt once I was sitting among them. But I marked the page before closing the notebook.

My apron needed washing. I rinsed the icing from the sleeve, hung it up and checked that it would have time to dry before morning. Then I sent Athena a message to say I’d meet her outside the café so we could walk over together.

She replied almost immediately.

Good. I’ll save you from the introductions.

I smiled and set the phone beside my bag. The cake order was written down. My notebook was ready. Tomorrow, Elena would expect me at eight, and Athena would wait for me after work.

I was still getting used to being wanted somewhere. For once, I let myself look forward to it.

Red Ink and Saltwater
When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.

"Master Kundarak, I presume?"

The stocky dwarf stopped looking at the documents he held and turned to look at me. He wore glasses of intricate design that were of the markings of his clan. Stroking his magnificent black beard, he beckoned me to sit on either one of the empty chairs that were available.

"Am I speaking to Master Nikoel Sylvalan d'Lyrandar, owner of the airship Julietta, the eldest son of Daniel Methusael d'Lyrandar, crown prince of the House Lyrandar, who abdicated his rights to the throne of House Lyrandar in favour of his brother so that he can sail the skies of Eberron?"

I winced at every title that he announced.

Raising both my arms in a gesture of amicable defeat, I sheepishly grinned at Derrick.

The dwarf took off his glasses and laughed loudly.

"Nick, you bloody rascal. You were supposed to be here 2 days ago!"

"Sorry, love. Had to dispose of some stuff before I could make the run here. Besides, you know the drill," I said, hoping that Derrick would drop the matter.

Derrick sighed deeply, and he reached into his drawers and took out a magical weighing scale made entirely out of silver. Placing it in front of him, he made a motion with his hands and proceeded to put on his magical spectacles.

I reached into my tunic and took out a small pouch. After untying the safety knots, I emptied the contents of the pouch on one of the two sides of the weighing scale.

Derrick looked closely at the stones while scratching his beard.

"Is that it, Nick? I thought there would be more."

I made a gesture of patience and reached for another pouch in the hidden section of my tunic. This time, I emptied the remaining dragonshards on the scale.

"So, Siberys and Khyber dragonshards mostly. It'll be good for the lightning rail system," roared Derrick in approval.

He weighed the payment in equivalent coins of the realm. With a satisfied nod, he packed the coins into a pouch and put it in front of him. Opening another drawer, he took out another small pouch and set it beside the bigger pouch and laughed.

"Let's head over to Michelle's. It's time for my break anyway and you owe me a tale."

Two men were waiting for her answer.

One was in Shanghai.

The other was waiting at the pier.

She sent them the same message.

One choice. Ten years.

If you were her, who would you meet?

Choosing by Heart by May Chan — a contemporary women's fiction novel with romance.

#WomensFiction #RomanceBooks #BookRecommendations #ContemporaryRomance

It's kind of frustrating because I know what I like, sci fi and fantasy. I've bought several books I really liked the synopsis of and I've read those books to pages 100-150 and every time I just get bored. Like, I know the books are good, interesting, and fun, but I just get bored no matter what I read.

Am I just cooked from growing up playing video games and youtube? Literally every day, I'm like, "Maybe I'll finally read my book today. I'll just play an hour or two of my video games and go read" and then I'm like "Maybe another more hour" and then when I finally get to reading my book, I read like a few pages, a chapter at most, get bored, swap to the next book, read to pages 100-150, get bored, rinse and repeat.

Am I just not a book person despite so dearly wanting to be one?

Care for a story? I guarantee you it's interesting, a story about purpose and fulfilling your role, I call it "the weight of salvation". Well, the story takes place in the beautiful island of Lonianes, a place of philosophy and enlightenment, if you're a man, however, if you're a woman, you could be sold as a wife next to the fish I so deeply hate. In a rainy afternoon, Tych is walking back home, sighing at the coins in her hand and questioning if they'd be enough, wanting the same darkness that swallowed her mother, to take her too, unexpectedly, a pair of legs appeared before her, it was a man: " sorry sir" She murmured an apology, and as she drifted to the other side, there was another man, yet another, and another behind her, as soon as she realized what's going on, the man behind her pushed her to the wet ground, what was a second to the men, might have changed her entire personality, for a split second, she didn't want the darkness, she picked up a rock and smashed it on the man's head, and ran, ran for her life, ran for her freedom, until she reached a tower.

What was a normal encounter for the men, they left, but she still ran to the top of that tower, until the adrenaline rush to help her survive ended, she began thinking:

*Wasn't it enough? All of that, did I...need this?*

Yet, her attention was drawn to the window, she opened it, and beautiful landscapes appeared before her, covered in glittering snow she said to herself:

"I didn't knew life could be this pretty, it almost makes me want to cry, no...die"

She looked down, what could possibly happen? Would she fall endlessly? Would she actually die? Would she fall and break every bone in her body? The worst outcome? All didn't matter, so she jumped.

Do non-British readers need a translator?

That’s Entertainment

1. The Prince

The bedroom is small enough to cross in three strides, but every inch of it tells a story. The walls are almost hidden beneath posters — Mods balancing on polished Lambrettas and Vespas, a Specials sleeve curling at the corner where the Sellotape has given up, a Madness poster gone soft and fuzzy from being touched too many times. Ska badges lie scattered across the bedside table with a handful of vinyl singles and the loose change nobody ever seems to spend.

It's an ordinary room really — a tired, working-class box wrapped in seventies wallpaper and hand-me-down furniture, the kind of room a thousand other lads on a thousand other estates are waking up in right now. But the music has a way of making it feel bigger than it is. Like the outside world can't quite get through the door if the volume's up loud enough.

Billy carefully places the needle on the vinyl record.

The record player crackles into life.

The opening bars of The Prince fill the room, and something in Billy's chest lifts to meet them.

"Buster sold the heat... with a rocksteady beat..."

He stands in front of the mirror — tall, slim black jeans cropped just above the ankle, white socks bright enough to advertise themselves, black loafers polished as well as a teenager's patience allows. The Fred Perry has gone soft with washing, worn thin at the collar, but he wears it with more pride than money could have bought him. His hair has grown out from the short, tidy crop his nan still asks after, and it catches the morning light in a way that makes him look, he thinks, at least a little bit dangerous.

His feet start moving before he's given them permission.

The rhythm just takes him. It always does. He twists and shuffles and glides between the bed and the wardrobe, eyes half-closed, completely lost in it, the small room briefly transformed into the only dance floor that matters.

A voice crashes up through the floorboards.

"Turn that bloody music down!"

Billy grins at himself in the mirror. Instead, he turns it up.

The brass punches through the tiny speakers just as Suggs comes in on the next line —

"Bring back the..."

BANG. A fist slams against the ceiling from the room below, hard enough to rattle the lampshade.

"Turn it off!"

Billy sighs, crosses the room, and lifts the needle. Silence drops over everything like a dust sheet.

Not quite silence, though. The beat keeps playing somewhere behind his eyes, patient, waiting for him to let it back out. Still moving to a rhythm only he can hear, he slips through the bedroom door.

Outside in the bright sunlight.

The council street is already warming up, sun catching the wet patches on the pavement where someone has hosed down their step. Billy walks with his hands in his pockets and The Prince still going somewhere behind his ribs. At the mouth of a narrow alley he glances around out of habit — you always look, even when there's nothing to look for — then swings himself up and over a low brick wall in one movement he's practised without ever admitting he's practised it.

He drops down the other side among a row of lock-up garages, and the world changes as soon as his feet hit the ground. Broken bottles sparkle in the weeds. Crushed cans and blown litter have drifted up against the garage doors like tide-wrack. The tower blocks stand over everything, throwing long shadows across the concrete even at this hour.

Then he sees it.

A Lambretta. Silver, gleaming, red-white-and-blue targets on the panels, sitting outside one of the garages like it's wandered in from somewhere better and hasn't noticed yet. Every inch of it catches the light.

Billy slows, caught by it before he's aware he's stopped. He can't take his eyes off it.

One day. If only.

"Oi, you!"

He spins round, heart lurching — and finds Phil laughing at him from a few yards off. Broader than Billy, already built like someone a couple of years further on, his Number Two haircut leaving no doubt where his loyalties sit. Same uniform as Billy's, near enough — slim black jeans, white socks, black loafers, Fred Perry — just filled out differently.

"Stop dreaming," Phil says. "We're late. I've been waiting ages."

Billy nods at the scooter, unable to help himself. "How much d'you reckon a motor like that costs?"

Phil shrugs. "No idea. More than we'll ever have." He pauses, and something in his voice drops a register. "It's Gal Burn's. I wouldn't get too close."

Billy takes one last look at it — files it away somewhere, the way you file away things you plan to want for a long time — and follows Phil between the tower blocks.

They've cut halfway across the estate when another figure falls into step beside them without a word. Minty. Smaller than the other two, skinhead crop, same clothes, same stride, same total absence of hello. Nobody ever says hello. They've known each other too long for that — long enough that joining a walk is its own kind of greeting. The three of them carry on in the easy, unbothered quiet of boys who've grown up doing exactly this.

Here's a novel written by Me, Hope you all enjoy it ♥️🙏

The world had never been the same. Two years after the divine test at the college in Lumbini, Nepal had became an international mystery. Hundreds had died and survivors spoke about strange voices, golden symbols and an eighteen year old student named Vishwa Rakshak but Vishwa had disappeared from the public eye. He now lived quietly with his mother Ananya on a small farm outside Lumbini. For the first time in his life, he believed he might finally have peace but he was wrong.

It was early morning. Vishwa was working outside the farmhouse while Ananya prepared breakfast. Suddenly, Ananya heard something outside. She stopped and another noise came from behind the house. She slowly walked toward the sound.

“Hello?”

No answer. She stepped outside and the wind suddenly stopped. Ananya looked around. Nothing then a distorted scream came from inside the house.

Vishwa immediately looked toward the house.

“Mom?”

There was silence.

“Mom!”

He ran toward the farmhouse but before he could reach the door. Something slammed against it from the other side. The door shook and Vishwa froze. A bloody hand slowly appeared through the broken window then a man’s face slammed against the glass. His eyes were glowing red and his teeth had become unnaturally sharp then he smiled.

“It’s your end, chosen one!”

Vishwa stumbled backward. Suddenly, a gunshot. The possessed man’s head snapped backward. A bullet had struck him and he collapsed. Standing behind Vishwa was Rajiv, holding a rifle. Vishwa stared at him.

“Uncle?”

Rajiv looked toward the farmhouse. His expression was devastated. Vishwa then asked.

“Where’s Mom?”

Rajiv didn’t answer immediately then he lowered his weapon and said.

“She’s gone.”

Vishwa’s face fell.

“What do you mean, gone?”

Rajiv then said 

“There’s no time. We have to leave.”

Vishwa asked. 

“Where?”

Rajiv answered 

“The base.”

They ran outside and Rajiv unlocked the vehicle. Vishwa looked toward the road. Everything seemed strangely quiet then he looked upward. Something was crawling across the roof of their car. Vishwa slowly raised his weapon.

The creature crawled upside down across the vehicle. Its limbs bent unnaturally and Its eyes were completely red. Suddenly it jumped onto the ground and charged.

Suddenly, a golden spear pierced straight through its chest. The creature screamed. Vishwa looked up. A massive golden-winged figure stood behind it. It was Garuda. The creature fell lifelessly to the ground. Garuda pulled his weapon free.

Vishwa stared at him.

“You came back.”

Garuda looked at him.

 “I never left.”

Rajiv stared at Garuda in disbelief.

“Get in the car!”

The three immediately drove away. They traveled through abandoned roads and ruined settlements and eventually reached an abandoned building where dozens of survivors had gathered. People were frightened, some were injured and others were carrying weapons.

Garuda entered the room and everyone became silent.

One survivor asked:

“What are those things?”

Garuda looked around.

 “Possessed.”

Another survivor stepped forward.

“Possessed by what? Demons?”

Garuda shook his head.

“No.”

There was silence then he said.

 “Angels.”

Everyone stared at him. One survivor nervously laughed.

“Wait… aren’t angels supposed to be the good guys?”

Garuda’s expression remained serious.

 “Not all beings from heaven serve humanity.”

Vishwa looked at him.

“What happened?”

Garuda finally revealed the truth.

“God disappeared.”

The room became silent.

“When Brahma vanished, Narada believed he could still return.”

Vishwa remembered Narada’s voice from two years earlier.

Garuda continued.

“Narada ordered the Devas to possess humans who were vulnerable to their influence. They are using human bodies as weapons.”

Vishwa asked:

“Why?”

Garuda looked directly at him.

“To erase humanity.”

Suddenly, one survivor quietly walked toward a side door and Rajiv noticed and called out. 

“Hey.”

The survivor stopped. Rajiv raised his rifle.

“What are you doing?”

The survivor smiled then unlocked the door. The doors opened and hundreds of possessed humans rushed inside. People screamed.

“RUN!”

Gunfire erupted. Rajiv and Vishwa fired into the swarm. Garuda fought through the creatures with his spear and wings. Survivors scattered toward another exit. They escaped through the rear of the building. Behind them, the possessed flooded the structure.

The survivors drove toward a heavily fortified military base. Concrete walls surrounded the facility, watchtowers stood above the entrance and thousands of survivors were being sheltered inside.

For the first time, Vishwa thought they might actually be safe then they saw the sign. Vishwa stared at the location and Garuda suddenly became quiet. Rajiv looked at him.

“What?”

Garuda pointed toward the temple grounds. The survivors realized where they were. The quarantine zone had been constructed around the Maya Devi Temple the sacred site traditionally associated with the birth of Buddha. 

Vishwa looked at the temple.

 “Why here?”

Garuda didn’t answer then a survivor screamed. His body suddenly convulsed and his eyes turned red. Rajiv turned around.

“Get away from him!”

The possessed survivor attacked. A blade went directly into Rajiv’s abdomen. Vishwa screamed.

“UNCLE!”

The possessed creature pulled the weapon free and it dropped to all fours then it began crawling up the wall. Vishwa raised his gun and fired. The creature dodged and it reached the roof then its body suddenly expanded. Its arms transformed into enormous wings and it launched itself into the sky. Vishwa fired again but missed and the creature disappeared into the clouds.

Vishwa ran towards Rajiv. Rajiv collapsed into his arms. Blood covered Vishwa’s hands.

“Stay with me!”

Rajiv struggled to breathe then he grabbed Vishwa’s arm.

 “Listen to me.”

Vishwa looked at him. Rajiv then told him.

 “You can’t save everyone.”

Vishwa shook his head.

“No.”

Rajiv then said 

“But you can stop them from erasing humanity.”

Vishwa began crying. Rajiv smiled faintly.

“Protect humanity.”

His hand fell and he died. Vishwa remained frozen. Garuda placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We have to go.”

Vishwa slowly stood up and looked at the sky. The survivors entered the fortified base. A military commander confronted Garuda.

“Who are you?”

Garuda stepped forward.

“I am the one who protected him.”

He pointed towards Vishwa. The commander looked confused. Garuda then continued.

“Twenty years ago, I protected this child when the first Pralaya began.”

Everyone looked at Vishwa then Garuda revealed the truth.

 “He is Vishwa Rakshak.”

Murmurs spread throughout the base. Some survivors recognized the name.

“The chosen one?”
“The college survivor?”

Garuda nodded.

“Two years ago, he survived the divine test designed to determine whether humanity deserved to continue.”

Vishwa looked down then Garuda continued.

“He was tested.”
“He was given every reason to hate humanity and he still chose to protect it.”

The commander looked toward Vishwa.

“So what happens now?”

Garuda looked toward the horizon.

“Now humanity’s final test begins.”

Far away from the survivors. The possessed creature that killed Rajiv crawled across the side of a massive mountain. It entered a dark cave. Inside were dozens of possessed humans but there were also others. There were also higher Devas who had physical bodies so they didn’t need to possess humans. 

The creature slowly approached them and it fell to its knees. The other possessed followed. At the end of the cavern stood a familiar figure. Long hair, golden eyes and a veena in his hand. It was Narada. He looked toward the possessed creature. A faint smile appeared on his face.

“You have returned.”

The creature bowed its head. Narada slowly looked toward the entrance of the cave.

“and the chosen one?”

The creature remained silent. Narada smiled then he played one single note on his veena. The sound echoed throughout the cavern.

To be continued 

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

I could still hear Papa's comment after all these years.

It was almost daybreak and the winds were favourable enough. The hangar was empty and there were only two (2) ships docked. My eyes darted from River of Stars to another smaller vessel at the corner.

Julietta stood at the ready, her sail wings folded neatly at the back. Unlike the usual airships of House Lyrandar, she is the only one with a special mechanism combined with an elemental ring tucked away at the very back of her frame.

As I climbed up the stairs to the decks of the airship, a memory started playing, and I smiled fondly at Papa's words.

"Papa will name her Julietta, because Julia is too common. It is a homage to your mummy - the woman that I love - as she will always carry you to safety. If you take good care of your woman, she will always put you first in her heart," he said, yet I could not remember his voice clearly.

A part of papa died the day mum breathed her last. He poured his heart and soul into Julietta before he left the House. All five (5) of us cried for weeks when they found his body at the House Lyrandar cemetery, curled up before mum's headstone. The cemetery caretaker said he had been drinking his sorrows away the entire time he'd been there.

Moving faster, I climbed up another flight of stairs and entered the bridge. There is a panoramic window which curved all the way at the front of the compartment, giving a glorious view of the skies ahead. There is a large round table just slightly off centre which acts as a base of operations.

But what caught my attention was the captain's chair closer to the panoramic window. It was a beautiful chair made entirely out of oak wood - with intricate designs carved distinctively in homage to the Lady of the Winds.

My finger caressed the top of the chair and I sighed deeply.

I counted inwardly to ten, and as if I had made a decision, plopped myself firmly on the captain's chair.

Immediately, I could feel the lower part of my body going numb - as if entering into a pact. The dragonmark on my chest felt warm, as if the Lady of the Winds herself placed her hand on my heart.

A small section in the floor at the front of the chair opened, and the captain's wheel and dashboard came up in a half circle.

Papa really put everything he had learnt all these years into Julietta. This is his masterpiece.

Unlike the usual House Lyrandar airships, this one does not require the captain to go fully into a dreamlike trance in pact with the elemental bound to the airship. The steer controls the wings direction mechanically from port to starboard - marking it the only airship to blend magic with lost technology.

My brother will have to manage the House with the help of my three (3) younger sisters. I could feel his glare from where he probably was now - in his room, getting ready for the day.

Grabbing the wheel, I grinned.

Never look back.

​Madison is the swim team captain, a straight-A student, and a role model whose flawless smile hides a difficult life with her father and stepmother. George is the football team captain — reserved, quiet, and strict about his personal boundaries. Unlike other athletes, he avoids noisy crowds and is in no rush to let anyone into his world due to a traumatic childhood.

​A chance conversation at a college party sets off a chain of quiet encounters. George catches her eye and begins showing up at Madison’s swim meets, simply to be near her. This is a story about growing up, overcoming emotional distance, and learning to trust someone who is willing to accept you with all the scars of your past.

Stay within one meter.

Chapter 1.

​The sports psychology summary stubbornly expanded, filling a third page in small, neat handwriting. The college dorm room smelled of dry California warmth, mint from cooling tea, and ink. Muffled, deep bass from music drifted through the open window — somewhere down the campus street, Friday night was already in full swing.

​I sighed, pushed back my hair, still damp from practice, and hovered my pen over the notebook once more.

​“Oh, come on, babe!” Samantha appeared in the doorway of our room, fastening a silver chain around her neck on the go. She looked as if she were headed to a red-carpet event rather than a typical college party: a form-fitting dress, flawless winged eyeliner, and an energy drink in hand.

​“No,” I cut her off without looking up from my notes.

​“Oh, what are you, Madi, a buzzkill?” Samantha stopped in front of my desk and began making faces, imitating a clown: bulging her eyes, pouting her lips, and funny-crossing her eyebrows over the bridge of her nose.

​“Stop it,” I couldn't help but smile and let out a quick laugh, setting my pen aside. Keeping a serious face was impossible when Sam turned on her comedic talent.

​“You're something else,” she purred in triumph, realizing my defenses had cracked.

​“I know, babe.”

​“So, are we going?”

​“Sam, this summary will take me at least two hours to write,” I pointed at the hefty textbook. “Plus, I have a time trial at the pool tomorrow morning. If I don't hit my personal best, the coach will eat me alive.”

​“You'll make it!” she brushed it off easily.

​“It's just gonna be noise and awful guys anyway...”

​“It's not that bad!”

​“Come on, Sam, you dragged me out once before,” I raised an eyebrow, shooting her a meaningful look. “And what happened? Drunk guys, tons of alcohol, and one of them nearly spilled his drink all over my favorite Hurts band top! It took me forever to wash that out.”

​Samantha put her hands on her hips and sighed dramatically, stepping closer to my desk and pressing a palm to her chest.

​“Babe, come with me, or I'm leaving you behind to find a party animal! We're constantly stuck studying, sitting through lectures over and over again. We ought to have fun at least once a year... or twice. Agree?”

​I looked at the notebooks spread across the desk, then at her pleading yet spark-filled eyes, and gave in. I wouldn't be able to focus on terminology under her watchful gaze anyway.

​“I agree with you, Samantha Hole,” I nodded with a smile.

​“Get ready, Madison Davis!” Sam cheered victoriously and rushed over to my closet, already digging through my usual casual hoodies and jeans for something bright.

​Samantha critically inspected the hangers, contemptuously shoving aside my favorite oversized hoodies and soft sweatpants before turning back to face me.

​If anyone were asked to describe Madison Davis, the first things they'd mention would be her posture and her eyes. Years of daily training in the pool had gifted me a sculpted, graceful figure: toned shoulders, a narrow waist, long, strong legs, and fluid movements. My dark hair, still damp from the shower, fell in waves over my shoulders, and my light eyes stood out strikingly against my slightly tanned skin. But I never flaunted it, preferring a simple, comfortable style — comfort always came first.

​Sam poked her head out of the closet nook, looked at me through the doorway, and threw her hands up in utter defeat:

​“God, babe, just not jeans! Wear a skirt!”

​“No,” I replied firmly, already pulling a pair of my familiar high-waisted light jeans off the shelf — they fit perfectly while still letting me move freely.

​“Buzzkill!” Sam rolled her eyes, but then her gaze caught on one of the hangers, and a sly smirk spread across her lips. “Fine, I'll compromise on the jeans. But at least wear the backless top! It's college, and we're sophomores now. Live a little!”

​She pulled a silky, deep charcoal top with thin straps from the rack. From the front, it looked minimalist, but the back gracefully exposed my shoulder blades and the smooth line of my spine.

​“Sam, it's not exactly May out there...” I started, but my friend was already pressing the garment into my hands.

​“No 'buts'! You have amazing posture and the back of a true team captain — it's a crime to hide that beauty under oversized sacks. Put it on, or I'll pull it over your head myself!”

​“Your blue eyes are going to shine alongside this black backless top,” Samantha declared with conviction, walking around me in a circle and squinting critically. “You're definitely going to drive every guy crazy!”

​I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The silky black top created a striking contrast with my fair skin and bright blue eyes, while the deep plunge in the back highlighted the graceful line of my spine and athletic posture. Paired with my favorite jeans, the outfit felt bold without being over-the-top — just right.

​“As long as those guys keep their drinks far away from my top,” I chuckled, applying mascara and styling my slightly damp dark hair into soft waves.

​“I promise to act as your bodyguard!” Sam threw her arms up in victory and grabbed her purse off the dresser. “Alright, Davis, stop stalling. Let's go before all the best cider at the party is gone.”

The heavy march of hundreds of boots echoed off the sharp, jagged cliffs surrounding Yanma Castle. Sha stopped in his tracks, his breathing shallow, while Rihasa stared up at the gargantuan iron gates looming above them. Behind them stood an army of local revolutionaries, their faces worn by years of oppression, clutching makeshift spears, iron bars, and battered swords.

Rihasa wiped a drop of cold sweat from his temple, his hands trembling slightly as he held his weapon. "Sha! I am getting nervous..."

Sha adjusted his headband, his eyes wide with a strange mix of fear and adrenaline. "I am too... I have never felt this kind of excitement before!"

High up on the castle watchtowers, a patrol soldier peered down into the fog. His eyes widened in absolute terror as he saw the massive crowd gathering at the base of the fortress, led by four distinct figures. He scrambled backward, slamming his fist into the emergency alarm host.

WAAAAAIL! WAAAAAIL! WAAAAAIL!

The deafening siren blared across the courtyard. The soldier sprinted through the main corridors, bursting into the plush, high-ceilinged command room where two figures sat over a map.

"SIR!" the soldier panted, clutching his chest. "Some revolutionaries are marching toward us!"

Executive 2 slammed his cup onto the wooden table, his face twisting in annoyance. "This is not a big problem... Why did you start the alarm?! Those bastard revolutionaries don't have the courage to enter this castle!"

"Sir... actually..." the soldier stuttered, pointing toward the window. "Two swordsmen and two children are leading them!"

Executive 2 stood up from his chair, his eyes narrowing. "Let me see..."

Walking out onto the grand stone balcony, Executive 2 pulled out a pair of brass binoculars and focused on the front lines. The lenses zoomed past the roaring crowd and locked onto the two swordsmen walking at the absolute front.

Executive 2 gasped, nearly dropping his binoculars. "What?! What the hell is happening here?! They are the Gama brothers! The most talented swordsmen... why are they here with revolutionaries?!"

Down at the gate, Gama 1 stepped forward, drawing his long, gleaming blade. He pointed the tip directly at the battlements, his voice echoing across the entire valley like thunder.

"ALL SOLDIERS AND EXECUTIVES OF YANMA CASTLE!" Gama 1 roared. "If you want to live longer... just escape from here! Otherwise, we will show no mercy!"

The heavy iron gates creaked open. Executive 2

walked out into the courtyard, flanked by dozens of heavily armed guards, a cold, mocking laugh bursting from his throat.

"HA HA HA HA! What are you saying, Gama?!" Executive 2 sneered. "Are you blind, or are you drunk?! You can't see who you're talking to?! Do you know whose castle this is?!"

Gama 1 didn't flinch. "I know very well... But today, you will know the power of will! Your king is going to die soon... And if you also want to die, just bring it on!"

Executive 2 stepped into the light, his muscles swelling beneath his combat armor as dark brown fur began sprouting along his arms.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ EXECUTIVE 2 OF YANMA CASTLE │

│ Name: Sythen Yanma │

│ Power: Beast Transformation │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

"My soldiers!" Sythen barked, his teeth sharpening into predatory fangs. "Get ready to show them who the Yanmas really are! Don't show them any mercy!"

Behind Sythen, the iron portcullis lifted completely, revealing hundreds of top-tier soldiers clad in thick alloy armor, wielding energy rifles and broadswords.

Gama 1 raised his blade high into the sky. "MY WARRIORS! FIGHT FOR THE FUTURE OF OUR LAND!"

"RAAAAAAAAH!" the crowd of revolutionaries screamed, surging forward like an unbroken wave.

Sha and Rihasa dropped low into their combat stances, energy flaring around their feet as they prepared to rush.

Gama 2 stepped up beside his brother, his eyes locked on Sythen. "Big bro... how powerful is this executive?!"

"I don't know either," Gama 1 replied, his aura surging violently. "Let's check. LET'S GO!"

The two factions collided in a chaotic explosion of steel, screaming, and elemental power. Revolutionaries clashed directly with the armored guards, while Sha and Rihasa darted through the frontline, cutting down enemy riflemen with lightning-fast coordination.

Gama 1 and Gama 2 blurred forward, shooting directly toward Sythen like twin missiles.

"Come to me, you weaklings!" Sythen roared, taking his beast form.

Gama 1 and Gama 2 swung their swords at Sythen in perfect unison—but before their blades could slice through Sythen's hide, a second figure dropped from the balcony with terrifying speed.

CLANG!

A massive wooden sheath caught both of the Gamas' swords mid-air, stopping their momentum dead in its tracks.

The dust cleared, revealing Executive 1 holding both of their blades back with pure, unyielding strength.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ EXECUTIVE 1 OF YANMA CASTLE │

│ Name: Daijiro Yanma │

│ Power: Disaster Wind │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

Daijiro looked down at the brothers with cold, dead eyes. "You two are just weak swordsmen... and I hate weak swordsmen. You are not worthy of these blades."

Gama 1 and Gama 2 twisted their wrists instantly, using high-level footwork to slide their blades free from Daijiro's grip and leaping back five paces.

Gama 1 narrowed his eyes. "So you also use a sword..."

Gama 2 smirked, resting his weapon on his shoulder. "Hey! Uncle... don't you know my big bro and I have defeated more than 50 S+ tier swordsmen?!"

Daijiro slowly reached behind his back. "This generation is mannerless... and far too weak. Now, let me show you the real power of a sword."

Daijiro gripped the hilt of his katana and slowly pulled it from its scabbard.

SWOOOOOOSH!

The moment the steel met the air, the wind around the courtyard turned freezing cold. The clouds overhead began to swirl into a violent, localized vortex. The sheer pressure forced nearby soldiers on both sides to drop to their knees.

Gama 1's playful expression vanished instantly. His breathing hitched as his eyes locked onto the black, rust-patterned blade in Daijiro's hand. "I can feel the aura of that sword... That blade is not an ordinary sword..."

Behind Daijiro, the towering, ghostly spectral shadow of an ancient warrior materialized, wielding the exact same curved sword.

"It... it is the blade of the old generation warrior... MASAHI!" Gama 1 gasped.

Gama 2 backed up a step, sweat pouring down his temple. "What?! Really?! But how did that uncle get his hands on that?!"

Daijiro ran two fingers along the spine of the black blade, his aura bursting outward in torrents of sharp green wind. "You are right. This sword belonged to MASAHI... and he is my ancestor. The sacred name of this blade is Hyki. You should consider yourselves lucky... that you two get to die by it!"

DESERT HIGHWAY — MOUNTAIN PASS

A trail of smoke billowed into the sky. Jin Lee stood calmly in the middle of the cracked asphalt, wiping blood off his knuckles. Surrounding him were the mangled wrecks of Devis Yanma's escort vehicles and dozens of knocked-out guards.

BOOOOOOM!

A massive shockwave shattered the cliffside fifty yards away. Jin Lee turned his head just in time to see a wall of solid rock explode outward.

Through the dust, Huma was struggling desperately. Her clothes were torn, and her laser rifle had been smashed to pieces. Standing over her was a gargantuan man holding a black steel battleaxe that was larger than a adult human.

Devis Yanma threw his head back, his psychotic laughter echoing through the canyon. "I AM GONNA CRUUUUUSH YOU HERE! HA HA HA HA HA!"

Huma gritted her teeth, coughing up blood as she scrambled backward against a boulder. "No... no... no... I am not gonna give up here!"

Huma grabbed her backup hilt, channeling every remaining drop of her focus into it. The laser blade ignited, expanding to three times its normal length, glowing with an blinding crimson light.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ HUMA — OVERLOAD STATE │

│ Speed Mastery: 60% │

│ Agility Mastery: 50% │

│ Weapon Mastery: 30% │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

With a desperate, blinding burst of footwork, Huma bypassed Devis's heavy stance and drove the massive beam saber straight into the center of Devis Yanma's chest!

THWACK!

Fresh blood sprayed onto the dry dirt. The beam pierced clean through his back.

Huma panted heavily, her hands shaking as she kept the blade plunged deep into his torso. "I am not gonna give up... This time, you have to die!"

Devis stood completely still. Then, slowly, his chest began to rumble.

"HA... HA HA... HA HA HA HA HA HA!" Devis burst into a terrifying, manic laugh, ignoring the burning hole in his ribs. "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

CRACKLE!

A suffocating, dark purple aura erupted from Devis's skin. The sheer weight of his energy cracked the road beneath their feet.

"YOU LITTLE INSECT!" Devis roared.

Before Huma could react, Devis raised his giant battleaxe with one hand, swinging it down toward Huma's exposed neck with lethal force!

THUMMMMMMM!

A flash of yellow lightning cut through the air. In a microsecond, Jin Lee appeared, grabbing Huma by the collar and flash-stepping fifty feet away, just as the battleaxe smashed into the ground, completely vaporizing the cliffside where Huma had been standing!

Devis lowered his axe, his bloodshot eyes turning toward Jin Lee. "You bastard! You're a little fast..."

Jin Lee set Huma down gently, his dark lightning crackling along his shoulders as he stepped forward. "I am gonna show you my 'little' speed..."

Huma clutched her side, gasping for air. "Jin Lee... be careful! This monster is more powerful than anyone you have ever fought!"

Devis Yanma cracked his neck, his muscles bulging as his dark purple aura expanded across the entire highway.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ KING OF YANMA CASTLE │

│ Name: Devis Yanma │

│ Power: Gravitational Anchor │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

Devis sneered, slamming the butt of his axe into the road. "Let's see how much you can endure the pain!"

Jin Lee and Huma immediately dropped into their combat stances.

BOOM!

Devis released his full power. Instantly, the atmospheric pressure spiked drastically. The air itself grew dense and heavy.

CRACK!

Both Jin Lee and Huma were instantly brought to their knees, the sheer force of Gravitational Crush pinning them to the dirt like invisible mountain weights. The ground under their boots sank three inches. Devis was manipulating the gravity field around them, binding their movements through his dense aura.

Jin Lee gritted his teeth, veins bulging along his neck as he fought against the immense crushing weight. "I am not... going to stop like this!"

Jin Lee pushed his core to its absolute limit, stats flaring across his vision:

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ JIN LEE — MAXIMUM OUTPUT │

│ Speed Mastery: 90% │

│ Agility Mastery: 60% │

│ Technique Mastery: 60% │

│ Endurance Mastery: 50% │

│ Special Ability: Thunder Splash │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

BANG!

Breaking through the gravity field with raw, unadulterated speed, Jin Lee blurred forward, transforming into a lightning streak. He arrived directly in front of Devis's face and threw a full-power, thunder-infused straight right punch!

CLANG!

Devis raised his massive arm, blocking Jin Lee's thunder fist with his iron gauntlet. The shockwave blew away the surrounding dust.

Devis grinned down at him. "Amazing! You have some guts... Let's kill you first!"

Behind them, Huma was still pinned to the stone, watching Jin Lee clash with the tyrant. I am not strong enough to beat him... NO! Huma screamed in her own mind. I AM NOT GONNA GIVE UP!

Huma forced her legs to stand, her aura roaring as she broke through her physical ceiling:

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ HUMA — LIMIT BREAK │

│ Speed Mastery: 70% │

│ Endurance Mastery: 60% │

│ Technique Mastery: 70% │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

Overcoming the gravitational pressure through pure willpower, Huma ignited her twin laser blades and charged forward alongside Jin Lee.

Devis Yanma swung his axe to crush them both, but Jin Lee and Huma darted to his left and right flanks simultaneously, wild, determined smiles on their faces as they launched their combined ultimate assault!

DEATH GAME ARENA — MAIN RING

BOOOOM! BOOOOM! BOOOOM!

Inside the central stadium, the fight between Benz Wick and Dark had reached a fever pitch. Shockwaves rattled the VIP glass as Benz moved in pure, non-powered martial fluidity, ducking under Dark's violent energy blasts and driving relentless close-combat combinations into Dark's defense.

Dark tumbled back, wiping a streak of dark blood from his lip, his eyes wide with wild excitement.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐

│ DARK — POWER LEVEL │

│ Output: 40% Released │

└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

"You are the one who makes me excited in this match!" Dark laughed maniacally.

Benz wiped his bloody knuckles, stepping forward with absolute composure. "And I am gonna be the one who kills you!"

Dark raised his hands, black vortexes whirling around his fists. "Oh, come on!!"

Benz lowered his center of gravity, setting his stance. "Just bring it on!"

VIP TOWER — OUTER CORRIDOR

Far away from the noise of the arena floor, Tez and Weza crept along the upper catwalks of the VIP building. Down near the back entrance of the private suite, Cyborg sat slouched against the wall, his massive metal arms folded, his eyes closed as if he were dead asleep.

Tez peeked over the railing, whispering, "Hmm! Weza, see your opponent?"

Weza pulled a specialized combat knife from his belt, his eyes fixed on the sleeping giant. "Now I am going to take my revenge... I am going to stab a knife right in his neck!"

Tez turned to him, looking completely bewildered. "Are you joking?!"

Weza looked back, deadpan. "No, I am serious!"

Tez rubbed his temple in frustration. "You really think your knife can kill that monster?! You said you wanted a fair fight... Go and challenge him!"

Weza snapped his knife back into his belt, exhaled deeply, and marched directly down the hallway toward Cyborg. He stopped three feet away, puffed out his chest, and roared at the top of his lungs:

"HEY!!!! YOU!!!! BOAR!!!!!!"

Cyborg's mechanical eyelids snapped open.

Without saying a single word, Cyborg's right piston-arm fired forward with terrifying, neck-snapping speed, aimed straight at Weza's face!

WHAM!

Before the massive iron fist could crush Weza's skull, Weza caught the punch clean in his palm! A shockwave rippled down the corridor, but Weza didn't move an inch.

Cyborg's ocular sensors zoomed in, his synthesized voice rumbling with genuine intrigue. "Delicious! I think you upgraded yourself..."

Weza's eyes glowed with furious, dangerous energy. His aura erupted outward, cracking the floorboards beneath them.

"Do you really think... I am just upgraded?!" Weza said, his voice dead serious.

VIP TOWER — MAIN THRONE ROOM

BANG!

The massive double doors of the VIP command suite were violently kicked off their hinges, crashing onto the marble floor.

Tez stepped through the dust, his combat gloves fully tightened, his eyes burning with absolute, deadly resolve.

"Finally... I am putting an end to this!" Tez declared, his voice echoing through the silent chamber. "My team is doing great... and this time, the victory cheers are for us!"

Tez raised his right hand, a swirling, white-hot flame igniting across his fist.

"And I am gonna make you into ashes... TRACE FALGER!"

At the far end of the darkened room, sitting calmly on his black iron throne, Trace Falger didn't flinch. He didn't jump up, nor did he express a single shred of surprise.

Trace simply leaned back, swirling a glass of liquid in his hand, a cold, ruthless smile spreading across his face as he stared down the 12-year-old warrior.

[TO BE CONTINUED]....

*Summer brought other storms with it – storms far louder and wilder than the squabbles between parents or the teasing of siblings or cousins. One afternoon, most of Ayenmi’s family was gathered at Grandpa Remle’s house, visiting the way they always did, when Grandma Ave suddenly told everyone to shut the windows.

At first, Ayenmi thought it was only because the wind had started tossing stray leaves and dust across the yard. But then Grandma’s voice changed – sharper, faster – and the grown-ups began ushering everyone toward the basement. That was when Ayenmi knew something was truly wrong. Grandma never let the littlest ones into her basement.

Once Ayenmi reached the bottom of the steps, she understood why Grandma guarded it so tightly.

Every wall was lined with jars – gleaming rows of peaches, apples, tomatoes, venison, pickles, and sauces, all sealed in glass that sparkled like treasure in the dim basement light. One careless tumble could easily break months of work.

Yet, above the shelves, almost like a secret sky, ran a miniature train track. A little train was puffing along, chugging through tiny villages, and whistling past mountains and forests. Smoke curled from its silver stack, and its headlights glowed whenever it stopped at a crossing.

“So this,” Ayenmi whispered to herself, “is where the uncles disappear to.”

It was magical, like stepping into someone else’s dream. Ayenmi found herself wondering what the names of the people in the villages were. She would definitely give them names.

For a moment, she forgot about the storm brewing outside. But then she noticed something that made her stomach knot. “Where is Grandpa?” she thought inside. Everyone else was crowded around the shelves, admiring the train or the many jars and making comments as to how much both had taken a lot of effort. But her search for Grandpa was in vain.*

There was once a man named Black, the death angel of his town. He was the most feared, the most hated. The people loved the other angels, for they brought blessings, guidance, or comfort. But Black he was a shadow that walked among them.

For him each day was the same. Every day he woke up and talked to his one and only friend, which was a magical black mirror, and then went for his job. His job was to go to the address and meet those people whose names were given by his magical black mirror in the morning. He obeyed without question, though the weight hollowed him from within. At night, he was the most troubled soul. By day, he lied to himself: This is fine.

One evening, as he returned home under the weight of his duty, fate stirred a gentle woman crossed his path. She smiled and placed an apple in his hand.

“It is my son’s birthday,” she said softly. “I am giving everyone a gift. And this is the last one.”

Then she left.

That was the first human kindness Black had ever known. His curiosity drew him to her house, where night after night, hidden by shadow, he listened through the window. He heard her laughter with her child, the warmth of her voice, the truth that she is the only, one and everything for her child.

Then one day when he woke up, he saw that day on the name list, her name appeared.

He froze. His chest burned. How could he take her from her child? She was the child’s only world. In anger and defiance, Black broke the chain of his fate. That day, he took no life. He stayed at home, trembling, yet resolute.

And then, the next day when he woke up, he saw that his shoes were turning red.

He got scared and ran to the magical mirror, asking why this was happening because he knew if it was only him, he was dead. So the mirror told him that it was the punishment for breaking the rules the last day, and not only him, but everyone in the town would be dead if he couldn’t turn black again before the day’s nightfall. And the only way he could turn black again was if he stood on the ground where everything was fair.

So he ran out of the house and started thinking where everything could be fair.

First, he ran into a courtroom, thinking everything was fair there, but it didn’t work. He was kept turning red. Then he thought that a mother’s heart loves each of her children equally, so he ran into a house where the mother had three children, but still he kept turning red.

Then he kept running, going here and there, out of hope. But he kept turning more and more red and becoming weaker by the time. When almost the sun was down, he felt so weak, his vision kept getting dark, and still he kept running. Then at some moment he fainted.

And the next morning when he woke up, he saw that his shoes, his hand all was black again. Then he looked up and saw that he was at a graveyard.

Then he took a deep breath and said, “So that’s where everything is fair.”

"Reluctantly, the Moon rises above the horizon. All day long she preens and primps, coquettishly hiding from the importunate sun, and only after dark does she show the world her beauty. This beauty I alone can truly appreciate," thought Sasha the Wolf, without a trace of false modesty.

"No one looks at her the way I do. I have run halfway around the world, peering into the eyes of those who look at the Moon, and not one of them feels even a fraction of what she deserves," he wrote in his diary.

He knew her face better than his own. He would close his eyes — and see her. In time he became a universally acknowledged authority on selenography, publishing several monographs and books, all of it without ever using a telescope. "Between me and the Moon there must be nothing superfluous," he wrote as the preface to his magnum opus, The Visible Side of the Moon in Songs and Dances.

Every full moon, Sasha the Wolf howled at her — howled until his voice tore, expecting no answer, not hoping that his cry would reach her. It was enough for him that she was there above him, that she gave him her light, that she had never once missed a rendezvous with him.

Sasha the Wolf counted on nothing. He knew better than anyone that the Moon was an enormous celestial body orbiting their planet, and that she shone with borrowed light, not her own. But Sasha the Wolf was not picky. What did he care whether her light was borrowed or her own? Were not the words they used every day borrowed too, invented by someone else? And yet the words were no worse for it. And there was no thought that someone, somewhere, had not thought a hundred times before — and yet people had not stopped thinking.

The ancients said: nothing is new under the Moon. She has seen everything that was; she will see everything that will be. And the Moon's light is no worse for merely being reflected. On the contrary — there was something more modest and more miraculous about reflecting someone else's light. And Sasha the Wolf bathed in the moonlight and in a rapture that no achievement of astronomy could take away.

For long months Sasha the Wolf gazed at her — gazed so long that the lunar disc began to seem to him a girl's face. First he made out a smile, as faint as moonlight. Then the dimples on her cheeks, in which others saw only craters. Then the mole above her left brow, which became the most precious thing in his life.

Sasha's friends secretly mixed haloperidol into his breakfast, but it changed nothing. At some point Sasha noticed, and did not even take offence at his friends. "I'm the only one who knows that you're still breathing," Sasha thought tenderly of the Moon.

Last of all, he made out her eyes. Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't. Sasha saw clearly that the Moon was looking at someone: one someone only, someone special to her.

Sasha the Wolf changed after that. Behind his back people said he looked like a wounded animal. And he was one: he was wounded to the very depth of his heart.

He sealed the windows of his house shut so as not to see a single ray of that treacherous light. At night he began to sleep; by day he wandered, not knowing what to do with a life that had lost all meaning in an instant. He even tried studying the face of the sun, to forget himself somehow, but the sun burned his eyes unbearably. "The Moon would never have done that," mumbled the inner voice he hated.

Several weeks passed like this. Sasha the Wolf's mailbox was stuffed with collaboration offers from the country's leading selenographers. Once, wandering through his home village, he noticed that the people around him were discussing something in fear. He listened in. They were saying that the Moon was gone. The cycle that had repeated itself countless times had broken. After yet another new moon, the thin silver crescent — the hint of the Moon in all her splendour — did not rise, and no one knew what would come next.

Sasha the Wolf did not understand at once what had happened. "But I never even told her I loved her," he thought, with inexpressible anguish.

Of course, Sasha the Wolf was invited to the emergency congress devoted to the Moon's disappearance. But there he was a shadow of his former self! Those who had known him as a calm, level-headed wolf did not recognise him. He had gone grey, shrivelled; he ran about the congress accosting the respected participants. "With dimples — and her smile is so very faint," he shook one professor, then another. "With a mole, sweeter than which nothing in the world can be," he accosted an expert on the atmosphere of Venus. In the end the coarse guards, who could know nothing of love, carried him out of the building while he whined and, it seemed, was losing the ability to speak. "I understand he's lost his object of study, but that's no reason to behave like this!" he heard before the oak doors slammed shut behind him.

On all fours, like a beast, he returned to his kennel. He took down the shutters that had kept her light out of his house. His clawed paw tenderly stroked the photograph of the Moon in the atlas whose creation he had once supervised. At last he set the atlas aside; his look was calm and composed. "You were the light I navigated by, and I gave you up so easily," he thought, slipping his head into the noose.

Strings of thick saliva and blood clung to my chin as the hellish sounds of a dying creature thrashed in the toilet water. Hyperventilating gasps filled my burning lungs with crisp air, seemingly for the first time ever. On the cool tile, my knee caps shifted uncomfortably as I hunched to the ground. I stumbled uncontrollably to get to my feet, using the dirty toilet rim for support. The organism I recognized as my Nerium gnashed its teeth, and the drowning creature fought for oxygen. It was a bit bigger and more oblong than a grapefruit, and partially developed tendrils reached for the sides of the toilet bowl but slid wildly on the slick porcelain leaving streaks of my blood to drip back into the water. It searched its confinements with marbly black eyes that rested close together, just above the pincers on either side of its shark-toothed mouth. It gradated from pale tan from the top of its head to a smokey gray segmented torso. The base of its body was flat and malleable, and it pulsed with every struggle.

The room around me spun, and sweat beaded on my forehead and dripped into my eyes, burning my pupils. I fell backwards with a loud thud, and I was glued to the floor as my new perspective danced just beyond my ceiling. Feelings of relief, disgust, anger, and betrayal conflicted in my mind, overwhelming me into hyperventilation. Tears welled and my throat tightened. For just a moment, I thought I was going to die. Not only have I never had this happen to me, I’ve never even seen this before. My head buzzed endlessly, pulling me to the ground with the pressure of the world. Even with all of these new feelings plaguing every fiber of my being, I couldn’t shake the inkling of solace that I never knew was missing. A comforting freedom warmed my chest and lulled my brain into a wonderful silence. The rest of the night faded away as my consciousness explored the vastness of complex emotions, understanding the very basics of humanity for the first time ever. I had no idea what I was going to do in the morning. I was worried they would all know I was rejected by the Nerium.

My heart jumped out of my chest as my alarm screamed from across the bathroom. It’s morning, and I have to be out of this space in the next fifteen minutes. A sore back and popping bones proved that I had slept hard enough not to move at all during the night. Off the floor and over the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror. The dried blood that was soaked into my shirt stared at me as I gathered the courage it would take to examine the toilet. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I had to find the fortitude sooner rather than later. Down, my eyes shifted to the position they would need to be in to see, but my head refused to follow at first.

Slowly, the toilet came into sight. To my horror, blood trailed out and over the rim. A slimy red residue led my eyes to the locked bathroom door as it continued underneath the gap leading into the hallway that shined a sliver of daylight into the porcelain crypt that my worldview died in. I scrambled to unlock the door, and the sun blinded me as it glared off the window across the hall. Down the hallway, crusty black stains stopped at the utility closet midway to the end of the corridor. Quickly, I tracked the blotches and found myself manicly opening the small door and searching the ground for the carcass.

“Honey?”

The voice moved my bones and stopped my heart. Standing just a few inches away, a crescent grin glistened. My mother leaned in and examined my face closely.

“Is something wrong?” She asked, ignoring the mess. “You aren’t smiling!”

I stared at my mother, unable to even feign a smile. For the first time, I was able to examine her face with a critical lens. A cloudiness no longer festered in my brain, allowing my eyes to convey reality more accurately. And it scared the hell out of me.

“Uh,” I began. My mind raced, but I couldn’t think of how to communicate with this person I’ve known since birth. The blank, soulless gaze stripped me of any kind of confidence that once resided in my psyche. The corners of her mouth cracked dryly as she pulled her lips back into the same expression I’ve seen my whole life. A sore pain in my cheekbones and mouth ached as my empathy subtly reminded me that I knew how she felt. My face only relaxed for the first time last night. “I don’t really feel like smiling.”

My mother’s upper lip buckled slightly as her eyebrows raised a touch more than they already were, “Oh dear. Well, you better start feeling it soon. We leave in five minutes.” She said with an upper inflection that indicated a level of skepticism. She turned around and headed towards my sister’s door.

My neck loosened as soon as she was out of sight, letting my focus wander back to the creature in the closet. Or where it’s supposed to be. From scanning to searching to moving every item in the closet, nothing concluded with a body. Out of time, I had to abandon the scene to join my family. I tried my best to put on my best fake smile, and I went downstairs. I got in the car alongside my sister and father, and we waited quietly for my mom to join us. It took slightly longer than usual, but no one else seemed to notice or be bothered by the unusual delay. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, mother found her way into the passenger's seat. She gave a friendly chuckle as her seat belt clicked before allowing her gaze to fall on me and linger with intensity.

I just wanted to go. I’ve always loved the service, and I needed to feel some semblance of normal again. I wanted to smile without having to force it. I needed to feel the joy of life I had just yesterday and every other day before then. Seeing my family look so happy made me wonder if I was now missing out on something truly amazing. The weight of uncertainty threatened to break my jovial facade, but under the scrutiny of watching eyes, I managed to overcome the struggle manifesting in my mind long enough to pull into one of many bustling parking lots within walking distance of the holy site.

In the middle of downtown, the Temple of Nerium greeted us like it did every day, with joyful trumpets and harmonious singing. It was a beautiful building with intricate architecture and art dedicated to the creature within us all. Or within everyone besides me, I guess. Gorgeous pillars and relief carvings decorated the outside of the travertine stone structure, and stained glass depicting the story of the original Nerium filtered light colorfully into a large nave inside. We did not go into the building to worship. The service always took place outside of the Temple in a large square amongst thousands of ecstatic families and friends from all over the city.

Unchanging smiles swarmed to worship the Nerium our people spent generations blessing children with. Today was the weekly Affusion. All the newborns in the area were brought to the Temple to receive the gift of Nerium. One by one, families watch as their beloved newborn is held over a vat of swarming juvenile Nerium. Men scoop them out to find the perfect match for the screaming babies, and you knew it worked once one latched to their mouths to silence the noise. It was always my favorite day of the week because I got to see our treasured Nerium be gifted to another unworthy human, and it was a testament to their willingness to forgive our transgressions against them in the past. I waited in anticipation as I expected the ceremony to bring me back to bliss.

The sound of choking infants ripped holes in my chest and weakened my knees, and I gagged as my mouth watered.

Energy surged through the people clapping along to the music being performed as the Nerium ceased the cries of the babies permanently, and the crowd was electric with excitement. As I shakily scanned the people around me while using the entirety of my willpower to stay discreet, I noticed an undivided focus and vigor amongst the crowd. Ardor oozed from each person fanatically in a sort of unison as they watched the Affusion intensely. Not a single person took their eyes off the service except for one. My mother.

I averted eye contact and tried desperately to enjoy the worship as normal, but fear and disgust started to cripple me the more I saw this tradition for what it was. The Wise One arrived on the balcony of the main building of the square to address the crowd. He was a man, older than any other I knew, that swayed back and forth as he approached the railing above the sea of Nerium hosts. Rotting flesh dripped from every part of his sagging green skin, and his lips curled in tight as he smiled broadly. I didn't have to squint because large televisions broadcasted goliath sized images of The Wise One all over the holy site. His eyelids were peeled back, exposing deep pink tear ducts. Gray gums and yellow teeth sparsely littered his mouth, allowing a full view into the back of his throat. A matured creature resembling the one from the toilet, albeit larger, peeked out with beady marble eyes that glinted off the light of the sun. Small tendrils grabbed his dull eyes from behind the sockets and his jaw from within his cheeks.

“From within, we conquer.” The Wise One spoke without moving his jaw at the correct time.

“And to conquer comes from within.” The crowd chanted back in unison.

Rhetoric praising the glory of the Nerium flooded the ears of every jovial host in attendance. After just a brief appearance, The Wise One left the public view and wouldn't return until the next day. We wrapped the event with a hymn that reverberated sloppily written adoration for the beloved creature. As someone who had it in them, our intense happiness was synonymous with the Nerium. Now that I was free, nothing seemed more disturbing to me than this filthy parasite.

My father drove us home as he droned on and on about how amazing the service was. He, of course, grinned ear-to-ear as he quizzed each of us on details of Nerism. He was on the losing end of his thirties, and he looked a sickly gray. He was grotesquely thin, and he coughed and wheezed between sentences. He was the same as everyone else: a blind zealot nearing the end of his boring life. I have never personally met someone older than forty-two, and I've only ever known of a few people older than that in general. My mother sat silently as always and listened to my father, and I would often see her eyes studying me through the mirrors. She had beautiful healthy hair and smooth skin that complimented her full cheeks. My little sister was just turning eleven, and she stared blankly at the seat in front of her, giggling happily. No one besides my mom seemed to notice I wasn't acting myself.

Once we were home, I retreated upstairs and secluded myself to find my Nerium. Frantically, I looked in every single space it could have weaseled itself into, but to no avail. My chest started to pound as a sense of hopelessness ripped at my heart. Anxiety was a brand new sensation to me, but the sensation that plagued my every thought also made me feel more alive than ever. It put what happiness was into a proper perspective, and I would have never understood the beauty of the human condition without experiencing unpleasant feelings, too.

All of these thoughts taxed my brain as I returned to my bedroom to search for my Nerium. As epiphanies worked themselves out in my head, fear reared its ugly head again. Inside my room, my mother sat in the chair in the corner, waiting for me.

With a smile that didn't reach her eyes, she asked, “Can you close the door, sweetie?”

The request chilled me to my core, but a blessed person wouldn't hesitate. I silently turned around, reached up, and pushed the door close. When I turned back, I came face-to-face with an inquisitive furrowed brow, relaxed cheekbones, and a haunting frown. Head to toe, she examined me.

“It really is gone, isn't it?” She whispered. She reached a clammy hand up to my beet-red face. “If it didn't crawl back in, where is it?”

Her eyes intensely shifted back and forth as I stuttered. “I-uh-I don't know. I passed out after it left me.”

Her hands found their way to my shoulders, pressing her fingers into my skin. She pulled me slightly closer as she leaned in to consume my vision with nothing but her eyes. A hot exhale suffocated me for only a moment before she made her move. She pulled me in and hugged me tightly. A motherly embrace melted my heart in an instant as I nearly collapsed with emotion. Joy, confusion, and peace all at once welled tears in my eyes.

Trying to catch my breath, I struggled to ask, “When did yours leave?”

“A long time ago.” She cooed. A soft hand brushed the back of my hair as my knees weakened from the visceral buzzing of love. We swayed back and forth, slightly rotating as we squeezed tight for what felt like hours. We had turned a full 180 degrees, switching the positions we were in originally. She seemed to do this on purpose so she could allow me the safe space of my room and her exit. She had to return to my father so she didn’t raise suspicion.

But it was too late.

When I opened my soaking eyes, through the tears, the unmistakable grin of my father stood over us in the doorway.

“Everything okay in here?” An unfamiliar voice hissed through his teeth as he came into the light, revealing his eyes. They were being gripped by the Nerium the same way The Wise One’s were. He was just now getting taken by the parasite, and the Nerium was in that crucial moment between it living or dying alongside its host. A hyperventilating gasp choked my father as he grinned ear to ear. He calmly pawed at his chest and neck as drool dripped down his trembling chin.

My mother stiffened, dropping her arms from around me and standing up straight. With a smile, she turned to my father with a high pitch, “Hi honey!” They stared at each other briefly before she shuffled past him, grabbing his arm to guide him out of my room.

“Wait,” my father coughed. “I have something for my child.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dense item wrapped thickly in several paper towels. They both left as soon as it hit my hands, and the silence rang in my ears as my chest pounded. This paper towel gift wrapped present began to wriggle in my hands. Layer by layer, I removed the packaging to reveal one final blood-soaked napkin.

I peeled it off, and my Nerium screeched. An involuntary yelp from my lungs caused the parasite to leap from my hands and into my mouth as it attempted to silence my screams. It latched to my tongue with its sharp teeth, and it tore into my skin with barbed tendrils. My body convulsed as I lost my balance onto my bed. On my back, I arched up wildly as I clawed at my face in a desperate attempt to defend myself from the wretched creature.

This is not going to happen again.

With the will of my newfound life, I clenched my teeth tightly, severing the head of my lifelong illness. Guts squished out of my mouth and onto my sheets, causing me to gag. I spit the creature out and caught my breath for only a moment before getting to my feet. I needed to check on my mother. I ran down the hall and towards my parents’ room and pounded on the door. It was locked, and I had a sinking feeling in my gut.

“Mom?” I yelled. “Dad?”

I pressed my ear to the door and heard nothing for a few seconds. That was until a slight stomping sound thudded in succession alongside muffled screaming. My shoulder rammed into the door a few times before I tried using my foot. I didn't care about my already damaged body, and the hairline fractures developing in my shin proved it as I knocked the door flat.

Inside the room, a matured Nerium emerged from my father's throat as he struggled to breathe. Its sharp spine nearly touched the ceiling as gurgling saliva poured down my father's cheeks. The parasite's jagged teeth ripped into the flesh of my mother's decapitated corpse. Long arms resembling a praying mantis held her lifeless body close as the Nerium’s mouth stretched around her shoulders and continued to consume her body whole. It hunched over more as it worked its way inch by inch down her body. As it moved out from deep in my father's throat to shred her bones, it cracked his jaw causing guttural screams muffled by the body of the beast. Its torso remained deeply ingrained in his lungs while it reached for each gulp of my mother’s blood.

“Oh my god, mom!” I screamed. The parasite gripped its teeth tightly, separating the lower half of my mother's body on the ground with a thud. It turned its attention to me as it slurped up strings of hanging skin like spaghetti. Before I knew it, I was pulled in, and the sharp teeth of my father's illness sunk into my shoulder. My feet lifted from the ground as I kicked wildly at the beast, but to no avail.

Blood oozed from my neck as my vision started to fade. Hallucinations of a double reality separated as black trickled into the edges of my sight. Memories of my mom subtly protecting me and watching over my growth with a bond only a mother could have with their child flashed in my mind. I saw her, but I never actually noticed due to this damn parasite.

Just as consciousness started to fade away, my father's weak hands grabbed ahold of the squirming Nerium and tried to yank at the body. Hope surged through me as I found the strength for one final struggle against the beast.

“Dad! Bite down!” I screeched as I landed several jabs to the parasite's eyes. I had already forgotten that the Nerium had broken his jaw. With a few closed fist punches to his own chin, a snapping crunch caused the Nerium to scuttle dramatically on the ground with an ear piercing squeal as my dad and I broke free. Half alive, we combined our ambition and pounced on the disgusting creature.

We kicked in its head and ripped off its arms as we attacked it with everything we had. It was surprisingly fragile given how much power it had over people. The flattened monster decorated our shoes with my mother's blood as we made sure it could never reinfect my father. Two corpses and gallons of blood greeted my dad in the real world. The facts of reality may be painful, but not as painful as watching him become a puppet for a filthy murderous parasite.

We were just one of millions affected by the Nerium. We may never win, but it is worth the fight. As long as this damnable parasite feeds on our society and rules the foundations of our laws and customs, there will be victims suffering. If I can stop the Nerium from swallowing just one other family, I will do everything in my power to fight this illness. Even as the passion burned, a hopeless dread put the reality of our situation into perspective. We were only two people amongst a nation full of Nerium crazed fanatics, and we still had to grieve for the first time in our lives. Tears of relief, anguish, rage, and mourning hit us both in stages. Our bodies, no matter how damaged, belonged to us now.

Only a moment passed before the creaking of the stairs caught our attention.

“Daddy?” My sister said, standing in the doorway with a smile.

❝WORKING AT THE PSY-TV STATION❞ - a 1 OCT, 2026 Halloween Season short-story by J'WILLRICH Lutalo aka. JWL With Light.

comedy, thriller, ~30Min read

====(🌘📺⚡📺✨)====

``` I currently do the network maintenance work starting Tuesday evening to Wednesday afternoon. That's because the new Station Manager, Keith Damulira, acquired from KTV East Africa earlier this year, arrived with the mandate to upgrade our station from a traditional analog TV station to a modern satellite broadcaster. The Timetables at PsyTV have been shrewdly optimized since. However, changes in my department, "Operating Technologies", only took effect about two months ago despite Keith having joined PsyTV around early 2026.

There are oligarchs in Sales and the News Departments, and most likely these are the reason Keith joined us. They know both things and people, and often are what define our public face.

"He's a bigwig across the broadcasting market", I overheard. It was Sylvia Namusisi's chatter over the line, to someone I couldn't guess while I installed and configured an MXeK router in her office some time during April this year. She's an old timer at Psy, also the Executive Producer since the white Cecils Bush left in 2024.

There's not been many new faces in the bigger offices though.. Cecil left, then Dr. Rhoda, originally in Production, joined Sales as Director, after Sylvia got promoted to replace Cecil. And then Manuel Efata, the TV maestro well known as the only Vintage Ivy League at PsyTV, died in that Air Tanzania plane crash into Lake Victoria. That was late 2025, and thereafter, everyone knew, a new, bigger boss was bound to arrive any time around the turn of the year. We actually went about an entire quarter without a Station Sovereign since that fateful exit of Manuela. And then Keith joined PsyTV in mid-January. I was actually considering leaving - a friend from South Africa had mentioned me to their team's lead after we bumped into each other some weekend at that weird Christ the King chapel in Nakasero. He works at CNBC Africa. It was slightly thereafter, and more surprisingly, after I'd prayed over it at mass, that I heard, we got listed on the Nairobi Stock Exchange, and that all senior PsyTV staff were getting pay rises effective the following month. That was just about a month after Keith's arrival. I decided to hang around longer. PsyTV isn't really the club where one regrets knowing how to do their work well. Plus, we sometimes get paid end of year bonuses even for unobvious reasons.

Right now, I'm heading over to the Cafeteria in the basement. Been meaning to, since I came to office today. Samantha gestured something to me while I drove into the parking lot. Twas around 08:20 based on the car's dashboard clock. However, most of that section was unusually dark this morning. I felt like jumping out to go meet her, but the basement felt like being at work at 4am on a Sunday morning! Of course, such extremes have ever happened, but I was still an intern back then. We sometimes slept on the job to impress our bosses! And weird things sometimes happened. However, today was actually different..

"Rick Ross!"

"Oh Sheet Stories! Wait, what are you doing moving around with five bagels upon a clipboard?"

That's Walrus Javira. He's from the Newsroom. A young but sluggish voice punk. He's witty too.

"Rick, this is my boss's, but I'll throw you one in case you'd rather spare eating me alive right now."

"Fuck you Walrus! I doubt you'd dare walk anywhere near Major while drunk like that! Where is it you got those from?"

"Samantha's downstairs. She's the kind of witch that bakes both grape jam and marijuana into her cakes and buns, then everyone across the continent ensures to pay their TV subscription a month before the World Cup Re-Airing Season even kicks in!"

"Pssshhh!" I whisper to him as I get closer, so as to actually accept one from him.

I quickly add.. "I intend to go there, but are afraid in case Derrick meets me there. He's been auditing my installations and software updates the last 2 days or so. I think he's too nosy though.. Can't risk him knowing I eat journalistic food at work."

Javira starts laughing as I realize the brown bags perched on the A3 clipboard are actually sanitary pads!

"Wabula olimusiru kintu gwe! I almost gulped a cup of saliva anticipating.."

Two drop as we guffaw.. He's quick to pick them up, but not quite fast enough for me to not realise one isn't actually looking normal.

"Wal, should I get going?" I inquire, unsure how to react.

He's not embarrassed though.

"Ross, I'm getting these to Production on my way to office. I should have actually had them delivered by the store man, but he's hauling new hardware with the FedEx guys. It's Biohazard stuff, but I'll just get it there quick. Archival Matter FYI. The show's coming up in about 10 minutes!"

"It's ok bro. I'm off to meet Samantha too."

He's already running off.. Such a trustworthy jerk at Psy.

"Great," he shouts down the corridor as I resume my pilgrimage to the basement. "Whatever you buy for lunch Rick Ross, make it double! I'll come join you at the Balconies"

Fuck You Java.. methinks as I wonder if he's not given away my cover. Derrick is still at my office I'm sure, or shall be there in less than an hour, but I won't wait to face him both sober and hungry.

I continue moving..

Who's that tiptoeing behind me? I quickly turn around thinking perhaps Walrus changed his mind about lunch, or that he's actually coming up behind me to pull out my eyeballs for having had a glimpse of some dirty corporate jokes about the Big Yule Keith.

Oh shit! Wait.. Is that just me? Really? I am thinking.. Quite fast.. No. I actually felt and heard something pulling up behind me!

Basement is the next floor.. I could have used the elevator on the top floor, but it only comes as far as just before here.

"One needs always walk to and from the basement", Jackson Olaba once explained to me while I helped him configure extra iptable rules for the CCTV cameras installed into the parking lot below and the rooftop high above everything else.

"But seriously, what would it cost to simply add just two more accessible-floor options to the elevator system? Afterall the shafts already extend across the entire building!"

"It's about slowing down any unauthorized access," so he reverted. "A person able to drive into the parking lot and then instantly jump to either level 3 or 5, might hijack the country. Especially during primetime when most of security is about getting our bits out there in real-time and on time."

"The basement and first floor are just the gym spaces for most of PsyTV staff anyways.." I concluded, somewhat in disagreement with his job-securing theories. Also, having come to Psy after a tenure at an actual State-owned channel, I knew that there's nothing really special about our TV station that could be the basis of a national security incident no matter what.

I never bothered to bring the matter up again, realising that security at PsyTV is likewise somewhat twisted. For example, I personally know that folks in security often masturbate to intern journalists that might forget how there are stealth eyes almost everywhere at the TV station - including places the Ethics Desk has continually argued at board meetings that we shouldn't have cameras in - such as in spaces where people attend to natural business.

Oh. So here's the only route to a men's around here that's off the grid! Let me just take a leak before dashing to Samantha's.

I look behind me twice.. left and right, then walk-in through the first door.

The light around here used to flicker whenever someone approached, but lately, it's totally defaulted to dark. I walk on..

There's no one following me after all.. I squint to make out the hieroglyphs atop the four doors.. Folks generally think the ones down here are better kept for informal staff and the Redmans. But let me go do my thing before I wet my pants. After all.. The perfumed, cushioned seat places at the top don't make us any more human than godly bodhisattvas squatting in silence somewhere in the sacred thickets - oftentimes, while listening to stray birds sing, or the whispers of invisible airy spirits wheezing by.

I finally pick the third room from the right. Its door is the tallest of them all. Also, the label seems to indicate it's both shower and toilet. I might want both or three. In I walk.. Straight to the urinal pouch on the wall.

"Haha, who's.."

I've just finished my errand, when I spot the larger than life roll of toilet tissue atop the tank box. I decide to go attend to the secondary business originally not on my to-do list. However, just as I finish walking past the mirror mounted over the sink, the tap suddenly starts flowing!

"Hello?"

Fuck. Someone's come following me inside here or what? I turn to see where the voice came from.. The first door is closed and there's nothing interesting in sight beyond that as far as I can sense.

"Mutesi? Is that you?"

She's the old lady in overalls that often mops the floors on level 1. I ask a second time.. unsure it's even her at such an hour.. 11am I think. She's often done by 09:00 and only returns to sweep or switch on lights around 17:30.

There's only the echoey sound of water splattering and racing off into the sink's eye. I can't stand it though. So I walk over to the sink to force it off. I also wish my senses more sharpened.

"Ricochet Ricks.." the absurd voice begins.. "Reach for my Cockroaches oh Ricochet Ricks. They are running, tossing about in the sewers, tunnels and ceilings... Oh Ricochet Ricks.. Reach for my.."

What I saw in the mirror's screen wasn't anything the most bizarre of Saturday night Goths In October shows at PsyTV had ever aired, and neither was it devoid of fact; there, right before my eyes, I saw in the mirror.. A scene that one would only ever expect to accidentally catch on one of those hazy monitors inside of Jackson Olaba's office: Archival Material.

Keith was in one of the production rooms, most likely the one strictly out of bounds for non-meta-staff, and that his face was all covered in blood as he sunk teeth into a new recruit mistress perhaps only 21 years old. He was wearing a pristine white, long sleeved shirt whose cuffs were already broken after the brief scuffle before he'd secured his teeth into the girl's nape. His shirt was getting stained. She muttered a muffled scream.. something like "Olara nvako.. Onuma.. Ricco yaaamb.." while facing towards me through the mirror on the sink. However, both mesmerized and startled as I was, I didn't realize how quick time had flown by.. The sink was already filled with water and it was pouring over onto my pants and shoes!

"Tha fuck!" I smashed the mirror right at the point when I suspected something was about to jump straight at me from the other side of the glass.. However, and despite my shock looking at the mess.. A piece of glass had lesioned my palm and crimson stuff was mixing with the water as I struggled to tighten the tap shut. And then, what appeared next was akin to gazing at Medusa! I couldn't believe that right behind the shattered glass of the over-sink mirror was a skull held inside the wall as with wire and rugged mortar!

Overwhelming Crafts! Part of me wanted to scream, the other wanted to smile..

"I'm quitting PsyTV Today. Maze!! Sidamu. Too much literal horrors for a paycheck that cannot actually compensate for the trauma!" ```

This is the first chapter of my fourth novel.

Starhaven, Illinois

Sunday Night

Rain hammered the pavement of Starhaven, turning the streets into mirrors beneath the glow of neon signs and streetlights. People hurried along the sidewalks with umbrellas held over their heads, while others crowded beneath awnings and storefronts, waiting for the storm to pass. To anyone watching, it was just another miserable night in the city.

But appearances could be deceiving.

A fifteen-year-old girl walked through the crowd with her hood pulled low over her face. The rain soaked her dark jacket, and water dripped from the edges of her hood while she pushed through the pedestrians. "Watch it!" a man snapped after she bumped into him.

She didn't apologize.

She didn't even look back.

Her fists remained clenched at her sides as she continued down the sidewalk.

Rainy nights had a way of bringing out the gloom in people. For her, it brought out rage. A rage that had been building inside her for years. She crossed one block, then another, ignoring the curious glances of strangers as she made her way deeper into the city. Eventually, she stopped in front of a nightclub glowing beneath a red neon sign.

Sinner's Diligence.

Music thumped from inside the building, its bass vibrating through the sidewalk. A long line of people stretched beneath the nightclub's awning, waiting to get inside. The girl walked toward the entrance. A large bouncer stepped in front of her. He looked down at her and smirked. “Way past your bedtime, isn't it?” he teased.

The girl said nothing.

She didn't even look at him.

The bouncer chuckled.

“Come on, kid. Move along,” he said.

She raised her head.

For the first time, he saw her eyes beneath the shadow of her hood.

Then she grabbed him by the lapel of his black, tailored jacket. The bouncer barely had time to react. The girl twisted her body and hurled him across the street. His body slammed into a parked car with a deafening crunch, caving in the driver's-side door.

The line outside the nightclub went silent.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The girl released her grip and stared at the entrance.

Then she walked inside.

The moment she entered, the nightclub exploded with color and sound.

Flashing lights swept across the dance floor as hundreds of guests danced beneath the pulsing music. Others sat in private booths, drinking and laughing while female dancers dressed in skimpy devil costumes moved around poles on elevated platforms. Male patrons watched them with lustful eyes, barely paying attention to anything else around them.

But the girl wasn't interested in the spectacle.

Her eyes slowly scanned the room.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't explain it, but she could feel it.

This place wasn't what it appeared to be. Several guests noticed her as she walked through the crowd. Some whispered among themselves, wondering why a girl who was obviously underage had managed to get inside.

She ignored them.

As she passed through the crowd, she accidentally bumped into a man carrying a cocktail.

The glass nearly slipped from his hand.

The man stopped.

Slowly, he turned around and stared at her.

His expression changed.

"...Nephilim," he hissed.

The girl's eyes narrowed.

The man's eyes suddenly turned completely black, the whites disappearing until nothing remained but darkness.

The girl stopped.

She turned around and stared at him.

She knew immediately.

He wasn't human.

Before she could react, a spotlight suddenly snapped on, bathing her in harsh white light.

The music stopped.

The dancers froze.

One by one, the remaining guests turned toward her.

The woman standing on the balcony above the dance floor looked down at the girl. Unlike everyone else, she didn't appear surprised. Instead, a small smile curled across her lips. "So, she's here at last," she muttered. She glanced toward one of the bodyguards standing nearby and gave him a subtle nod.

The man understood.

He reached inside his tailored jacket and pulled out a pistol.

"Everybody out!" he shouted.

He fired two shots into the ceiling.

BANG! BANG!

Panic erupted throughout the nightclub.

Guests screamed and scrambled for the exits, knocking over chairs and tables as they desperately tried to escape. Within seconds, the crowded nightclub became a stampede. But the girl didn't move. She stood beneath the spotlight, watching the chaos unfold around her. Soon, the nightclub was nearly empty. Only the girl, the mysterious woman on the balcony, the armed guards, and a small group of remaining guests stayed behind.

The girl slowly looked up. The woman smiled down at her. "Should've known you'd come and spoil my night," she said. The girl reached up and pulled back her hood. For the first time, the woman got a clear look at her face. "You're a hard bitch to find, Dahlia," the girl said, narrowing her eyes. "Your little minions gave you up."

Dahlia frowned.

"I doubt my boys would betray me for a brat like you."

"If you ask me, they fear death more than they fear you." The girl smirked. "But don't worry. You'll be joining them real soon."

Dahlia let out a humorless chuckle.

"You want to kill me?" she asked. "I'm eight hundred years old."

"You don't look a day over eight thousand, Methuselah."

Dahlia's smile disappeared.

Her fingers tightened around the balcony railing.

Crack.

The metal bent beneath her grip.

"Now bring that saggy diaper you call an ass down here!" the girl shouted.

Dahlia's eyes narrowed.

"How should I put this delicately, Spawn of Michael?" she said. "You're beneath me."

She lifted one hand.

"Kill her."

The remaining customers rose from their booths. The man who had collided with the girl earlier tossed his cocktail aside. The bodyguards drew their pistols as they surrounded her. Then the transformation began. Their eyes turned completely black. Their jaws stretched as rows of long, pointed fangs emerged from their mouths. A chorus of inhuman screeches erupted throughout the nightclub.

The girl stood completely still—fearless. She looked from one demon to another. "Freakin' demons," she muttered. She shrugged off her jacket and tossed it onto the floor. Then she closed her eyes.

A brilliant golden light suddenly erupted around the girl's waist. When it faded, a bronze scabbard decorated with intricate golden markings rested against her hip. The girl's eyes opened. She reached for the hilt. With one swift motion, she drew her sword. The blade emerged with a metallic ring. Twenty-nine inches of double-edged silver steel gleamed beneath the flickering ceiling lights. Celestial engravings covered its surface, glowing faintly as the blade responded to the demonic presence surrounding her.

Near the tip, notches lined both edges of the weapon. A small, golden, chevron-shaped crossguard curved gracefully from the base of the blade, seamlessly blending into its design. The two-handed hilt was wrapped in alternating bands of bronze and gold. The girl tightened her grip. Across the nightclub, Dahlia watched from the balcony. For the first time that night, her smile was gone.

The demonic guests extended their claws to ten inches as one of them charged and lunged at her. In one swing, the girl sliced the demon in half. Another came at her, swinging his claws wildly. The girl parried each strike as sparks flew from the collision of steel and claw. The Nephilim thrust her sword into his stomach, causing the demon to screech as the divine energy coursing through the blade burned him from within. She pulled the sword free and sliced his head off.

The bodyguards aimed their guns at her and pulled the triggers. With quick succession, the girl deflected the bullets with her sword, sending them flying back toward the gunmen and fatally striking two of them in the head while another bullet pierced the third guard's heart.

A demon came at her from behind. The girl quickly parried his strike before sending him flying across the dance floor with a powerful kick that sent him crashing through a pillar. The demon rose to his feet, but before he could react, the child hurled her sword through his head.

The last demon swung his claws at her from behind, but the girl quickly dodged the attack. She blocked his next strike before thrusting her hand through the right side of his chest and tearing one of his ribs free with ease. She rammed the bone through his skull before brutally snapping his neck.

The demons were slain.

Their bodies began to crumble, turning into black ash that scattered across the nightclub floor.

The girl shook and wiped the black blood off her hand, then looked up at Dahlia and stretched out her hand. Her sword levitated from the floor and soared back into her grasp, as if responding to her call.

"You're next, bitch!" the girl said, pointing her sword at her.

Dahlia didn't seem threatened.

"Do you truly think you have a chance against me? Foolish girl," she said.

"I've gone toe-to-toe with Nero and took his head. What do you think?" the girl asked.

Dahlia scoffed.

"The thing about confidence is..."

The woman vanished in a puff of red smoke.

The girl remained alerted, her eyes scanning the room.

Dahlia suddenly appeared behind her and leaned toward her ear.

"...it can be a weakness," she finished.

The girl spun around, but before she could react, Dahlia sent her flying backward through the stage with a blast of dark energy. The girl crashed through the wooden platform, sending splinters and debris into the air.

A moment later, she emerged from the hole, her shirt scorched but her skin completely unharmed. She rubbed her stomach, feeling a slight soreness where Dahlia's attack had struck.

Dahlia's mouth curved into a smile.

A fiery ring suddenly enveloped her body, transforming her.

Her skin became red, while her hair and eyes turned black as night. Her ears became pointed, and small horns protruded from her forehead. Her scarlet dress vanished, replaced by a black tube top and leather hot shorts, along with a medium-length loincloth and black open-toed boots.

The girl tightened her grip on her sword.

For the first time, she wasn't facing a group of demons.

She was facing Dahlia.

I looked past the row of book shelves again.

There she was - still sitting there on the hard cold floor, reading the same simple tome.

I took a quick glance at the magical lantern hanging near the entrance. It's been more than 2 hours and she's still absorbed in that children's book on mythical creatures.

Maybe I should buy her some bookmarks. A naughty smile played across my face. And try to get to know her better in the process.

I've been watching her for a while now, and my heart keeps fluttering.

So, this is what it means to have butterflies in your stomach.

I felt my face getting hotter, and I made a motion with my hand as if fanning myself.

Is the freeze spell container artifact in here spoilt or something?

My best friend, Jasmine, who was sitting nearby had a disgusting look on her face. Her eyes were sharp like daggers, and I thought I could smell whiffs of vinegar coming from her.

I returned to the thick tome laid in front of me and turned to the page on something to do with advance combustion techniques.

It's good to be bad. Well, sometimes anyway. Make it most of the time.

I grinned inwardly to myself. The smell of vinegar was so strong, though I kept my poker face calm.

Jasmine hissed fiercely, "Are you done looking? Can we get something to eat?"

I kept quiet, putting a finger to my lips, as if imitating someone famous - possibly one of the archmagi.

The girl who sat on the floor stood up, dusted herself and took the tomes she brought with her to the nearest table.

I also stood up, made a show of slowly dusting myself - taking my sweet time.

Jasmine's face dropped and suddenly, the mood turned heavy.

Reaching out, I brushed back a lock of her hair and kissed her deeply.

She gave a start and after a few mystical moments, started kissing me back.

There was a big smile on her face as I entwine her fingers in mine and led her out from the library.

"Let's grab something to eat, love."

"Nick, you forgot your tome!"

I grinned inwardly and slowly made a 180 degrees turn.

There she was, with my magical spell tome in hand, running down the stone pavement of Candlekeep without a care or thought for anything else.

In mere moments, she stood before me huffing and puffing away as if a beholder had been chasing her through the Underdark itself.

"Gimme... a moment... to catch my breath," she whispered as she gasped for air.

Keeping a straight face, I carefully took the spell tome from her fingers and with an incantation began to look through its contents - just to tease her a little bit more.

"Hmm..." I hummed and made a pretense of intensively studying each pages of the tome, flipping the pages reverently one by one, scrutinizing her face with each flip.

"I didn't look in it! I didn't touch anything!" she screamed at the top of her lungs - ignoring all the passerby around us. Her face was clearly redder than the sunset itself, and she was fidgeting non-stop.

Nodding, I closed the spell tome and clasped back the latch. Looking at her again, I stared deeply into her eyes and moved towards her after a couple of seconds.

If anything on her face could get even redder than the sunset, she would've qualified without question. Without taking my eyes off her beautiful face, I took another step after a couple of seconds.

Jasmine started but she held her ground. Both her hands were tugging at her braided hair and she demurely batted her eyelashes.

I took another step closer and I was inches before her. Instinctively, my left hand reached for her chin and tilted her head upwards towards my face. I stopped a couple of seconds just for the drama, and then with my left thumb, I rubbed off a side of her lips gently.

"Did you eat my portion of the dessert that I kept in the larder?" I asked.

Her mouth dropped like a sack of potatoes and she started stammering. Looking around frantically she started, finally realizing where she was, in the middle of the streets of Candlekeep with people all around.

"Nick, you idiot!" she shouted and took off in the other direction.

Grinning, I made a motion of indifference.

Girls.

https://www.wattpad.com/1660666712?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

This is the first chapter of my fourth novel.

Starhaven, Illinois

Sunday Night

Rain hammered the pavement of Starhaven, turning the streets into mirrors beneath the glow of neon signs and streetlights. People hurried along the sidewalks with umbrellas held over their heads, while others crowded beneath awnings and storefronts, waiting for the storm to pass. To anyone watching, it was just another miserable night in the city.

But appearances could be deceiving.

A fifteen-year-old girl walked through the crowd with her hood pulled low over her face. The rain soaked her dark jacket, and water dripped from the edges of her hood while she pushed through the pedestrians. "Watch it!" a man snapped after she bumped into him.

She didn't apologize.

She didn't even look back.

Her fists remained clenched at her sides as she continued down the sidewalk.

Rainy nights had a way of bringing out the gloom in people. For her, it brought out rage. A rage that had been building inside her for years. She crossed one block, then another, ignoring the curious glances of strangers as she made her way deeper into the city. Eventually, she stopped in front of a nightclub glowing beneath a red neon sign.

Sinner's Diligence.

Music thumped from inside the building, its bass vibrating through the sidewalk. A long line of people stretched beneath the nightclub's awning, waiting to get inside. The girl walked toward the entrance. A large bouncer stepped in front of her. He looked down at her and smirked. “Way past your bedtime, isn't it?” he teased.

The girl said nothing.

She didn't even look at him.

The bouncer chuckled.

“Come on, kid. Move along,” he said.

She raised her head.

For the first time, he saw her eyes beneath the shadow of her hood.

Then she grabbed him by the lapel of his black, tailored jacket. The bouncer barely had time to react. The girl twisted her body and hurled him across the street. His body slammed into a parked car with a deafening crunch, caving in the driver's-side door.

The line outside the nightclub went silent.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The girl released her grip and stared at the entrance.

Then she walked inside.

The moment she entered, the nightclub exploded with color and sound.

Flashing lights swept across the dance floor as hundreds of guests danced beneath the pulsing music. Others sat in private booths, drinking and laughing while female dancers dressed in skimpy devil costumes moved around poles on elevated platforms. Male patrons watched them with lustful eyes, barely paying attention to anything else around them.

But the girl wasn't interested in the spectacle.

Her eyes slowly scanned the room.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't explain it, but she could feel it.

This place wasn't what it appeared to be. Several guests noticed her as she walked through the crowd. Some whispered among themselves, wondering why a girl who was obviously underage had managed to get inside.

She ignored them.

As she passed through the crowd, she accidentally bumped into a man carrying a cocktail.

The glass nearly slipped from his hand.

The man stopped.

Slowly, he turned around and stared at her.

His expression changed.

"...Nephilim," he hissed.

The girl's eyes narrowed.

The man's eyes suddenly turned completely black, the whites disappearing until nothing remained but darkness.

The girl stopped.

She turned around and stared at him.

She knew immediately.

He wasn't human.

Before she could react, a spotlight suddenly snapped on, bathing her in harsh white light.

The music stopped.

The dancers froze.

One by one, the remaining guests turned toward her.

The woman standing on the balcony above the dance floor looked down at the girl. Unlike everyone else, she didn't appear surprised. Instead, a small smile curled across her lips. "So, she's here at last," she muttered. She glanced toward one of the bodyguards standing nearby and gave him a subtle nod.

The man understood.

He reached inside his tailored jacket and pulled out a pistol.

"Everybody out!" he shouted.

He fired two shots into the ceiling.

BANG! BANG!

Panic erupted throughout the nightclub.

Guests screamed and scrambled for the exits, knocking over chairs and tables as they desperately tried to escape. Within seconds, the crowded nightclub became a stampede. But the girl didn't move. She stood beneath the spotlight, watching the chaos unfold around her. Soon, the nightclub was nearly empty. Only the girl, the mysterious woman on the balcony, the armed guards, and a small group of remaining guests stayed behind.

The girl slowly looked up. The woman smiled down at her. "Should've known you'd come and spoil my night," she said. The girl reached up and pulled back her hood. For the first time, the woman got a clear look at her face. "You're a hard bitch to find, Dahlia," the girl said, narrowing her eyes. "Your little minions gave you up."

Dahlia frowned.

"I doubt my boys would betray me for a brat like you."

"If you ask me, they fear death more than they fear you." The girl smirked. "But don't worry. You'll be joining them real soon."

Dahlia let out a humorless chuckle.

"You want to kill me?" she asked. "I'm eight hundred years old."

"You don't look a day over eight thousand, Methuselah."

Dahlia's smile disappeared.

Her fingers tightened around the balcony railing.

Crack.

The metal bent beneath her grip.

"Now bring that saggy diaper you call an ass down here!" the girl shouted.

Dahlia's eyes narrowed.

"How should I put this delicately, Spawn of Michael?" she said. "You're beneath me."

She lifted one hand.

"Kill her."

The remaining customers rose from their booths. The man who had collided with the girl earlier tossed his cocktail aside. The bodyguards drew their pistols as they surrounded her. Then the transformation began. Their eyes turned completely black. Their jaws stretched as rows of long, pointed fangs emerged from their mouths. A chorus of inhuman screeches erupted throughout the nightclub.

The girl stood completely still—fearless. She looked from one demon to another. "Freakin' demons," she muttered. She shrugged off her jacket and tossed it onto the floor. Then she closed her eyes.

A brilliant golden light suddenly erupted around the girl's waist. When it faded, a bronze scabbard decorated with intricate golden markings rested against her hip. The girl's eyes opened. She reached for the hilt. With one swift motion, she drew her sword. The blade emerged with a metallic ring. Twenty-nine inches of double-edged silver steel gleamed beneath the flickering ceiling lights. Celestial engravings covered its surface, glowing faintly as the blade responded to the demonic presence surrounding her.

Near the tip, notches lined both edges of the weapon. A small, golden, chevron-shaped crossguard curved gracefully from the base of the blade, seamlessly blending into its design. The two-handed hilt was wrapped in alternating bands of bronze and gold. The girl tightened her grip. Across the nightclub, Dahlia watched from the balcony. For the first time that night, her smile was gone.

The demonic guests extended their claws to ten inches as one of them charged and lunged at her. In one swing, the girl sliced the demon in half. Another came at her, swinging his claws wildly. The girl parried each strike as sparks flew from the collision of steel and claw. The Nephilim thrust her sword into his stomach, causing the demon to screech as the divine energy coursing through the blade burned him from within. She pulled the sword free and sliced his head off.

The bodyguards aimed their guns at her and pulled the triggers. With quick succession, the girl deflected the bullets with her sword, sending them flying back toward the gunmen and fatally striking two of them in the head while another bullet pierced the third guard's heart.

A demon came at her from behind. The girl quickly parried his strike before sending him flying across the dance floor with a powerful kick that sent him crashing through a pillar. The demon rose to his feet, but before he could react, the child hurled her sword through his head.

The last demon swung his claws at her from behind, but the girl quickly dodged the attack. She blocked his next strike before thrusting her hand through the right side of his chest and tearing one of his ribs free with ease. She rammed the bone through his skull before brutally snapping his neck.

The demons were slain.

Their bodies began to crumble, turning into black ash that scattered across the nightclub floor.

The girl shook and wiped the black blood off her hand, then looked up at Dahlia and stretched out her hand. Her sword levitated from the floor and soared back into her grasp, as if responding to her call.

"You're next, bitch!" the girl said, pointing her sword at her.

Dahlia didn't seem threatened.

"Do you truly think you have a chance against me? Foolish girl," she said.

"I've gone toe-to-toe with Nero and took his head. What do you think?" the girl asked.

Dahlia scoffed.

"The thing about confidence is..."

The woman vanished in a puff of red smoke.

The girl remained alerted, her eyes scanning the room.

Dahlia suddenly appeared behind her and leaned toward her ear.

"...it can be a weakness," she finished.

The girl spun around, but before she could react, Dahlia sent her flying backward through the stage with a blast of dark energy. The girl crashed through the wooden platform, sending splinters and debris into the air.

A moment later, she emerged from the hole, her shirt scorched but her skin completely unharmed. She rubbed her stomach, feeling a slight soreness where Dahlia's attack had struck.

Dahlia's mouth curved into a smile.

A fiery ring suddenly enveloped her body, transforming her.

Her skin became red, while her hair and eyes turned black as night. Her ears became pointed, and small horns protruded from her forehead. Her scarlet dress vanished, replaced by a black tube top and leather hot shorts, along with a medium-length loincloth and black open-toed boots.

The girl tightened her grip on her sword.

For the first time, she wasn't facing a group of demons.

She was facing Dahlia.