Sample Outputs: moonshotai/Kimi-K2-Instruct

Model Output:
Arthur Neegan sat bolt–upright in the acceleration sling while the filters sighed their monotonous chromatic F-sharp. Every sixty-three seconds the pitch dropped by a quarter-tone—an imperfection in the aged scrubber vanes that no tech had ever bothered to tune. In the forty-one hours since the lander had lifted from Ares Vallis, the minor fall had become the metronome of his thoughts: a reminder that even machines could grow weary on Mars. He flexed his left wrist where the restraint cuff had left a shallow red trench. Polite but forceful, they had said. The Antares diplomatic corps—silver half-cape, dove-grey gloves, voice like an ice-laminated lake—had smiled all the while the cuff clicked shut. Arthur had not resisted; a mining engineer learns early that some strata collapse if you push, others if you wait. He was waiting now, beneath a vault of riveted steel and faint violet cabin light that reminded him of the last shift before the sun tubes dim in Tunnel 14-B. The speaker grille crackled. “Mr. Neegan, prepare for final burn. Ten minutes to rendezvous.” Arthur swallowed. Rendezvous with what? Mars hung in the forward blister like a rusted coin, but the navigational plot had shown their vector bending sunward, well inside the orbit of old Vesta. No station he knew orbited here. Yet the cabin’s bulkhead chronometer, analogue and smug, insisted that only four hours had passed since their second turnover. Either the chronometer lied, or the ship moved faster than any fusion torch he had ever certified. The violet light died, replaced by a cold white wash. The restraint arms folded back with a hydraulic apology. A new voice, female, modulated, floated from the corridor arch. “Mr. Neegan, if you will accompany me. The Envoy dislikes tardiness.” He followed the voice through a flexible umbilicus that smelled of ozone and warm bakelite, down into a chamber that was neither starship nor station but something between. The walls were paneled in polished Martian ironwood; the ceiling was a transparent dome ablaze with stars so sharp they seemed etched on glass. Gravity felt a shade too light—perhaps 0.96 g—and the air carried the faint metallic sweetness of Azra dust. Arthur’s pulse quickened at that. Even trace vapors cost fortunes. A single table waited at the dome’s center, oval, of some dark alloy that drank the starlight. Two chairs. One was already occupied. The Envoy was tall, angular, dressed in a charcoal tunic devoid of insignia except for a small crimson triangle at the collar. The face belonged to a man of indeterminate middle age; the eyes belonged to something older. They tracked Arthur with the patient hunger of a chess program thirty moves ahead. “Sit, Mr. Neegan.” The accent was Terran Standard, but a syllable too flat, as though spoken by someone who had learned language from phonograph cylinders. Arthur sat. A ring of paler floor around the table suggested a slight gravitic gradient; he felt the chair adjust itself to his posture with eerie solicitude. “Tea?” the Envoy asked. A bulb of translucent jade rose from the table, exuding steam scented with bergamot and something sharper—ozone again. Arthur declined. “I’d prefer an explanation.” “Efficiency, then.” The Envoy leaned forward, hands folded. “We are aboard the diplomatic frigate Antares Crown. You were extracted because your homestead, Grid 14-North, Sub-Sector Theta, sits on 2.7 million metric tons of high-grade Azra ore in a single vein. The vein is, at current market, worth one hundred and forty-three billion credits.” Arthur kept his voice flat. “The assays were confidential. My own spectrometer is calibrated only to the third decimal.” A ghost-smile. “Your instruments are calibrated to the seventh. Our remote probes are calibrated to the twelfth. Shall we agree that information, like radio­nuclides, has a half-life measured in micro­seconds?” Arthur felt the old miner's chill—that instant before the roof gives. “You dragged me off-planet to brag about your spy network?” “No. To offer you a partnership.” The Envoy gestured. A holograph blossomed above the table: a toroidal drive core rotating in lazy majesty. The core’s throat was threaded with Azra filaments so dense they looked like braided starlight. “This is the Mark Seven Continuous-Burn Torch. One gram of Azra lining increases specific impulse by eleven percent. Your vein could outfit a fleet of six hundred torchships. Such a fleet would reduce Earth-Mars transit to nine days, Mars-Titan to four weeks. It would also, incidentally, make its owner arbiter of every colonial charter from here to the Kuiper.” Arthur studied the projection. “I’m listening.” “Sign over extraction rights to the Antares Consortium. In return you receive a perpetual one-half percent royalty, guaranteed seats on the board of three subsidiaries, and citizenship within the Antares Compact, which is to say: diplomatic immunity anywhere the Compact has a presence. Including, presently, Mars.” The numbers were dizzying, but Arthur had lived too long under corporate contracts that used commas like thumbscrews. “And the indentured labourers currently under lease? What becomes of them?” “They remain under lease. The vein will be worked twenty-six hours per sol, vacuum shifts. Casualties are projected at 2.4 percent per annum. Acceptable, given the strategic value.” Arthur’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “Acceptable to whom?” “To history.” The Envoy’s voice never rose. “Mr. Neegan, we stand at the hinge of centuries. Azra will decide whether humanity diffuses among the stars or remains bottled in this one system, trading radioisotopes for water and praying the next coronal mass ejection misses Earth. Your modest homestead is the fulcrum. I offer you the lever.” “I’ve seen levers before,” Arthur said. “They usually snap the man holding them first.” A pause. Somewhere beyond the dome a thruster fired, a distant bass note. The starfield drifted a degree. “There is, of course, an alternative,” the Envoy said. “We return you to Areopolis under sealed orders. Within seventy-two hours your lease is revoked under emergency terraforming statutes. A survey team from the Terran Security Council arrives with a writ of eminent domain. The vein is nationalized; you receive statutory compensation—twenty thousand credits per hectare, less outstanding debts. The indentured workers are conscripted into a penal battalion. Six months later the first Azra-laced warship leaves Lunar orbit for the Belt, bristling with particle lances. The arms race you fear becomes a shooting war.” Arthur exhaled slowly. “You paint in very dark pigments, Envoy.” “I mix from the palette I am given.” The Envoy tapped the table; the holograph inverted, becoming a starmap. Thin red threads laced outward from Sol to Tau Ceti, Epsilon Eridani, 61 Virginis. “Outward or inward, Mr. Neegan. The metal does not care; only the uses differ.” Arthur stared at the threads. Each one was a possible future colony, a possible daughter he would never meet if the sky caught fire. The old miner's caution warred with something larger: the slow, seismic sense that one man might brace the roof for everyone else. “What assurance do I have,” he said at last, “that Antares will keep its word any better than Earth?” “None,” the Envoy admitted. “Except that neither of us can afford a leak. The moment this conversation is recorded, every Combine from Venus Equilateral to the Jovian Cartels will converge on your homestead like vultures on carrion. Discretion is our mutual shield.” Arthur rubbed the cuff mark on his wrist. “I want full amnesty for the labourers on my plot. Independent oversight. And I want a veto on military applications.” The Envoy’s eyebrow twitched, a fractional subroutine calculating. “Amnesty and oversight are… negotiable. Veto on weapons is not. We are past the era when science could promise purity of purpose.” Arthur felt the walls of the dome contract, as though the stars themselves leaned closer. The filtration hum of the transfer vessel seemed suddenly far away, replaced by a deeper silence—the silence of decisions that propagate at the speed of light. “Then I will need time,” Arthur said. “You have until the frigate completes its next circumferential burn—approximately twelve minutes.” The Envoy rose. “I suggest you use them to weigh the gravity of small objects against the gravity of civilizations.” He turned to leave, then paused. “One more datum, Mr. Neegan. Your spectrometer is not the only thing calibrated to the seventh decimal. Your daughter’s last medical scan indicates early-stage leukemia. Azra’s decay-accelerated isotopes, properly filtered, produce daughter nuclides that are the active agent in the new oncology regimen. She could live to see those colonies. Or not.” The Envoy exited through a seamless iris. Arthur remained alone beneath the glare of uncaring stars, the taste of bergamot and ozone sharp on his tongue, the hum of the universe cycling through another quarter-tone toward silence.

Model Output:
The red bulb hums like a single, resting heart suspended in the ceiling. Every other light is murdered, so the room pulses only in arterial glow. I’ve always loved the darkroom’s tyranny—how it strips us of color, of posture, of everything except what we decide to reveal in the developing tray. Tonight it feels less like a tyrant and more like a confessional booth with chemical fumes instead of incense. Elliot stands at the enlarger, sleeves of his oversized mesh shirt pushed up past the elbows, the faint lattice of scars on his forearms looking violet under the safelight. He’s adjusting the height in microscopic increments, the way he does everything—like if he breathes wrong the whole image might fracture. We’ve been at this for three hours, a sequence of self-portraits he’s been shooting on expired T-Max. The assignment is “Metamorphosis,” conveniently vague, though until twenty minutes ago I thought it belonged to the film, not the photographer. I’ve positioned myself on the high stool by the sink, legs crossed, pretending to label test strips while I watch the way he worries his bottom lip between teeth. The gesture makes something behind my sternum lurch forward like a dog yanked by its leash. I’ve wanted this boy—person?—since September, when he showed up to crit wearing a pleated wool skirt over ripped fishnets and offered the softest, most ruthless dismantling of a classmate’s toxic-masculinity photos I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t the skirt; it was how it looked inevitable on him, like he’d tugged it from some private future. He clears his throat, still facing the enlarger. “Dani, can I… ask you something weird?” I force my voice into its usual low gear. “Hit me.” The safelight paints a stripe across the back of his neck, a red slash that could be blood or blush. “If I—If these pictures start looking like I’m trying to… untangle something about myself—about gender—would that freak you out?” The question lands between us like a tray of developer. I can almost hear the chemical sizzle. I’ve slept with men who wore their masculinity like body armor and women who wielded their femininity like switchblades; I’ve bossed them all around and loved every second. But Elliot’s question isn’t about who he’ll be tomorrow, it’s about how he is right now, liminal and trembling. And I want him—yes, still—but I also want to wrap him in archival tissue and keep anything sharp from touching him. The two wants grind against each other like tectonic plates. I set the Sharpie down. “Why would it freak me out?” I aim for calm, but the words come out coated in velvet care. He shrugs, the motion making the mesh shirt slide off one sharp shoulder. “You always seem… certain. About everything. I thought maybe certainty wants certainty.” My laugh is a small, rueful bark. “Certainties are just habits wearing trench coats.” I hop off the stool, closing the distance until the heat of the enlarger lamp warms my hip. “I like edges, Elliot, but I like the places where edges blur, too. Show me whatever you’re seeing.” His exhale is soft as fog. He lifts the next negative strip into the carrier: four frames of himself shirtless, torso wrapped in gauze that’s been unwound halfway, the bandage trailing off like a question mark. In the third frame he’s holding the gauze between his teeth, eyes shut, brows knit. The fourth is just his face—lips parted, something like terror or relief flickering across it. Seeing it upside-down on the enlarger base makes my lungs forget their job. He flicks on the focusing knob. “I’ve been thinking maybe Elliot isn’t the full map. Like the borders keep shifting.” The red light makes it safe to be honest. “I feel that shift in my own attraction,” I admit. “It’s… disorienting. I keep trying to pin you down so I can want you properly, and you keep moving.” His hand freezes on the knob. “Does that make you want to leave?” “No,” I say, too fast, too raw. “It makes me want to learn new navigation.” Silence pools, thick but not uncomfortable. He starts the first exposure—five seconds, f/8—and we watch the latent image bloom on the photo paper when it hits the developer. His face emerges slowly, a submerged statue rising. In the chemical dusk, his collarbones look like wings folded under skin. I’m so mesmerized I don’t notice the paper tray tilting until it’s too late. My elbow knocks the edge; a stack of unexposed sheets avalanches, slides straight into the beam of the enlarger. Eight seconds of open white flare, then irreversible fog. The sheets curl like dead petals. “Fuck,” I hiss, grabbing them out, but the damage is done—ghost-gray and useless. Elliot’s eyes widen. “That’s, what, forty bucks of paper?” “Sixty,” I correct, and then I laugh because the sound of the laugh is almost crying. “I’m sorry. I was—” staring at your clavicles, “—distracted.” He bites back a smile. “Guess we’re printing smaller.” I shake my head. “Or we could skip the assignment entirely and talk in the dark until campus security kicks us out.” He considers. “What would we talk about?” I lean against the sink, palms flat on the stainless steel. “I could tell you that the first day you wore eyeliner I spent the entire seminar wondering how you’d taste under red lights. And then I could apologize for objectifying you while you’re figuring out something sacred.” His cheeks darken; the red bulb loves that. “I kept the eyeliner on because I saw you noticing.” The confession knocks the wind out of me. We stand three feet apart, heartbeat loud in the vents. I try to gentle my voice. “Elliot. Or—whatever name you might need later. I don’t know the etiquette here, but I know I don’t want to push. If you want me to back up, I will. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay and keep my hands to myself unless invited.” He steps closer, toe to toe, and the mesh shirt brushes my tank top. “What if I want the invitation to come from me next time? But right now I just want… proximity.” Proximity I can do. I let my forehead rest against his—not quite a kiss, not quite surrender. His breath smells of the spearmint gum he always chews because he hates the fixer odor. In the red haze we’re negatives of ourselves, all light areas dark, all dark areas glowing. He whispers, “I don’t know what I’ll look like when this project ends.” “Good,” I murmur. “I’m sick of finished portraits.” Under the safelight, we stand there for a long time, two unfixed images waiting to see what develops.

Model Output:
**Stolen Moments in Roma** The Vespa swerved, horn bleating like a wounded goose. Ben stumbled backward, guidebook clutched to his chest like a shield, and the girl—leather jacket, helmet under one arm, eyes like espresso shots—glared down at him from the seat. _"Ma che fai, walking in the street like a lost pigeon?"_ Her voice was all Roman fire, hands slicing the air. _"You’re gonna die looking at statues, _inglese_?"_ Ben blinked. “I—I was reading about the Trevi. It said to approach from the left.” She snorted. “The left is for taxis and tourists with death wishes. You’re both.” He opened his mouth, closed it. She was already dismounting, boots hitting cobblestones with a decisive clack. The Vespa had a streak of neon pink scratched across the flank, like a lipstick mark slashed by a claw. “Sorry,” he tried again, in careful Italian. _"Mi dispiace, signorina."_ Alessandra tilted her head. “You sound like a textbook apologizing to a bus.” Then she grinned—sudden, sharp—and the moment tilted. * Scene Two: Espresso & Pickpocketing, 10:12 a.m. The café was narrow, all elbows and steam. Ben stood awkwardly at the counter while Alessandra ordered two espressos without asking. “So, what’s your name, walking disaster?” “Ben. Ben Carter. I’m—” “Let me guess. Professor of something dusty. Latin inscriptions. Dead emperors who married their horses.” “Byzantine art, actually.” “Close enough.” She slid a demitasse toward him, then reached past to lift the wallet from a distracted businessman’s jacket pocket. A flick of fingers, practiced as a magician. She tucked it into her own bag without breaking eye contact. Ben stared. “Did you just—” “Sugar?” She held out a cube, eyebrows arched. * Scene Three: The Roof of the City, 11:47 a.m. They climbed. Not the Spanish Steps—too obvious—but a rusted fire escape behind a locked basilica, Alessandra leading with the confidence of someone who’d done this before. Ben’s palms sweated on the metal rungs. “This is trespassing,” he panted. “Technically it’s just vertical sightseeing.” At the top, Rome sprawled like a sun-drenched lover. Ben forgot to be afraid. Alessandra produced two strawberries from her pocket—stolen from the café bowl—and bit into one. “See that dome?” She pointed. “Michelangelo designed it. But he was terrible at parties. Always sulking in corners sketching angels.” Ben laughed before he could stop himself. “You’re making that up.” “Probably. But it feels true, doesn’t it?” She was watching him now, not the city. A curious tilt to her mouth. * Scene Four: Market Mayhem, 1:03 p.m. Campo de’ Fiori was a riot of color and shouting. Alessandra darted between stalls like a moth in silk. Ben trailed behind, clutching a bag of figs she’d forced on him. At a jewelry stand, she lifted a silver bracelet while the vendor haggled with a German tourist. Slid it up her wrist under her sleeve. Ben caught her eye. “You can’t—” “Can’t I?” She held his gaze, daring him. He said nothing. But when the vendor turned, Ben knocked over a display of postcards with exaggerated clumsiness. The bracelet vanished in the commotion. Later, she handed it to a little girl crying near the fountain. “I don’t keep them,” she said quietly. “I just like the game.” * Scene Five: Rain in Trastevere, 3:26 p.m. The sky cracked open. They ducked under a vine-covered archway, laughing, soaked. Alessandra wrung out her hair; droplets clung to her lashes. Ben’s shirt clung to him like confession. “I should go back. Change.” “Why? Wet is just another texture.” She stepped closer, fingered his collar. “You’re always trying to stay dry, _professore_?” Their breath mingled in the small space. Thunder rolled overhead. She smelled like rain and engine oil and something sweeter—strawberries, maybe. He thought she might kiss him. Instead, she tugged his sleeve. “Come on. I know a place.” * Scene Six: The Baths of Caracalla, Underground, 4:55 p.m. They slipped past a maintenance gate. Down stone steps slick with moss, into the belly of the ruins. Alessandra had a flashlight; its beam danced over mosaics and broken pillars. “Third century,” Ben whispered, reverent. “This was—” “A sauna for rich people who liked to sweat and gossip. History’s just gossip that survived.” She ran her fingers along the wall, stopped at a shadowed alcove. Pulled a small, ancient tile from a crevice—an enameled fish, cobalt blue. “Souvenir?” she teased. He shook his head. “Stealing from the state is a felony.” She tucked it into his palm anyway. “Then you keep it safe for them.” * Scene Seven: Vespa, Speed of Light, 6:30 p.m. They flew. Through alleys and across bridges, the city blurring gold and terracotta. Ben clung to her waist, heart hammering against her spine. She took corners like she was born leaning. At a red light near the Tiber, she twisted to shout over the engine, “Still afraid?” “Terrified,” he yelled back. “Don’t stop!” * Scene Eight: Sunset on the Aventine, 7:48 p.m. They parked illegally and climbed to the Orange Garden. The city lay beneath them, a bowl of fire. Ben’s hair was wild, jacket torn at the elbow. He felt like a different species. Alessandra sat on the balustrade, legs swinging. “So. Tomorrow you’ll go back to your quiet library. Forget the girl with the scratched bike and the sticky fingers.” He watched her profile against the sky. “I don’t think I could forget if I tried.” She turned, expression unreadable. “Careful, _inglese_. Rome’s full of stories that don’t end well.” He stepped closer. “Tell me one.” She studied him a long moment. Then: “Once, a woman stole a watch from a man at the Colosseum. Later, she realized it had stopped at the exact minute her mother died. She never stole again.” Ben waited. “Is that true?” “No,” she said softly. “But it feels true, doesn’t it?” * Scene Nine: Parting, or Not, 9:02 p.m. They stood by the Vespa under a streetlamp near Piazza Navona. The day clung to them like perfume. Ben held the blue fish tile in his fist. “I don’t want to say goodbye.” Alessandra straddled the bike, helmet dangling. “Then don’t.” She patted the seat behind her. “But I’ve got one more stop. No maps. No guidebooks. Just trust.” Ben looked at her—this impossible woman who’d stolen his afternoon and possibly his sanity. Then he swung his leg over the seat. The Vespa roared to life. The scratch on the side gleamed under the lamplight: a scar, a promise. As they pulled away, Alessandra glanced back, eyes shining with mischief and something softer. “Hold tight, _professore_. The night’s still warm.”

Model Output:
The clink of ice against glass is the heartbeat of my evenings, a steady, familiar rhythm in the dim, recycled air of The Last Outpost. I’m wiping down the bar, a slow, circular motion that’s more about the motion than the cleaning, when the shatter happens. A high-pitched *tink*, then the cascading tinkle of crystal fragments hitting the worn plasteel floor near table seven. Someone’s having a rough night already. I don’t even flinch, just keep my gaze on the amber liquid I’m coaxing into a semblance of shine. “Another round for the Trident twins, Nets?” Jax, my perpetually flustered server, calls out from the other end of the bar, already sweeping up the shards with a magnetic wand. “They swear it was a faulty glass.” “They swear a lot of things, Jax,” I reply, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Just bill them for it. And make sure they don’t try to pay in unprocessed ore again.” I lean over, topping up Old Pete’s synth-ale. “You alright there, Pete? Look like you’re wrestling a black hole.” Pete, a wizened prospector with a face like a lunar map, just grunts. “Just the usual, Nets. Claim jumpers. Or the *lack* of claims to jump. Belt’s getting thin, you know? Used to be a man could make a fortune out here. Now it’s just dust and broken dreams.” He takes a long pull, then adds, “And faulty glasses.” “Maybe the dreams are just getting smaller, Pete,” I offer, a gentle deflection. My past is full of dreams that got too big, too fast. Here, the dreams are manageable. A good haul, a quiet night, a warm meal. That’s enough. The door to the Outpost, a heavy airlock disguised as a rustic wooden portal, hisses open. A figure stumbles through, silhouetted against the harsh, shifting light of the asteroid field beyond. The usual hum of conversation dips for a beat, a ripple of curiosity passing through the regulars. This one doesn’t swagger like a miner or strut like a merchant. They move with a quiet, almost desperate energy. They make their way to the bar, tentacled dreads – usually a sign of a Liraxian, but these are dull and matted, not the vibrant, iridescent strands I’ve seen – askew around a face that looks like it’s seen too many suns and not enough sleep. Large, dark eyes dart around the room, then fix on me. There’s a tremor in their hands as they settle onto a stool, a little too hard. “Vega whisky, neat,” they say, their voice a low rasp, barely audible over the low thrum of the Outpost’s life support. “Better make that a double.” I don’t ask questions. Not right away. My job is to serve, to listen, to be a quiet anchor in the storm of the outer rim. I reach for the good bottle, the one I keep hidden behind the Orion gin, and pour a generous measure into a heavy, cut-crystal tumbler. The amber liquid catches the glow of the nebula outside, a miniature star trapped in glass. “Rough day?” I ask, pushing the glass across the polished surface. It’s a standard opener, not intrusive, just an invitation. The stranger wraps long, thin fingers around the glass, but doesn’t drink. Their gaze is still fixed on me, unnervingly intense. “Rough life, more like.” They finally take a sip, a small one, wincing slightly. “This is real. Good.” “We don’t do synth out here for the good stuff,” I tell them, leaning casually against the bar. “Costs more to ship it in, but it keeps the peace. And the patrons.” I pause, letting the silence settle. “Name’s Nets. Most folks just call me Nets.” They nod slowly. “Kael.” Another sip. “You mind if I… just sit here for a bit? Don’t talk much, just… be here?” “Not at all, Kael,” I say, gesturing to the stool. “That’s what we’re here for. A quiet corner of the universe.” I move to refill Old Pete’s glass, then check on the Trident twins, who are now arguing over whose turn it is to pay for the broken glass. The shatter from earlier seems to have set a slightly edgier tone for the night. Kael doesn’t just sit. After a minute, they drain half the whisky in one go. Their eyes, I notice, are not just tired; they’re haunted. Like they’re staring at something only they can see. “You see a lot of faces out here, Nets?” they ask, their voice a little stronger now, but still low. “More than I can count, Kael,” I reply, wiping down a spotless section of the bar. “Every shape, size, and color the galaxy can dream up. Miners, merchants, smugglers, runaways, dreamers. They all wash up here eventually.” I meet their gaze. “Some stay. Some just pass through. Some are looking for something. Others are trying to lose something.” Kael’s fingers drum on the bar, a nervous staccato. “And which one are you, Nets?” The question is a little too direct, a little too sharp. Most folks here know not to pry too deep. I keep my smile easy. “I’m the one who pours the drinks, Kael. And tries to keep the peace. My past is just that – past. What brings you to the outer rim? Looking for a new vein of Xylithium? Or just a quiet place to forget?” They flinch at the mention of Xylithium. A subtle tightening around their eyes. “Forget,” they murmur, then louder, “Forget. Yeah. Something like that.” They drain the rest of the whisky. “Another, please. Same.” I pour, slower this time, watching the liquid swirl. “You running from something, Kael?” I ask, my voice soft, almost a whisper. It’s a gamble, but the haunted look in their eyes begs for it. Kael’s hand freezes halfway to the glass. Their gaze snaps back to mine, and for a moment, the dim light of the bar seems to intensify the shadows under their eyes. “Everyone’s running from something, Nets. Isn’t that why they’re out here? The edge of nowhere, where the law’s a suggestion and the only currency is what you can dig out of a rock or sell to the next desperate soul?” “Some are just born out here,” I counter, thinking of Old Pete, of Jax. “But yeah, a lot are running. The question is, what’s chasing *you*?” I lean in a fraction, just enough to show I’m listening. Kael takes the second whisky, but doesn’t drink. They stare into it, as if the amber liquid holds answers. “A ghost,” they say, so quietly I almost miss it. “A ghost with a very long reach.” My hand stills on the cloth. A ghost. That’s a new one, even for the Outpost. “A ghost?” I repeat, keeping my tone neutral. “Those are usually metaphorical out here. Unless you’ve been sniffing Nebula dust.” “Not metaphorical,” Kael says, their voice gaining a desperate edge. They finally look up, and the haunted look is replaced by something else – raw fear. “And it’s not just *a* ghost. It’s *their* ghost. And it’s found me.” They push the glass away, untouched. “You haven’t seen anyone asking about a Liraxian with tentacled dreads, have you? Someone… official? Or not so official?” My mind races. The Outpost is a haven, yes, but it’s also a sieve. Information leaks, people talk. If someone’s looking for Kael, they’ll find them. My past, the one I try so hard to keep buried, whispers a warning. *Don’t get involved. Not again.* “Depends on what you mean by official, Kael,” I say carefully. “We get all sorts. But no one’s been asking about Liraxians lately. Not specifically.” I pause, then add, “You’re not in trouble with the Galactic Authority, are you? Because if you are, that’s a whole different kind of ghost.” Kael lets out a short, humorless laugh. “The Galactic Authority? They’re the least of my worries. This… this is personal. And ancient. They don’t care about jurisdiction. They care about… what I know. What I took.” A cold knot forms in my stomach. *Ancient. Personal. What I took.* This isn’t just a runaway. This is something else. Something that could bring a storm to my carefully built calm. The shatter of the glass earlier suddenly feels like a premonition. “What did you take, Kael?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. The air in the bar feels heavier now, the usual low hum of conversation a distant rumble. Kael finally meets my gaze fully, and in their eyes, I see not just fear, but a desperate plea. “A secret,” they say, their voice a ragged breath. “A secret that could unravel everything. And they’re coming for it. For me. And anyone who stands in their way.”

Model Output:
I hit pavement at 7:03 a.m., or what I think is pavement—could be a slab of French-bread crust for all my legs know. The Greyhound smell still clings to me, that toilet-blue deodorizer trying to cover the smell of feet and despair. I’m two states gone, one pair of underwear down, and zero percent sure what “downtown New Orleans” means except sweat and the low, wet note of a saxophone curling out of a doorway like it’s looking for me personally. I keep walking because stopping feels like admitting I’ve got nowhere to go. Royal Street, Decatur, names I only know from Mom’s old jazz CDs. The city smells like beignets and garbage in a 50/50 ratio, and every block some new voice tries to pull me sideways. “Hey, baby, you want a reading? Ten bucks, I tell you who you really are.” I almost laugh. Lady, if I knew who I really was, I wouldn’t be here with one backpack and the echo of Dad yelling “This is just a phase!” ricocheting inside my skull. I duck past her, past the bars with their shutters yawning open like metal mouths. The sax keeps following, same three-note question. I follow it back, like a dog on a leash made of sound. The player’s on the corner outside a place called Café Envie. White guy, maybe twenty, straw hat, shirt so thin it’s basically fog. He’s got the horn tilted just enough that the bell catches the early sun and throws gold flecks onto the sidewalk. People drop coins, but he doesn’t look at them; he’s looking at the sky like it owes him money. When the tune ends, I’m the only one still standing there like an idiot. He lowers the sax, wipes his mouth with a wrist. “You waiting for the next song or the meaning of life?” he asks. Voice scratchy, lower than the horn. “Both,” I say before I can overthink it. He grins. “Tall order. Name’s Jonah.” “Taylor.” He gives me a once-over—short hair I cut myself with craft scissors, binder that’s already soggy, thrift-store hoodie two sizes too big—and nods like that’s enough data. “You hungry, Taylor?” I want to say no. Pride’s a quiet voice compared to the stomach growl that answers for me. He folds two twenties out of the tip jar. “Come on. I know a place that won’t card.” I should say no. Every after-school special ever screams stranger danger. But the sun is climbing, and so is the panic that I have zero plan. I fall in step beside him, three feet of maybe-safe distance. We end up at a window counter on Dumaine where a woman named Lucille serves shrimp po’boys the size of toddlers. Jonah buys two, passes one over like it’s nothing. I eat half before I remember to breathe. “You run off?” he asks, casual as asking for the time. I nearly choke. “Why would you—” “Backpack, no luggage. New bruise on your wrist shaped like a hand. That panic in your eyes like someone’s still yelling at you from three rooms away. I got radar.” He lifts his sandwich. “I ran off three years ago. Seventeen then.” I nod, chew, decide confession is easier with hot bread in my mouth. “Yesterday. Tennessee. They weren’t thrilled about the trans thing.” Jonah winces in solidarity. “Yeah, parents can turn real creative with the word ‘love,’ huh?” I snort, eyes suddenly wet. Blink fast. He doesn’t push. We eat. When the food’s gone, he wipes his hands on a napkin that disintegrates. “Look,” he says, “I couch-surf, mostly with this crew of musicians. It’s not fancy—squats in the Bywater, sometimes a warehouse with questionable plumbing—but nobody asks for your dead name. You crash tonight, figure tomorrow tomorrow.” Everything in me goes both hot and cold. Could be a trap. Could be the first decent thing anyone’s offered since the wheels of the Greyhound rolled out of Chattanooga. “What’s the catch?” I ask. He shrugs. “We play gigs on Royal at night, pass the hat. You can’t busk, you hold the hat. Everybody contributes. That’s it.” The saxophone is still slung across his back like a rifle. I imagine myself holding a hat full of crumpled singles and hope. Sounds terrifying. Sounds better than sleeping on concrete. “Okay,” I hear myself say. We cut down Chartres. The city starts to wake—delivery trucks farting exhaust, shop gates rattling up. I keep expecting Mom to yank me backward by the invisible string that still ties to my spine. My phone is dead; the charger is somewhere in my bedroom probably being boxed up with my “sinful” posters. Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to twirl like I’m finally unpinned. Jonah leads me to a shotgun house painted the color of lime Popsicles. The front porch sags, but there’s a string of solar fairy lights that still blink even in daylight. Inside smells like incense, cat, and weed in that order. Two girls—one with a blue buzz cut, the other with long locs threaded gold—are arguing over a chord progression on a battered upright piano. “This is Nova and Shay,” Jonah says. “Nova, Shay—Taylor. New kid.” Nova (blue hair) spins on the bench. “He, she, they, ze?” “They,” I say, heart skittering at how casual she makes it sound. “Cool. Welcome to the Popsicle Palace.” Shay offers a fist bump. Their knuckles say STAY WILD in Sharpie. I bump back. My hand is shaking. Nobody mentions it. They give me the tour like it’s MTV Cribs: front room = practice space, kitchen = help yourself but label your oat milk, back room = mattress graveyard, pick one that doesn’t smell like mildew. I drop my backpack on one near the window, beside a stack of comic books and a lava lamp bleeding pink blobs. “Rule,” Nova says while tuning a ukulele. “No drama between the sheets, no stealing from the tip jar, no deadnaming anyone. Break any, you’re out on your ass.” I swallow. “Copy that.” Jonah flops onto a beanbag. “Band meeting at seven. We’re at the Spotted Cat tonight. Wear shoes you can run in—in case NOPD clears the street.” Run. Again. My life is a playlist stuck on that track. But here, running feels less like fleeing and more like moving forward. Afternoon yawns open. I nap, dream of Dad’s face turning red, of Mom whispering “We love you, we just—” before the dream cuts to black. I wake up sweaty, heart punching ribs. Laughter drifts in from the front room. I follow it like breadcrumbs. They’re teaching Shay to two-step with a broom. Jonah waves me over. “Come on, Tennessee. All Southern kids know how to dance.” “Not this one,” I mutter, but I let him spin me anyway. My sneakers squeak. The panic eases, just enough for air to reach my lungs. Evening slides purple across the windows. We walk to Frenchmen Street, instruments slung like weapons. I carry Jonah’s spare tambourine, the one with the duct-taped rim. My reflection in a shop window surprises me: hoodie pushed back, cheeks flushed, eyes wide but not drowning. I look—maybe—like someone who belongs. The first set is wild, sweat dripping off trumpet valves. People clap on the off-beat, drop dollar bills and the occasional joint in the fedora at my feet. I keep time, shake the tambourine when Jonah nods at me. Between songs, he leans over. “You good?” I grin so hard it hurts. “I don’t know. But I’m here.” That feels like the most honest thing I’ve said in days. Around midnight, clouds roll in low and mean, thunder muttering threats. The crowd thins. We pack up, count the take—eighty-seven bucks and change. Jonah slips me a ten like I earned it. Maybe I did. Back at the Popsicle Palace, rain starts, drumming the tin roof like applause. I lie on my borrowed mattress, listening to the house breathe—someone turning pages, someone else snoring. My chest feels huge and bruised and open. I still don’t know tomorrow. I still hear Dad’s voice. But I also hear Jonah’s sax threading through the thunderstorm outside, a slow, sad riff that somehow sounds like possibility. I whisper into the dark, “Day One survived.” The room doesn’t answer, but the rain gets softer, like maybe it’s listening.

Model Output:
My Apocalypse Buddy _or, How Not to Find Utopia by Following a Plush Marsupial_ The sun rose over the remains of what had once been a three-storey carpark and was now, thanks to the slow magic of entropy and amateur horticulture, a very ambitious hanging garden. Somewhere in the greenery, a koala with the texture of well-loved felt and the vocabulary of a malfunctioning sat-nav cleared his throat – an odd sound, considering his throat was largely kapok. “Today,” announced Chewy, “we are going to locate the Promised Land, evade the customary disasters, and be home in time for tinned pears. Possibly even the ones without the suspicious fur on top.” Midas, whose relationship with planning could be summed up as ‘wistful acquaintance’, peered at the graffiti they’d found the previous evening. It had been sprayed across the flank of a rusting tram in letters the colour of emergency: BELOW THE LAUGHING STONE, EAST OF THE RIVER THAT FORGOT ITS NAME, THE DOOR THAT ISN’T A DOOR OPENS FOR THOSE WHO KNOCK WITH THEIR FEET. “That’s almost usefully unhelpful,” Midas said, scratching the three-day beard that had somehow become a four-day beard overnight. “I mean, my feet are notoriously unreliable conversationalists.” Chewy’s left ear rotated ninety degrees, a sure sign that his internal logic circuits had detected optimism. “Statistically,” he said, “ninety-seven percent of our expeditions have ended with you being chased by something larger than you, smaller than you, or ideologically opposed to you. Therefore, the probability of today being worse is only ninety-six point eight. Progress!” Midas felt this was the sort of mathematics that had once started wars. Still, breakfast was a spoonful of rainwater and the memory of oats, so anywhere promising tinned pears merited at least a brisk constitutional. They set off eastwards, because the sun had already used up north and west was where the bees had unionised. --- By midmorning they had located the River That Forgot Its Name. It had achieved anonymity by the simple expedient of drying up, leaving a polite note written in silt: “Back soon, do not feed the crocodiles.” This was widely regarded as hilarious by parties who had never met the crocodiles. The Laughing Stone turned out to be a cracked satellite dish someone had daubed with a grinning emoji. It lay at the bottom of a slope covered in suspiciously symmetrical shrubbery. Every bush rustled, but only when Midas wasn’t looking directly at it, a phenomenon he filed under ‘vegetation with a sense of timing’. Chewy, whose sense of timing had been installed by the lowest bidder, marched straight up to the dish and kicked it. The emoji wobbled, then emitted a tinny giggle that would have been endearing had it not continued for forty-three seconds longer than necessary. “Door that isn’t a door?” Midas asked, scanning for hinges, handles, or sarcastic signage. At this point the ground, which had been practising its impression of solidity, dropped them into darkness. Gravity, a force never invited to anyone’s party, introduced them to the floor of what had once been an underground shopping precinct. Bioluminescent fungus had turned the abandoned shopfronts into a sort of municipal aquarium for things with too many legs. One of those legs waved politely from a nearby smoothie bar. “Good afternoon,” said the leg. “We’re closed.” Midas, whose day had already peaked somewhere around breakfast, decided not to argue with arachnid customer service. He located a staircase labelled ‘Emergency Exit – Not Liable If Eaten’. Chewy, meanwhile, had discovered a vending machine still clinging to a single packet of antiseptic biscuits. After some negotiation involving percussive maintenance and the koala’s surprisingly effective right hook, the packet dropped. The biscuits tasted of hope and cardboard. They were delicious. Reinvigorated, they followed an exit sign whose arrow pointed firmly at a blank wall. Midas kicked it experimentally, more out of tradition than expectation. The wall swung inward, revealing daylight, fresh air, and a moderately offended goat. --- The goat belonged to the Promised Land, or at least to its advance marketing department. Beyond it stretched a cluster of geodesic domes built from old advertising billboards – one could still read ‘FRESH TASTES BETTER’ in peeling letters over a doorway. Utopia, it appeared, had branding issues. A woman wearing repurposed traffic lights as epaulettes greeted them. “Welcome to the Refuge!” she declared. “We have sustainable lentils, interpretive dance every third Thursday, and absolutely no sarcasm before noon.” Midas glanced at Chewy, who was programmed to detect sarcasm like other people detect smoke. The koala’s nose twitched. “We’ll fit in like a cactus in a balloon factory,” he muttered. They were offered a tour. Highlights included the composting toilets (optimistic), the meditation yurt (leaky), and the armoury, which consisted entirely of pool noodles dipped in epoxy. “Non-violent defence,” their guide explained. “We defeat hostility with whimsy.” Midas felt a sudden, almost painful nostalgia for the straightforward hostility of crocodiles. It was then that the Refuge’s alarm system – a series of conch shells duct-taped to bicycle pumps – began to honk. Someone had triggered the perimeter sensors: a band of raiders whose idea of interior decorating ran heavily towards skull motifs and whose reading of property law was best described as situational. The Refuge’s residents responded by forming an orderly queue to faint in. Midas, whose knack for trouble had achieved the force of natural law, found himself promoted to Acting Strategist on the grounds that he looked the most resigned. He ordered the deployment of pool noodles. The raiders laughed until they cried, then cried until they left, taking with them the goat, the lentils, and, for reasons best known to themselves, the interpretive dance rota. --- By sunset, the Refuge resembled a dejected soufflé. The residents blamed Midas for not being the messiah they’d ordered. Midas blamed the graffiti, which began to look less like directions and more like the universe’s idea of a practical joke. Chewy blamed entropy, but then he always did. They began the trudge home. Halfway back, they encountered the crocodiles, who had indeed returned to the riverbed and were running a tollbooth. The fare was one biscuit per passenger. Chewy paid with the antiseptic variety; the crocodiles complained about the aftertaste but let them pass. Night found them climbing back up through the hanging garden car-park. Midas had a black eye, a sunburn in the shape of the Laughing Stone emoji, and a sneaking suspicion that the pears at home had achieved sentience. Chewy’s left ear had fallen off somewhere around the composting toilets and was now being worn as a hat by a small, triumphant lizard. They sat on the edge of the carpark roof, legs dangling into the abyss of starlight and unfulfilled prophecy. “Well,” said Midas, “that went sideways, upside-down, and briefly inside-out.” “Eighty-nine percent sideways,” Chewy corrected, patting his remaining ear. “Improvement.” Below them, a distant billboard flashed the ghost of an advert for something nobody could buy anymore. Midas felt a peculiar warmth that might have been contentment or incipient heatstroke. “Fancy tinned pears?” he asked. “Only if they’ve got the suspicious fur,” said Chewy. “Adds texture.” They turned towards home, which was less a place than a shared talent for disappointment, and walked into the dark together – one man, one mutilated marsupial, and a future that would probably try to bite them again tomorrow. But, statistically speaking, only ninety-six point seven percent.

Model Output:
The bell above the door gives one apologetic tinkle, then nothing—just the hush of paper and dust. Gethin Price—BAFTA winner, tabloid menace, professional scoundrel—slides inside and presses his back to the travel shelves like a fugitive in a Graham Greene novel. Gethin (soft, urgent, to himself): Hide, you beautiful idiot. He yanks a trilby from nowhere and tries to look local, which on him resembles a fox trying to pass as a sheep. Marged Morgan—owner, sole employee, and unimpressed sentinel of Cwl Bookshop—doesn’t look up from the counter where she is pricing a stack of battered Penguins with furious exactness. Marged: We’re not a public loo, Mr. Incognito. Gethin (removing the hat, unleashing the smile that sold a million cinema tickets): I beg sanctuary, fair guardian of printed dreams. Two photographers just tried to buy my soul with a long lens. Marged: They’ll have to queue behind my wholesaler. She caps her pen. Assesses him: damp hair, cheekbones too famous to be believed, eyes broadcasting please adore me. Marged: Shelf of local maps is behind you if you want to blend in. Tourists can spend a surprising amount of time deciding whether to hike Cadair Idris clockwise. Gethin: Do I strike you as clockwise or widdershins? Marged: Strikes me as clockwise that thinks it’s widdershins. He laughs—startled, delighted. Gethin: I’m— Marged: Gethin Price. You’re taller in person, and shorter on humility. Gethin (hand to chest): Ouch. That’s my fragile ego you’re bruising. I keep it in the same pocket as my car keys. Marged: Must rattle around a lot in there. He drifts closer, fingertips skating the spines. Gethin: Your shop smells like the inside of a biscuit tin. What’s the secret? Marged: Old paper and second-hand shame. He stops at a shelf labelled ANGST & LONGING. Gethin: Finally, my genre. He pulls out a slim Welsh translation of Neruda. Gethin: Read me something. Your voice’ll mask the clatter of my nerves. Marged: My voice comes with a fee. Gethin: Name it. Marged: Silence. Five minutes of it. He pretends to zip his mouth, then can’t help himself. Gethin: Four minutes fifty-nine… fifty-eight… I’m bad at quiet. It’s why they always cast me as the chap who dies mid-monologue. She raises an eyebrow. Begins to read, low and unhurried: Marged: “Tonight I can write the saddest lines…” His shoulders actually drop; the hunted look ebbs. Gethin (when she pauses): You read like someone who believes the words. Marged: I believe the invoices more. He chuckles, then softens. Gethin: I used to read to my mam. When the chemo made her too weak to hold books. I’d do all the voices—Welsh cowboys, Irish vampires, whatever she fancied. After she died, I couldn’t read aloud anymore. Felt like stealing. Marged (quiet): And now you charge people twelve quid to hear you speak someone else’s lines. Gethin: Fair. But I still panic that the last thing she heard from me was a bad Russian accent. She sets the book down, gentler than before. Marged: You’re dripping on the floor. Gethin: Ah. Rain, existential and literal. She tosses him a tea-towel the colour of forget-me-nots. Their fingers brush—static snap. Gethin: You’re not going to ask for a selfie? Marged: I’ve a strict policy: no photos until the second avalanche of charm. Gethin (grinning): Avalanche resumes in three, two— Marged: I’m counting on hypothermia. He leans on the counter, watching her sticker prices. Gethin: Tell me something true about you, Marged Morgan of Cwl Bookshop. Marged: I once ate an entire Battenberg during one of your films and didn’t notice the plot twist. Gethin: Which film? Marged: Does it matter? Gethin (wounded): I won an award for that. Marged: Awards taste of marzipan, apparently. He laughs again, the sound filling the narrow aisles. Gethin: You’re immune. It’s… refreshing. And unnerving. Marged: Don’t mistake armour for immunity. A camera flash flares at the window—pale, intrusive. Gethin (ducking behind a rotating rack): Bloody lampreys. Marged strides to the door, flips the sign to CLOSED WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE, pulls the blind. Marged: You can stand upright. They’ll lose interest once the chip shop opens. Gethin: You’re terrifying. I think I’m in love. Marged: That’s just adrenaline and gratitude. Gethin: Add Welsh rarebit and it’s basically marriage. She snorts despite herself. Gethin: So how does a dragon-slayer like you end up guarding a tiny kingdom of books? Marged: I left Cardiff Uni one step ahead of a nervous breakdown. Thought I’d sell stories instead of writing sad ones about myself. Gethin: And? Marged: Turns out other people’s sad stories pay rent. Mine just sat in notebooks and judged me. Gethin (soft): May I read one sometime? Marged: You’d need to stick around longer than a paparazzi evasion. He picks up a postcard of Hay Castle. Gethin: I could hide here for weeks. Learn to alphabetise, wear a corduroy apron, answer to ‘Dewi.’ Marged: You’d combust without applause by Thursday. Gethin: Try me. She studies him—really studies. Sees the tremor under the showman’s skin. Marged: I don’t run a rehabilitation centre for egos, Price. Gethin: Just a bed-and-breakfast for lost lines. Outside, footsteps retreat. Gethin: Coast clear? Marged (peeking): Like a politician’s promises. He exhales, then sets the postcard down deliberately. Gethin: I should go before they come back with a longer lens and moral bankruptcy. Marged: Back door opens onto the lane. You’ll smell the bakery; follow the carbs. Gethin: Will you walk me out? In case I get lost between crime fiction and self-help. She rolls her eyes, but steps from behind the counter. They stop at the rear exit, a narrow corridor lined with proof copies. Rain taps the skylight. Gethin: You never told me your favourite book. Marged: Didn’t want to give you leverage. Gethin: I’m unarmed. Marged (pausing): The Summer Book. Tove Jansson. Small island, small silences, huge feeling. Gethin: Read it to me next time? Marged: That would require a next time. Gethin: I can arrange catastrophe. Minor. Photogenic. No livestock harmed. He opens the door; the smell of yeast and wet slate rushes in. Gethin (turning back): Do you… dislike me, or are you rationing approval like wartime sugar? Marged (smile flickering): I’m saving you from yourself. If I clapped, you’d vanish in a puff of validation. Gethin: And if I asked for your number instead of applause? She tears a corner off a receipt, scribbles seven digits plus the letter M. Marged: For emergencies—like forgetting how to be quiet. Gethin (eyes widening): You yield! Marged: Don’t mistake tactical retreat for surrender. He folds the scrap like a relic. Gethin: Diolch, Marged Morgan. Marged: Go, Gethin Price. Try not to be the headline. He steps out; rain beads his lashes. Gethin (soft, not quite acting): I might need rescuing again tomorrow. Marged: Tomorrow the shop opens at ten. Avalanche protocol starts at ten-oh-one. He grins, backs away, nearly collides with a recycling bin. Marged (calling after): Left at the bakery, right at humility! The door swings shut; the bell tinkles once, twice. She presses her palms to her cheeks, feels the heat rising like scandal. Marged (to the cat asleep in the window): Don’t look at me like that, Dewi. Outside, Gethin rounds the corner, receipt clenched like a compass. He pauses, lifts his face to the rain. Gethin (to himself, barely a whisper): Clockwise it is.

Model Output:
The iron-banded oak door—lathed from the hull-planks of an old Indrik whaler, still stinking faintly of rendered blubber—swung inward on hinges that had never before failed to scream. Tonight they made no sound at all, and that silence felt to Aya like a held breath before the surgeon’s saw bites bone. She stepped across the threshold, boots hushed on rushes soaked in tallow and blood. Behind her, Katra’s flintlock clicked half-cock, a nervous insect chirr. Simeon’s brass goggles reflected the guttering wall-torches: tiny hells dancing on glass. The corridor narrowed, ribbed with rusted chains that once hauled casks of blackpowder, now draped in pennants of mildewed silk. Gas-jets hissed, blue as drowned flames, painting everything the color of bruised skin. Three notes from the harbor horn drifted through the stone: *oom—oom—oom*. A dirge for ships that never learned to drown quietly. Aya’s pulse beat behind her mask, a moth battering velvet. *Easy. The wards were lifted at twilight; the sentries bribed with laudanum and coin. One iron key between us and the Scythan relic. Then the city is ours to ransom.* She tasted metal on her tongue—anticipation or guilt, she could no longer tell. The passage opened into the underhold’s atrium, a cavernous gut whose vaulted ceiling disappeared in soot. A circle of lamplight lay ahead, precise as a surgeon’s lamp, and within it stood a high-backed chair of whale-bone and riveted iron. Seated there was a woman in the severe black coat of the Morska Guildmaster: coat torn at one cuff, white shirt still flecked with brick-dust from the morning’s raid. The silver sigil of office—an ouroboros devouring its own tail—hung intact at her throat. “Madame Korovyat,” Aya whispered, the name tasting of smoke. Korovyat smiled without warmth. “Children. You’re late. The play began at dawn.” From the shadows stepped six guards, faceless in riveted cuirasses the color of dried blood. Each carried a double-barreled dragon, brass glinting like the eyes of clockwork beetles. Muskets rose in perfect accord. Katra’s oath was a startled sparrow; Simeon froze mid-breath, gloved fingers splayed over the vial of voltaic oil at his belt. Aya felt the weight of unseen cross-hairs upon her chest. *No wards, no warning. How?* Her mind raced, riffling through possibilities like counterfeit banknotes. Korovyat rose. She moved with the languor of a shark certain of the bleeding. “You thought me caged behind Admiralty iron, did you not? A fortunate impostor rots in my stead—a debt I owed his family since the Fires of ’92. Now I am returned to reclaim my house.” Her gaze fixed on Aya. “And to prune the vine that overreaches.” Aya’s hand twitched toward the hilt of her stiletto. Too late. A guard’s gauntleted fist closed on her wrist, wrenching her forward. Katra shouted; Simeon lunged and was rewarded with a rifle butt to the gut. Breath left him in a rasping hiss. Another guard tore away Aya’s mask—black velvet embroidered with silver squid. Cold air kissed her skin like the judgment of nuns. Gasps skittered round the circle. One guard—barely older than she—let slip the name “Arkadievna” before biting his tongue. Korovyat’s brows arched. “Lady Ariadne Arkadievna Volkova. The Academy’s prodigal daughter, last seen waltzing at the Viceroy’s Midwinter Ball. Tell me, does your father still weep into his brandy at supper, or has he moved on to laudanum?” Aya forced her chin high, though chains already bit her wrists. “He drinks to forget. I prefer to remember.” “Admirable.” Korovyat paced a slow circle. “And yet here you are in thief’s garb, consorting with powder-monkeys and resurrection-men, trafficking in the very arts that hanged your esteemed mother. How the mighty tumble.” Aya swallowed the iron taste. “I learned from the scaffold. The rope teaches excellent knots.” Korra halted before Katra, studied the girl’s soot-streaked cheeks and wild copper hair. “Katra Fevra—dockside orphan, can pick a Medusan lock with a fishhook. And Master Simeon Hargreaves, late of the Royal Laboratories, dismissed for experimenting on cadavers that still objected.” Her tone was almost tender. “Such bright sparks to gutter in the dark.” Simeon spat blood. “We came for the Eye. The guild is bleeding itself white; someone must cauterize the wound.” “Someone?” Korovyat chuckled. “A slip of a girl whose greatest crime until tonight was reading proscribed folios by candle?” She turned back to Aya. “Do you know what the relic does, my dear? Have you deciphered the Scythan runes, or simply sniffed their power like a hound at an abattoir?” Aya’s mind flickered to her mother’s journals, pages inked with diagrams of spirals that hurt to perceive. *The Eye opens a gate,* she had written, *through which the Drowned Choir sings cities to sand.* Aya met Korovyat’s gaze. “I know enough to sell it to those who’d pay in fleets and thrones. That buys the guild a future the Admiralty can’t strangle.” “Ah, commerce. A language even I understand.” Korovyat gestured; guards forced the trio to their knees. Chains clattered like dropped coins. “But you misunderstand the commodity. The Eye is not for sale—it is the leash. And tonight, little aristocrat, you are the dog.” Aya’s heart thrashed against her corset stays. *Think. Bargain. Mother’s voice: Every spell requires a sacrifice; make sure it isn’t you.* She lifted her chin until the collar of her coat scraped her jaw. “Kill us,” she said, voice calm as winter glass, “and you lose more than three expendable malcontents. You lose leverage. My father commands three sky-frigates and the loyalty of every aristocrat who’s ever feared the guild. He will ransom me—he must, or the scandal unmakes him. The price will buy you powder, surgeons, safe passage through the blockade. More than the Eye can fetch in any backroom auction.” Korra’s eyes narrowed. “You bargain with your own corpse?” “With my living value. I am worth more choking on chain than cooling on slab.” She flicked a glance at the guards. “Ask them which they’d rather: a purse heavy enough to silence consciences, or the certainty that the Admiralty’s noose fits their necks next?” The youngest guard shifted, barrel dipping a fraction. Korra noted it, lips curling. Katra hissed between teeth, “Aya, what in the black hells—” “Quiet,” Aya murmured. “Trust me or we all drown here.” Simeon’s laugh was a cracked bellows. “Always did like long odds.” Korovyat considered. The torches guttered, shadows licking across her severe face like tongues tasting decision. Somewhere beyond the walls, the foghorn sounded again—two mournful blasts now, as if the harbor itself urged haste. At last she inclined her head, a queen granting reprieve. “Very well. The Arkadievna girl lives—for now. Her companions remain as surety. Each dawn you delay, one piece of them will reach your father by courier. Fingers first, I think. They write such eloquent letters.” Aya’s stomach lurched, but she kept her expression carved marble. “You’ll find my father surprisingly unmoved by postal anatomy. He is, after all, a politician.” “Then we must be creative.” Korovyat stepped close enough that Aya smelled gun-oil and rosewater. “Take comfort, Lady Volkova. You wished to rule the Morska. Tonight, you shall learn what ruling truly costs.” She gestured. The guards hauled Aya to her feet. Katra’s eyes blazed defiance; Simeon managed a crooked, bloody grin. As they were dragged apart, the underhold swallowed their footsteps, and the Eye of the Scythans gleamed unseen behind a door of iron and sigils, patient as a drowning tide.

Model Output:
The jukebox is a dog-eared relic in the corner of the Shangri-La Bar, Roanapur, coughing up the same scratchy rock track that nobody remembers the name of. Cigarette haze and the stink of spilled Mekhong rum make the air syrupy. Revy sits at the bar, boots on the rail, two empty shot glasses already in front of her. Her twin stainless Cutlasses lie on the counter like sleeping pit vipers. The dragon on her right arm flexes every time she lifts the third shot to her lips. Spike Spiegel pushes through the bead curtain as if he’s been here a thousand times before, hands in the pockets of his blue suit jacket. The cigarette drooping from his lips is so close to ash that gravity alone should finish it. He clocks Revy immediately—everyone else is background noise—and the bounty holosheet folded in his inside pocket suddenly feels heavier. Same face, same price: a mid-level arms dealer named Arturo Valez, dead-or-alive, fifty thousand woolongs. No wonder the room smells like gun oil. He slides onto the stool next to Revy without asking. The bartender, a bored Thai woman with a machete scar across her cheek, sets down another shot in front of Revy and raises an eyebrow at Spike. He taps the counter twice. “Whiskey, whatever won’t kill me tonight.” Revy doesn’t look over, but her right hand drops casually to the grip of the nearer Cutlass. “Seat’s taken, space cowboy.” Spike takes the toothpick from behind his ear and rolls it between his fingers. “Funny. I could’ve sworn it just opened up.” His voice is lazy Tokyo-English with a Martian drawl. The ash finally falls off his cigarette, narrowly missing his cuff. She turns then, eyes the color of burnt brass, and runs them over him like she’s pricing cuts of meat. “You’re the idiot Bebop crewboy they warned me about. Thought you’d be taller.” “Disappointed?” “Only in the fact that I have to split the bounty now.” She downs the whiskey in one brutal gulp, wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Unless you plan on walking away.” Spike’s glass arrives. He clinks it against Revy’s empty. “I don’t walk away. I fall down sometimes, but I always get back up.” He drinks. The whiskey tastes like it could degrease a starship hull. He smiles anyway. The jukebox skips, repeats the same three chords—wah-wah pedal and a singer who can’t decide if he’s in love or just drunk. Revy’s boot heel taps the brass rail in sync. She studies Spike’s face, the way his right eye stays a fraction too still. “That’s a fake.” “Most of me is, sweetheart.” He leans close enough that the smoke curling from his lips ghosts across her cheek. “Still good enough to take a prize.” She laughs, short and sharp like a gunshot in a concrete stairwell. “You wanna dance, cowboy, or you wanna tell me how we’re gonna keep every other trigger-happy asshole in here from jumping us the second we step outside?” Spike tilts his head. Six men at the far table have the hungry look of dockyard jackals. One of them fingers a machete; another checks the chamber of a battered AK. Spike sighs. “I was hoping for a quiet drink.” “Yeah, well, hope’s a bitch.” Revy spins off her stool, Cutlasses in her hands so fast the motion is just blue-black blur. She fires two warning rounds into the ceiling. Plaster snow drifts down. Every head turns. “Listen up, cockroaches! Valez is mine tonight. Anybody else wants a ticket to the morgue, line forms to the left.” Spike stands slowly, stretching like a cat. He draws his Jericho 941 in a liquid arc and puts a single round through the jukebox, killing the song mid-wail. “What she said.” Silence, broken only by the tinkle of glass and the low hum of ceiling fans. Then chairs scrape back and the jackals decide easier prey exists elsewhere. Within ten seconds the bar is empty except for the bartender, who is polishing the same glass like she’s hoping it becomes a wishing lamp. Revy holsters one gun, keeps the other pointed lazily at Spike’s chest. “Looks like it’s just us now.” He raises an eyebrow. “You planning to shoot me before or after we collect?” “That depends. You any good at sharing?” “I’m an only child.” “Figures.” She flicks the safety back on, but the tension doesn’t drop; it just changes shape, becomes something electric threading the smoky air between them. Outside, rain starts like sudden static on sheet-metal roofs. They step into it together, boots splashing in potholes lit by pink neon. A tuk-tuk rattles past, horn bleating. Revy leads the way down an alley smelling of fish sauce and damp gunpowder, Spike trailing half a step. They don’t speak until they reach a two-story flophouse motel with buzzing vacancy lights. Room 12. The lock is cheap and yields to Revy’s boot. Inside, mildew and the ghost of a thousand bad decisions. One sagging bed, a cracked mirror, and a bathroom door hanging off its hinges. Revy tosses her soaked crop top onto the chair, stands in her black bra, skin prickling with goosebumps. Spike leans against the door, lights another cigarette off the end of the last. Water drips from the brim of his hair. “So what’s the plan? We flip a coin, winner takes Valez?” Revy unbuckles her belt, lets the holsters slide down her thighs, but keeps the guns within reach. “I don’t flip coins. I flip corpses.” He exhales smoke, watches it curl toward the nicotine-stained ceiling. “I’m getting a feeling you don’t trust me.” “Trust is for people who haven’t been shot by their own partners.” She steps closer, bare feet silent on the warped linoleum. “Funny thing is, I still can’t tell if you want to fuck me or kill me.” Spike’s mouth quirks. “Who says it’s one or the other?” They stand three feet apart, heat radiating like barrel shrouds after full-auto. Revy’s pulse jumps rabbit-fast at her throat; Spike notices, flicks ash onto the carpet. Neither moves first. Instead, they reach—slow motion, choreographed by instinct. Revy’s hand closes around a Cutlass on the nightstand; Spike’s Jericho clears leather. Barrels kiss with a metallic clink an inch from each other’s foreheads. Rain drums the tin roof like spent casings. Spike’s prosthetic eye whirs softly as it refocuses. Revy’s lip curls, showing a predator’s grin. “Bang,” she whispers. “Whatever happens, happens,” he answers, voice soft as smoke. For five heartbeats they stay frozen, two mirrors aimed at each other, reflecting violence and want in equal measure. Then Revy laughs again, quieter, and lowers her gun half an inch. Spike follows, matching her drop. The twin muzzles trace twin arcs down, past chins, throats, sternums, until they hover over each other’s hearts. Her voice is raw whiskey now. “You ever think maybe the bounty’s just an excuse?” “All the time.” Outside, thunder rolls like distant artillery. Inside, the room seems to shrink around the space between them, a pocket universe where consequence hasn’t been invented yet. Somewhere down the street, Arturo Valez is probably counting blood money, unaware the two most dangerous hunters on the planet are currently debating whether the next move is a bullet or a kiss. Revy’s thumb strokes the safety, metal slick with rain. “One of us is gonna have to decide.” Spike leans in until the cigarette between his lips almost brands her cheek. “Flip you for it,” he murmurs. The neon sign outside the window flickers, bathing them in alternating red and black. Revy’s answer is a slow grin, teeth bright as muzzle flare. Neither gun lowers completely, but the distance between them keeps shrinking, drawn by gravity older than gunpowder. Whatever happens, happens—just not tonight.

Model Output:
I remember the air that night tasting like metal left in snow. We had pedalled out from the village at half-past eleven, our bicycle lamps swallowed almost at once by the spruce wall that lined the road. I led because Astrid said the visitor must follow the guide; then she took over, steering us onto the overgrown logging track that climbed toward the old burial mound. The chain on my borrowed bike kept slipping, clicking like teeth that wouldn’t quite bite. Every time it jumped, the wind seemed to laugh in the branches above us. Astrid had spent the evening in my kitchen, letting my mother believe we were going to watch rented videos at her house. She sat at the pine table in her anorak already zipped, drinking the glass of juice my mother pressed on her while reciting, softly enough that only I could hear, the rules for útiseta. You go alone, she had said, but since we are two, one of us must be the shadow. You take nothing iron. You speak no Christian words. You sit with your spine to the mound and your face to the north, and whatever comes to sit beside you may ask three questions. After the third you may ask one in return. That is how you earn the knowledge. I asked what happened if we broke the rules. She shrugged like it was a joke older than both of us. Then you owe a gift. What kind of gift, I wanted to know. She only smiled, teeth white against the winter tan that never left her. We left the bikes where the path narrowed, laid them sideways so they couldn’t roll. From her rucksack Astrid produced a black wool blanket, an unmarked beeswax candle, a box of matches stolen from her father’s workshop, and a sandwich bag full of coarse salt. The salt was my contribution; I had told my mother it was for killing slugs on the tomatoes she would never plant this far north. Astrid placed everything in order on the frozen ground, counting under her breath in a dialect I didn’t recognise. Then she drew a circle—no, not a circle, an open horseshoe—around the foot of the mound, pinching salt from the bag like she was sowing seeds. I stepped inside the line and felt the gravel shift under my boots as though something under them exhaled. The burial mound was smaller than I’d expected, just a gentle swelling under the moss, but the spruce had stepped back from it as if respectful. The darkness between the trunks looked solid enough to lean on. Astrid told me to take off my watch. I protested—it was a Casio, a sixteenth-birthday present from my father. She gave me that patient, pitying look she wore whenever I reminded her I’d only lived here since August. I unfastened it, laid it on the blanket. The digital numbers froze at 23:57; the colon between the hours and minutes stopped blinking. I told myself the battery had failed, nothing more. We walked around the mound clockwise, Astrid whispering a rhyme that matched our steps. “Vända ögat, vända örat, vända tungan kvar,” she said: turn the eye, turn the ear, leave the tongue behind. By the time we completed the circuit the forest had gone unnervingly quiet. I could hear my own pulse in the hinge of my jaw. Astrid chose our places. She sat first, back against the mound, knees drawn up, palms open on her thighs. I was to sit half a metre to her left, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, far enough that I was technically alone. Before I lowered myself she pressed two fingers to my lips—salt and something else, bitter like wormwood—and then to her own. The taste stayed on my tongue like a warning. The candle stood between us. Astrid struck a match; the sound cracked the night open. The flame rose straight, thin, without the slightest flicker, as though the air around it had been sucked empty of draught. I saw our shadows thrown forward onto the trunks, but the mound behind us swallowed all reflection; there was only blackness there. Then the far-off bell, one single note rolling over kilometres of snow, marking midnight. I had never heard the village church strike only once. Astrid inclined her head, acknowledging a host I couldn’t see. We waited. The cold climbed up through the seat of my jeans and nested against my spine. I fixed my eyes on the northern gap in the trees, a corridor of darkness between spruce pillars. At first I watched for headlights, a snowmobile, anything ordinary. Then I started watching for the absence of ordinary things—for shapes the darkness left unfilled. My breath clouded and drifted sideways, not dissipating but travelling along the horseshoe of salt as if following a rail. Astrid had warned me not to speak unless spoken to, but she hadn’t said anything about listening. So I listened, and what I heard was the forest breathing—not wind, not animals, but a long, slow inhalation somewhere above the treetops that never came back out. The candle flame stretched upward, thinning to a filament. The light around us shrank until only the two of us and the mound behind us existed in a grey capsule, everything beyond that edge erased. Astrid’s hand found mine. Her fingers were ice, but steady. She guided my hand to the ground between us, pressed my palm against the frozen earth at the base of the mound. I felt it then: a tremor like a distant train, though no tracks ran for fifty kilometres. The vibration travelled up my arm into my teeth. Something settled beside me on the side opposite Astrid. I didn’t see it arrive; the space was simply no longer empty. The cold there had a different quality—absence of warmth rather than presence of frost. The candle guttered once, then burned straight again, taller than before. In its wavering core I thought I saw the reflection of a face, but upside down, the mouth where the eyes should be, the eyes at the chin. A voice—not heard with the ears, more like words unwrapping inside my skull—asked, Who sits on my roof? I felt the question press behind my eyes as if someone were trying them on. Astrid’s grip tightened; she was the guide, not the visitor, and she had said nothing about being questioned directly. The second question came before I could decide whether to answer. Where is the gift? The vibration under my palm sharpened, gravel grinding against itself. I thought of my watch lying on the blanket behind us, useless and ticking again in memory. The third question was mine to ask, that was the bargain, but the voice didn’t wait. It asked instead: What will you leave behind? I heard myself answer, though my mouth never opened. “Nothing,” I said, or thought, or had already thought before I knew I’d chosen. The cold beside me laughed—soundless, but I felt it in the roots of my teeth. The candle went out, not blown, simply gone. Darkness poured back into its place like water finding its level. Then wind, real wind, slapped the trees, and the capsule of silence burst. My watch beeped once, as if remembering the hour. Astrid was already on her feet, shaking out the blanket, scattering the salt with her boot. I stood too fast; the blood rushed from my head and the mound tilted under me. For a moment I thought it rose and fell like something breathing. We didn’t speak on the ride back. The chain on my bike stayed put, the lamps carved tunnels of weak yellow light, and the village church, when we reached it, stood silent and dark, its bell rope swaying gently though the air was still. In bed I tasted salt and wormwood every time I swallowed. My watch had restarted, but it ran three minutes fast ever after, no matter how many times I reset it. I told myself the mound was only earth, the cold only winter, the questions only a trick of loneliness and teenage arrogance. But sometimes, in the interval between waking and sleep, I feel gravel grinding under my hand again, and I know something is still waiting for its gift. I never found out what Astrid answered.

Model Output:
The wall-mounted diagram of the human musculature stares down at me like it always does—every fiber, every tendon, every betrayal inked in clinical red and blue. My left shoulder is the battlefield now. The supraspinatus shredded like wet paper, infraspinatus scarred into something unrecognizable. I can see it on the chart, I can feel it in my body. I hate that she can, too. She’s already behind me, the soft squeak of her sneakers on the rubberized floor announcing her presence before she speaks. I don’t turn. I haven’t turned to face her fully in three sessions. Not since she said my name—my *first* name—like it still belonged to me. “Let’s start with scapular mobility,” she says, her voice low, clipped, professional. But I remember it breathless, from when we used to run suicide drills together on the indoor track, both of us seventeen and stupid with ambition. Back when she was just a girl with a sprinter’s thighs and a laugh like a starter pistol. Back when I was someone. I sit on the edge of the treatment table, legs hanging, feet bare. The vinyl is cold against the backs of my thighs. She steps in close—too close—and I feel the heat of her body before she even touches me. Her scent hasn’t changed. Still something like eucalyptus and sweat. I hate that, too. “Arms at your sides. I’m going to mobilize your scapula first.” I nod once, jaw locked. Her hands come up behind me, fingers slipping just beneath the edge of my T-shirt, skin on skin. Her thumbs find the medial border of my scapula, pressing in just lateral to the spine of T3. She applies slow, deliberate pressure—posterior to anterior—rotating the scapula outward. The stretch is immediate, sharp, like a hook behind my shoulder blade. I hiss through my teeth. She pauses. “Pain or resistance?” she asks. “Both.” She doesn’t stop. She just modulates—easing off a few millimeters, then pushing again. The sensation blooms outward, across my upper back, down the deltoid. I can feel the scar tissue pull like Velcro tearing. My right hand clenches on my thigh, nails digging into skin. She steps closer. Her hip brushes my shoulder blade. I can feel the heat of her breath near the nape of my neck. “Now we’re going to add elevation. Sit tall. Don’t slouch.” I straighten. She lifts my left arm slowly, cradling my elbow in one hand, the other braced just below my armpit, fingers curled around the head of my humerus. She brings my arm into 90 degrees of abduction, elbow bent, forearm pointing skyward. This is the start of the sleeper stretch. “Tell me when it catches.” It catches immediately. A hot wire runs from the back of my shoulder to my wrist. The tendon feels like it’s being drawn over broken glass. “There,” I grunt. She leans in. Her sternum presses lightly between my shoulder blades. I can feel the rise and fall of her breathing. She’s using her body weight now, gently pushing my forearm downward toward the table, internally rotating the humerus in the glenoid socket. The stretch intensifies—deep, nauseating. I feel my scapula wing slightly under the strain. “Breathe,” she murmurs. “Don’t fight it.” I want to tell her I’ve been fighting it for a year. Fighting the injury. The surgery. The retirement. Her. But the words get caught behind the pain. Her fingers shift slightly, one slipping under the edge of my shoulder to stabilize the scapula. Her thumb presses into the infraspinatus belly, just lateral to the scapular spine. She’s palpating the scar tissue now, feeling how it moves—or doesn’t. Her touch is clinical. Deft. But I feel the tremor in her hand. I glance sideways. Our eyes catch in the mirror on the far wall. Hers are darker than I remember. She looks away first. “Let’s move to the doorway stretch.” She steps back. The absence of her heat is worse than the stretch. I stand slowly, the floor cold under my feet. She gestures to the open doorframe. “Left arm up, elbow at ninety. Forearm against the frame.” I obey. My left forearm rests vertically against the jamb, elbow just below shoulder height. I step forward with my right foot, letting my torso drift past the threshold. The stretch hits the anterior capsule—pec minor, anterior deltoid. A deep, aching pull across my chest. My shoulder screams. She steps in behind me again. This time, her hands come to my ribcage, fingers splayed just below my pectorals. She’s stabilizing me, keeping my thoracic spine from collapsing into the stretch. Her thumbs press into the paraspinals, guiding the extension. “More,” she says, voice low. “You’re holding back.” I grit my teeth and shift my weight. The stretch deepens. My left pec flares like it’s tearing. I feel her thigh brush the back of mine—barely a touch, but it’s electric. My breath catches. “Hold it for thirty. Breathe through your nose.” I count the seconds in heartbeats. The tension coils between us like a live wire. Her hands don’t move. Neither do mine. When the stretch ends, she doesn’t step away. Not right away. “One more,” she says. “Cross-body adduction. Supine.” I lie back on the table. The vinyl is warm now from my body. She lifts my left arm again, this time holding my wrist with one hand, the other cupping my elbow. She brings it across my chest, slowly, until the posterior capsule lights up like a fuse. The stretch is intense, almost unbearable. My right hand grips the edge of the table. She leans over me. Her hair brushes my cheek. I can see the fine sheen of sweat at her temple. Her eyes are on my shoulder, not my face. But her fingers curl slightly around my wrist, just enough for me to feel the pulse in her thumb. “Hold.” I do. I hold everything. The pain. The want. The rage. She lowers my arm gently, then steps back. The air rushes between us like a slammed door. “That’s enough for today.” I sit up slowly, shoulder throbbing, skin buzzing where she touched me. She’s already at the counter, writing notes. Her back is turned. I watch the way her scapulae move under her shirt—fluid, controlled. Not like mine. The diagram stares down at us both. Two bodies. Two fates. One still intact. I hate that chart. I hate her. I hate that I still remember how she used to say my name like it belonged in lights.

Model Output:
I woke before the bell in the Danish hong struck six, because the dragon stirred before any bell in Canton. My mouth tasted of rusted iron and yesterday’s lies. Somewhere below decks the bosun’s mate was already shouting about paint and holy-stones, but the boards beneath me felt as if they floated six inches away from the world. I pressed the jade Guanyin in my waist-coat pocket; her tiny toes were polished smooth from weeks of furtive worship. “Lieutenant, the captain’s compliments—inspection at eight sharp,” Midshipman Hargreaves called through the door. “Tell Captain Brough I’m indisposed,” I croaked. “Tell him the flux.” “Again, sir?” “The Canton flux is a serpent, boy, not a house-cat. Eight bells, I’ll attend.” Hargreaves’ boots receded. I waited until the brass clatter faded, then rolled out of the cot. The air in the berth already stank of tar, gun-oil, and my own sour sweat. I needed four taels of silver, two pipes of decent chandu, and a room that did not pitch. The sampan boy, Li, met me at the landing steps. His face was the colour of betel-nut, his queue tied with a scrap of red silk he’d stolen from some dead pirate. “You look like yesterday’s shark bait, Mistah Mellick,” he greeted. “Row, insect, or I’ll use your queue as a painter.” Water slapped the hull like loose sailcloth. The fog over the Pearl River was thick enough to chew; it carried the reek of joss-sticks, sewage, and the distant sweetness of opium drifting from the receiving ships. Each breath of it calmed me a fraction: promise, not fulfilment. At the Thirteen Factories the river wall was lined with sloops unloading chests of Patna so fast the porters looked like ants in livery. I told Li to wait under the Danish flag. My uniform coat was folded inside a canvas satchel; I put on the loose cotton jacket of a Parsee clerk instead. Cotton stuck to my back; the Guanyin nestled against my ribs, cold as a lie. Inside Hog Lane the shutters were still closed, but Ah-Seung’s door stood ajar because Ah-Seung never slept. One lamp bled saffron light across the threshold. “You early today, Number-One Officer.” His English was polished by the missionaries he occasionally blackmailed. “I’m late for everything else,” I said. “What have you?” He produced a lacquered box. Inside, the cakes of opium gleamed like black onyx, veined with the silver trails that promised mercy. I bent, sniffed: camphor, treacle, a ghost of orchards. “Four taels, as last time?” he asked. “Three. The Admiralty paymaster has grown pious.” Ah-Seung clicked his tongue. “Three taels buy small dreams.” “Then sell me a large nightmare on credit.” He laughed, showing teeth like broken ivory. “Take your three. But evening time, you bring me foreign watch or foreign gun. English steel always good joss.” I tucked the wrapped cakes inside the false bottom of my satchel. My fingers shook so badly the knot took three tries. Outside, the sun had burned off the fog, and the lane smelled of fried dough and human manure. Every beggar’s palm opened toward me like a sea-anemone. I kept my eyes on the cracked flagstones; the jade was warming now, slippery with my sweat. At the corner of New China Street I met Captain Ling—self-styled captain, though the only vessel he ever commanded was a raft of smugglers. He wore a naval coat stripped from a dead Frenchman; the epaulettes were green with mold. “Merrick, my English angel,” he said. “Your complexion suggests the need of heavenly smoke.” “Spare me your poetry, Ling. I need a quiet room for an hour.” “Rooms are many, trust is scarce. Payment?” I showed him the corner of a silver tael. “And information. There’s a convoy of country ships due downriver tonight. Their manifests list chests marked ‘cotton’—but I hear they’re carrying Malwa.” Ling’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You sell your own kind?” “I sell whatever buys me peace.” He spat betel juice that sizzled on the hot stone. “Come.” The house he led me to crouched behind a warehouse perfumed by cassia bark. Inside, the air was syrupy; pipes clinked like distant wind-chimes. An old Cantonese woman with bound feet shuffled ahead, lighting spills from a brass lamp. The couch was a plank covered in matting; the pipe was ivory and bamboo, the bowl Yixing clay blackened by years of flame. I lay back. The ritual steadied my hands: the pin, the pea-sized pill, the steady hover over the lamp. When the first curl entered my lungs, the river outside ceased its roaring; my heart slowed to the rhythm of a distant drum. The dragon uncoiled, stroked my temples with velvet claws. “Time presses,” Ling reminded. “You owe Ah-Seung steel. Convoy anchors at Lintin by dusk. You can still row out with me.” I exhaled smoke toward the rafters where sparrows nested. “I need a pistol. Navy issue, if possible.” “Then go back to your ship and steal one.” “Not while the morning watch is sober.” Ling considered. “I know a lascar gunner on the *Martha Baird*. He trades pistols for laudanum. You have laudanum?” “I can get it.” The old woman tapped my shoulder. “One pipe more, only one tael extra.” I had less than half a tael left. I fingered the Guanyin; her face was nearly worn smooth. “Next time, mother.” Outside again, the sun was a brass disc directly overhead. My throat tasted of ash and honey. I walked toward the American hongs, stepping over a dead dog swollen with river water. Each pulse behind my eyes beat like a hammer on copper. In a doorway shaded by canvas a boy of perhaps twelve tugged my sleeve. “Mis-tah, you want girl? Very clean, Portuguese.” “I want laudanum. Tell your mother I’ll trade a silver shaving mirror.” The mirror had belonged to my sister; I’d carried it across four oceans. The boy vanished inside. Minutes later he returned with a corked vial the colour of weak tea. I gave him the mirror wrapped in a handkerchief. He bit the silver and scampered off. By the time I reached the river again my legs were water. Li was asleep with his queue dangling into the current. I kicked the gunwale. “Up, thief. Lintin.” We rowed against the ebb tide. The sun burned red through the haze; the salt wind tasted of rot and gunpowder. Halfway across, cramps seized my gut. I doubled over on the thwart, clutching the jade like a talisman. Li watched me with the calm of a boy who’s seen every devil. “Maybe you die before you pay me, Mistah Mellick.” “Row faster, then you’ll be paid.” The convoy lay at anchor, masts bristling like a forest stripped of leaves. We slipped between hulls until we found the *Martha Baird*. Her gunports were open; a barefoot lascar leaned over the rail. “You bring medicine?” he called. I held up the vial. He tossed down a wrapped bundle. Inside: a single-shot Sea Service pistol, still smelling of grease and fear. I tucked it beneath the thwart. The dragon stirred again, impatient. On the long row back, Canton’s walls rose like yellowed teeth. Sunset painted them the colour of opium ash. Li sang a river song in a minor key; his voice wove around the ache in my bones. I counted the hours until I could open the lacquered box again. As we neared the Danish hong, bells began to ring—six o’clock already. Uniform coat over my arm, I climbed the slimy steps. Midshipman Hargreaves stood waiting, uniform spotless. “Captain’s compliments, sir. Inspection is postponed until tomorrow. He hopes your flux has abated.” “Tell him I’m restored,” I said. My voice sounded calm, almost believable. In the shadow of the mast I felt for the Guanyin. Her face was now warm, shaped by my own panic. Somewhere across the darkening river Ah-Seung would be waiting for English steel, and the dragon coiled tighter, whispering that tomorrow I would find another excuse, another lie, another piece of myself to trade.

Model Output:
**“ASK SISYPHUS”** *A Mountain-Top Column for the Perpetually Perplexed* (Continually re-rolled out since approximately the Late Bronze Age) —Scene, Tuesday morning, 08:17— The sun arrives a little earlier each day now. One of the perks of an east-facing slope is noticing these things. Sisyphus rests his palms on the warm granite of the boulder, inhales, exhales, and says to the empty air, “All right, Crow, let’s see what the post brings before the post brings me.” A glossy black bird drops from the sky like a bad conscience, three envelopes and a grease-stained napkin clutched in beak and claw. Crow flaps to the small folding card table that has somehow appeared beside the path (it has “PROPERTY OF TARTARUS RECREATION DEPT.” stencilled on it, and nobody seems inclined to remove it). He smooths the first letter with a wing. “Right,” croaks Crow. “We’ve got: one (1) love tangle, one (1) workplace tantrum, and one (1) existential crisis wrapped in a napkin that smells of garlic aioli. Alphabetical order or urgency?” “Order in which you unfold them without tearing the paper, please.” Crow rolls his eyes—an impressive feat for a bird without eyebrows—and begins. --- **Letter the First** *Dear Sisyphus,* *My partner of six years has started flossing at the dinner table. Not discreetly. Full cheek retraction, tiny food fireworks, the lot. When I asked them to stop, they said I was “repressing their authentic self.” I love them, but I’m running out of excuses not to eat together. What do I do?* *—Tethered in Toronto* “Crow, take this down.” > Dear Tethered, > > Authenticity is a virtue. So is timing. > > Try moving the conversation away from the table. Over breakfast, perhaps, when the worst thing between you is lukewarm coffee. Explain that sharing a meal is not just about nutrition; it’s a duet, and right now one of you is playing the tuba while the other is trying to do origami. > > Suggest a compromise: they floss in the bathroom first, you load the dishwasher second. The duet continues, nobody loses face, and the only repression involved is that of stray spinach. > > Yours in perpetual motion, > Sisyphus Crow mutters, “You could also just buy those single-use floss picks and toss them at the offender like tiny javelins of shame. But no, you’re going with diplomacy.” Sisyphus smiles, places the finished page under a convenient rock, and steps back to the boulder. He leans in; the rock gives a small, gravelly sigh and begins its familiar ascent. The sun climbs with him. --- **Letter the Second** *Big S—* *My manager schedules “optional” 7 a.m. Zoom yoga. I have explained I have a toddler, a commute, and a spine that refuses both sun salutations and stock options. The invites keep coming, now with passive-aggressive emojis. How do I decline without nuking my career?* *—Bendy in Birmingham* > Bendy, > > 07:00 is an hour invented by people who don’t understand that dawn is a gentle suggestion, not a deadline. > > Respond the way one handles any yoga pose: with a firm base and a polite refusal to fold. > > “Thanks for the inclusive wellness initiative. My current routine involves lifting 27 lbs of toddler, which is sun salutation enough. I’ll join the session in spirit—and catch the recording if my bandwidth (and spine) allow.” > > Then arrive at 09:00 serene, solvent, and un-sacked. > > Remember: corporations do downward dog, too—mostly to sniff their own assets. Stand your ground. > > Flexibly yours, > Sisyphus Crow adds a footnote: “If management persists, rename your toddler ‘Important Meeting’ and bring them along. Bonus: toddlers excel at unmuting themselves.” Sisyphus chuckles, wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, and returns to the boulder. Halfway up, one pebble dislodges and bounces past his sandal. He watches it go. “Not everything that rolls is a crisis,” he remarks to nobody in particular. --- **Letter the Third (napkin edition, edges nibbled)** *Sis—* *I’m 34. I still don’t know what I’m for. My friends have titles like “Senior Vice Synergy Alchemist” or “Post-Digital Fermentation Influencer.” I have a job, a roof, a dog that sighs at me. Nights I google “purpose,” then feel guilty for wasting electricity. Is there an easier way to become real?* *—Almost* Crow pauses. “That one’s on recycled napkin. Very eco-friendly despair.” > Dear Almost, > > Your dog sighs because dogs keep the world’s emotional ledger and yours currently shows a small surplus of bewilderment. > > Purpose is not a destination stamped on a ticket; it’s more like a loose thread on a jumper. You can ignore it, snip it, or tug gently and see what unravels into something wearable. > > Start with the sighing dog: walk it somewhere neither of you has been before. Note the smells that interest the dog; note the ones that interest you. That overlap is a small, trustworthy datum. Collect enough of those and you will have a map no influencer can hashtag. > > The electricity you spend googling at 2 a.m. is not wasted; it powered this letter, for one. Use the rest to boil water for tea. The kettle knows its purpose—so can you, one whistle at a time. > > Waggingly, > Sisyphus Crow tilts his head. “I might embroider that last bit on a dog bandana. Royalties split seventy-thirty?” “Fifty-fifty,” Sisyphus replies, “but payment deferred until they invent canine currency.” --- —Scene, 09:41— The boulder crests the summit. As ever, it lingers for a moment that is equal parts victory and punchline, then remembers the rules and trundles back down. Sisyphus dusts his hands. His palms have grown curious calluses shaped like question marks. Crow clears his throat. “Postscript from Management.” He produces a stone tablet the size of a postcard. “They say the column is ‘distracting from core duties.’ Suggest you limit yourself to one letter per aeon.” Sisyphus reads, folds the tablet into a paper aeroplane, and sails it after the boulder. “They’ll change their minds. Everyone needs advice; even gods need reminding that the mountain is optional, the climb is not.” He sets his shoulder to the rock again. “Next batch, then?” Crow flaps down the slope, already chasing the descending envelopes with the glee of a magpie spotting something shiny and confidential. “Oh look,” he calls back, “someone wants to know if size matters. Should I tell them you have strong opinions on diameter versus momentum?” “Crow,” Sisyphus says gently, “keep it practical. We’re here to lift people, not eyebrows.” The boulder rolls; the day continues. Somewhere below, a reader in Toronto rinses floss off their fingers; in Birmingham, a toddler is renamed Important Meeting; and a dog pauses mid-sigh, tail wagging at a new scent on the wind. The column will roll back tomorrow. It always does.

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[Den Den Town, early evening. Neon, cicadas, the smell of takoyaki and transformer dust. A knot of gamers mills around the arcade entrance, but the loudest thing is a candy-red electric guitar running through a tiny battery amp. The busker—hair half-pink, half-silver, sweat glittering—finishes the last power-chord of “Cruel Angel’s Thesis.” Applause splinters. In the second row of onlookers, a small girl in an oversized Studio Ghibli hoodie claps once, then quickly clamps her headphones back on as if caught doing something illegal.] Busker: (grinning, flicking hair from her eyes) You sure you wanna hide those cans again? You were bobbing like the beat was wired straight to your heart. Teenager: (mumbles, adjusting the slipping headphones) S-sorry. I—I just didn’t mean to… interrupt. Your tone’s really… really clean. Is that a GL Legacy through a… a Pignose 7-100? Busker: (laughs) Sharp ears under all that fluff! Yeah, GL Tribute—stock pickups swapped for Lollars. You play? Teenager: Uh, not… not guitar. Keys. Synthesizers. Lots of… knobs. (touches the rotary dial on her own headphone cable as if proving the point) Busker: Knobs are just strings you don’t have to tune every five minutes. (leans closer, playful) You’ve got “I can name every Juno model” written across your forehead, y’know. Teenager: (blushes) I—maybe the Juno-106, but only because the voice chips die so… so dramatically. Busker: (mock gasp) A girl after my own gearlust heart. I’m Hina. H-i-n-a, like sunlight through blinds. And you are…? Teenager: (fingers tighten on headphone band) Um. K-Kuroe. With a K. People usually just… forget the e. Hina: Kuroe-with-a-K-and-an-e. Got it locked in. (taps temple) So, Kuroe, you’re obviously auditing the tone, not the performance. Verdict? Kuroe: (stares at her shoes—scuffed purple Doc knock-offs) The bend at the end of the chorus was… microtonally flat? But it worked because you leaned into the blue note and the distortion’s midrange is—(realizes she’s rambling, clamps mouth shut) Hina: (delighted) My favorite kind of critique—nerdy, brutal, and somehow still kind. You just made my night, tiny synth wizard. [Kuroe’s headphones slide off again. She fumbles; Hina catches them mid-air.] Hina: These vintage Technics weigh a ton. No wonder your neck’s doing overtime. Kuroe: They were my… my dad’s. He said the drivers are “slightly illegal” after he recapped them. Hina: (whistles) Dad modded? Certified cool. (hands them back, then points thumb over shoulder) Okay, proposal: my fingertips are about to stage a mutiny, and my stomach’s playing blast beats. There’s a kaitenzushi two blocks down—cheap, salmon that actually swims instead of sulks. Come dissect my setlist over wasabi? Kuroe: (eyes widen) With… you? Hina: Unless you’re allergic to fish or, like, conversation. I talk a lot; it’s an occupational hazard. Kuroe: (glances at arcade, then back) I, uh, usually just… go home and… patch envelopes. Hina: Envelopes can wait. Fish waits for no one—especially the fatty tuna. (leans in, conspiratorial) I’ll teach you how to time the plates so the belt brings the good stuff right as you sit. Secret busker hacks. Kuroe: (tiny nod; headphones slip again) O-okay. But if it’s crowded, I’m… not great at lines. Hina: Leave the lines to me; I’ve got charisma stored in alternate tunings. [They start walking. Kuroe half a step behind, clutching her messenger bag like a life raft.] Hina: So, favorite synth? Kuroe: (soft, but quick) Prophet-5 rev 3.3. Hina: Classic. Desert-island patch? Kuroe: Brass with the filter halfway, resonance just tickling the… the point of self-oscillation. Hina: (laughs) You describe patches like tasting notes. I like it. Ever think about running guitar through it? Kuroe: (surprised glance) You can’t—well, you could, but the impedance— Hina: Re-amp box, my friend. Or DI plus line driver. I’ve got a battered Space Echo that loves hot signals. We could make the most obnoxious shoegaze chord ever. Kuroe: “Obnoxious” is… a good adjective. (small smile) [They reach the sushi place. Plastic noren curtain, LED price board, smell of vinegar and ionized air. Surprisingly empty.] Hina: Perfect timing—golden hour for introverts. (gestures to corner booth) That one faces the belt like mission control. [They sit. Kuroe places headphones carefully on the table, pads up, like setting down a small pet.] Hina: (plucks two mugs from the hot-water tap, hands one over) Green tea—liquid courage. Kuroe: (blows on it) I’m not… very courageous. Hina: You stood front row at a street set and critiqued my intonation. That’s at least samurai level in my book. Kuroe: (murmurs) The speakers were angled thirty degrees outward, so the Doppler shift— Hina: Let me stop you right there before I fall in love. (grins to show it’s a joke, maybe) Okay, serious question: why anime covers? Kuroe: (shrugs one shoulder) They’re… already memories. Like everyone knows the melody, so you can bend it and they still feel home. Hina: (eyes soften) Damn. You just summarized my entire hustle in one sentence. You sure you don’t busk? Kuroe: (shakes head; headphones squeak on table) Too many eyes. I… sequence stuff in my bedroom. Upload anonymously to SoundCloud. Five followers; three are bots. Hina: Make that six. (pulls out phone) Link? Kuroe: (flushes) Really? Hina: Really. I’m a shameless self-plugger; it’s only fair I reciprocate. (leans back as a pink plate of salmon sashimi drifts past) Quick—grab that before it escapes. [Kuroe hesitates, then snags the plate like catching a firefly.] Hina: See? Natural reflexes. Ever think of doing synth leads over guitar loops live? Loop station, midi clock, boom—duo act. Kuroe: (spins tea mug) I’d have to… talk to the audience. Between songs. That’s the scary part. Hina: I can be the mouth; you be the brain. Think of me as the external vocoder. Kuroe: (quiet laugh) A human… talk box. Hina: Exactly. (leans in, elbows on table) Hey, honest: when I hit that flat bend, and you winced—did you feel it in your teeth? Kuroe: (nods shyly) Right incisor. It’s… like a tuning fork in my skull. Hina: (delighted) Synesthetic! Color? Kuroe: Dusty… mauve. Hina: That’s the weirdest and coolest thing I’ve heard all week. (taps chopsticks against plate in rhythm) Okay, challenge: next Saturday, same spot. I drag my looper, you bring a battery synth—anything small. Korg Volca? We play one song. If your tooth hurts mauve, we stop. Deal? Kuroe: (fiddles with headphone cable) I… don’t have a Volca. I have a… reface CS. Hina: Even better! Those mini-keys are adorable. I’ll bring a DI box. (extends pinky across the table) Pinky promise—low stakes, high fun. [Kuroe stares at the pinky like it’s a patch cable she’s afraid to hot-swap. Slowly hooks her own.] Kuroe: O-okay. Low stakes. Hina: (seals the promise) Sweet. Now eat that salmon before it starts judging your latency. [Kuroe giggles—small, surprised, like the sound leaked from a soft synth she forgot to mute.] Kuroe: (mouth half-full) It’s… buttery. Zero phase distortion. Hina: Compliments to the chef—and to the nerd translating flavor into DSP terms. (raises tea mug) To mauve incisors and illegal headphone drivers. Kuroe: (clinks mug gently) And… to not being scared. Just… twenty percent less scared. Hina: I’ll take that ratio. Tomorrow we’ll bump it to thirty.

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Chapter Seven: Tick-Tick-Tock The watch arrived on a Tuesday. No return address. No note. Just a small square box wedged inside my backpack like it had grown there overnight. Mom swore she hadn’t ordered anything, and Dad only buys gadgets that come in blister packs you need scissors to open. The watch inside looked harmless—black silicone band, glass face, a single digital crown that glowed neon green when I tapped it. On the back, etched in letters so tiny they could’ve been scratches, it said REWIND. I figured it was some promo junk from the app store. I wore it anyway. Everyone in eighth grade has a smartwatch now. Mine just didn’t have a brand. The first time I used it was an accident. I was late to homeroom—again—and Mrs. Blume was sharpening her “permanent tardy” speech. My toe caught the edge of the hallway carpet; I pitched forward, books spraying like confetti. The crown pressed against the lockers. Green light flared. The hallway snapped backward. My sneakers were suddenly on the carpet seam, upright. My books were back in my arms. The bell hadn’t rung yet. I blinked. Déjà vu, I told myself. I hurried to class and slid into my seat just before Mrs. Blume looked up. She didn’t even mark me late. That should have been my first clue: her frown puckered for a second, like she’d already started to say something and forgotten it. The second clue came at lunch. My best friend, Javi, eyed me across the table. “Dude, when did you grow?” “I didn’t.” “You did. You’re, like, taller than my sister now.” I shrugged it off. Growth spurts happen overnight, right? Wrong. By Thursday, my voice cracked mid-sentence and my favorite hoodie strained at the shoulders. Peach fuzz shadowed my upper lip. Mom pinched my cheek at breakfast and said, “Puberty hit you like a truck.” She laughed; I didn’t. That afternoon, we had a fire drill. Everyone filed outside, grumbling about the cold. I spotted a stray cat slinking along the bike rack—gray, with one torn ear. It stared at me with eyes the color of antifreeze. When the drill ended, the crowd surged back toward the doors. Someone shoved me; my wrist smacked the crown. Green flash. I was suddenly back on the blacktop, lining up two minutes earlier. The cat sat in the same spot, unblinking, tail twitching like a metronome. It tilted its head. I swear the thing recognized me. I started experimenting. Small stuff. Rewind five seconds to pick up a dropped pencil. Ten seconds to re-toss a crumpled shot into the trash. Each time the watch buzzed, soft as a bee. Each time the cat appeared somewhere nearby—on a windowsill, on the hood of a parked car—watching. Friday morning, I looked in the mirror and gasped. My jawline had sharpened. My hair was darker, thicker. I could see the outline of ribs I’d never had before. I looked fifteen—maybe sixteen. I ran to Mom, heart hammering. “Mom, do I look…different?” She glanced up from her coffee. “You’ve been shooting up like a weed, honey. You’ll even out.” She sipped. “Don’t forget to shave.” Shave? I didn’t even have a razor. That afternoon, the real disaster happened. I was crossing Maple Street after school, earbuds in, blasting music. The crossing guard blew her whistle. A red sedan ran the light. Tires screamed. I froze. The bumper rushed at me like a shark mouth. I slapped the watch crown in pure panic. Green flood of light. I snapped back twenty seconds, heart jackhammering. I yanked my earbuds out, stepped off the crosswalk just as the sedan rocketed through the space I’d occupied. The crossing guard waved frantically. Close call. But across the street, the gray cat arched its back, hissing at thin air. Something was wrong. I jogged the rest of the way home, trying to calm down. Our street looked…off. Leaves were redder, like mid-October though it was only early September. One house had a SOLD sign that hadn’t been there that morning. And the air smelled like chimney smoke. Inside, Mom turned from the sink, dish towel in hand. Her hair was shorter, streaked with gray. “Oh!” she said, startled. “You’re already home from work?” Work? I stared. My throat felt full of gravel. “It’s me—Danny. Where’s Dad?” Her face went slack. “Honey…Dad’s been gone six years. You know that.” The kitchen tilted. I gripped the counter. “Gone where?” “The accident on the bridge, sweetie. Before you started high school.” High school? I looked down. My hands—bigger, veins standing out—were shaking. A silver class ring glinted on my finger: WELDON HIGH, CLASS OF 2029. I bolted to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. A stranger stared back: twenty-something, stubble, crow’s-feet starting at the corners of his—my—eyes. I screamed. The cat appeared in the hallway behind me, reflected in the glass. It didn’t blink. I fumbled for the watch. The crown stuck under my adult-sized finger. I had to rewind. Had to undo whatever I’d done. But how far back? The cat padded forward, tail high. It sat on the bathmat and lifted a paw, batting at the air—once, twice, three times. Three rewinds. Three jumps. Each one had torn a bigger hole in the world. I pressed the crown. The screen lit up: a tiny hourglass icon, sand trickling fast. Below it, a message in plain white text. WARNING: FINAL REWIND AT FULL COST. No price listed. Just a countdown: 00:00:10. Nine…eight… I thought of Dad—alive in memories that were slipping like water through my fingers. Of Javi, who probably didn’t remember middle school at all. Of Mom, aged and tired. Seven…six… I looked at the cat. Its torn ear flicked. For a second, I thought it nodded. Five…four… I stabbed the crown. The world imploded into green. I woke up face-down on the hallway carpet outside homeroom. My backpack was light. My shoes were small again. My voice, when I coughed, was my own—cracking only a little. The bell rang. Mrs. Blume stepped into the hallway and frowned. “Daniel Ruiz, tardy again.” She held out a pink slip. I took it, fingers trembling. At lunch, Javi squinted at me. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.” I managed a nod. Across the blacktop, the gray stray sat beside the bike rack, tail curled neatly around its paws. It blinked slowly, then turned and padded away. I glanced at my wrist. No watch. Just pale skin and a faint green rectangle, like a tan line from another life. But in my pocket, something buzzed once—soft as a bee trapped in glass. I didn’t check what it was.

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The sodium lamps above the gallery snapped awake one by one, stuttering like nervous hearts. Amber light skated over the water-beaded planks, over the tin ducks gliding on their wire rail, over the black-powder scent of fireworks still drifting from the previous show. I tasted salt and cordite on the same breath, and the taste made me stop. His locks. The phrase floated up unbidden—archaic, ridiculous—and lodged behind my tongue like a seed I might swallow or spit. I had come back to swallow it. That was the half-truth I permitted myself. A boy of eight or nine stood on the shooting platform, shouldering a chipped Winchester BB gun. His mother hovered, distracted by the weight of her own fatigue. The attendant—a woman with marcelled hair the color of piano wood—called the shots in a flat Brooklyn accent. “Two bits for five, three bits for ten. Hit the blue, win the bear.” I had no intention of shooting. I was waiting for the man who had told me, two nights earlier, “If you want the rest of the story, come when the lights come on.” He had not asked my name either. Anonymity was the first gift he offered; curiosity, the first price I paid. Footsteps behind me, soft-soled, deliberate. I did not turn. “Do you trust the rifle or the marksman?” His voice arrived low, almost amused. “That depends,” I said to the tin ducks, “on who’s holding the rifle.” He moved to my side. The lamps fluttered again; shadows slid across his cheekbones like cards in a fan. The curls I remembered—blacker than the boardwalk tar—shook once when he laughed under his breath. “You kept the appointment.” “I was passing.” I hated how the lie sounded. “You were summoned,” he corrected gently. “There’s a difference.” The boy on the platform fired. A tin rabbit flipped backward with a metallic clack. The child crowed; the woman handed him a paper ticket. The stranger angled his head, studying the boy. “Pure intention,” he murmured. “No doubt, no guilt. Dangerous combination.” I felt the air shift, warmer where his sleeve brushed mine. “Everything here is dangerous if you look twice,” I said. “Then look twice.” His eyes caught mine—black, yes, but flecked with something combustible. “Tell me what you see.” I looked. At the gallery, yes—at the warped mirrors behind the targets, reflecting the customers in carnival glass, stretching necks, shrinking eyes. But mostly I looked at him, measuring the risk of admitting that I saw myself more clearly in those distortions than in any honest daylight. I lifted one shoulder. “A boy who’ll be disappointed when the big prize costs more tickets than he’s willing to earn.” “That’s the surface,” he said. “Look again.” I swallowed. “A rigged game designed to look fair. Like most games.” His mouth curved. “Good. You see the lever behind the curtain. Shall we play?” A ripple moved through me, equal parts chill and heat. “I don’t carry a gun.” “You won’t need one.” He stepped up to the counter and dropped two silver half-dollars in front of the attendant. “We’ll take the larger rifles,” he told her. “And the gentleman’s target.” The woman’s eyes flicked to me, curious, then away. She produced a .22 repeater, its wood stock scarred but polished. He lifted it with careless grace, as if it weighed nothing, and handed it to me first. I felt the sudden heft of real consequence. The barrel smelled of oil and old powder. “Five shots,” he said. “For each miss, you answer a question. For each hit, I do.” “Questions can be loaded,” I said. “So can guns.” He waited. “Your choice.” I fitted the stock to my shoulder. My pulse knocked against the metal. The first tin duck slid into view—a drake with a lurid green head. I squeezed. The report cracked sharp; the duck flipped and stayed down. A slow smile. “You’ve done this before.” “Summer camp in the Adirondacks,” I said, lowering the rifle. “We shot at paper silhouettes of deer. The boys kept the scores.” “And the girls kept the secrets?” I didn’t answer. The second target—a swan this time—appeared. I exhaled, fired. Missed by a feather’s width. “Question,” he said softly. “Why did you come back here after swearing you wouldn’t?” The sodium lamp above us blinked out, then flared again. In the half-second of darkness I saw the truth flare too: because I wanted the edge he carried like aftershave. Because last week, in the penny arcade, he had pressed a token into my palm and closed my fingers over it without touching any other part of me, and the restraint had felt more obscene than a kiss. I lifted my chin. “Curiosity,” I said. “A mild case.” “Mild cases don’t usually carry .22s.” He nodded to the gallery. “Again.” I fired. Hit. Then missed. Then hit. Two more questions suspended between us like glass ornaments. He stepped closer, took the rifle from my hands. His fingers brushed the inside of my wrist—a deliberate accident. My skin buzzed as if a violin string had been drawn across it. “My turn,” he said. He shouldered the weapon, but instead of aiming at the tin parade he tilted the barrel downward, resting it against the counter. The attendant’s eyes narrowed; she sensed the breach of ritual. “Ask,” he said. I could have asked his name. I didn’t. Instead I heard myself say, “What do you want from me that you haven’t already taken?” The question surprised us both. The air between us seemed to hush, even the calliope wheezing two stalls away. A couple drifted past, the girl’s laugh brittle, her date’s hand low on her back. He regarded me for a long moment. Then he lifted the rifle, aimed once, fired. The single bullet clipped the edge of the highest star-shaped target, sending it spinning. A perfect shot, almost careless. “I want,” he said, returning the rifle to the attendant as if it were a borrowed pen, “for you to stop pretending you’re the mark and admit you’re the accomplice.” The words landed low in my stomach. I felt them bloom, dark and sweet, like the first swallow of brandy. He reached into his pocket and produced the same brass token he had given me before. This time he pressed it against my lips instead of my palm. Metal tasted cold, faintly acrid. My mouth parted instinctively; he let the token rest there a second before sliding it into my coat pocket. “Next ride’s at ten,” he said. “The Ghost Train. Last car. If you’re there, you’ll hear the rest of the story. If not—” He shrugged, already turning. “The carnival keeps its secrets.” I watched him move away, coat collar up, stride unhurried, as though the boardwalk parted for him like theater curtains. The sodium lamp above me steadied, burning a hole in the dusk. My fingers found the token in my pocket. It was warm now from my own heat. I had three hours to decide whether curiosity and complicity were the same sin.

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**Chapter Two: The Sound Under the Snow** They didn’t speak on the walk back. Not really. Mike muttered something about the wind shifting, and their father grunted like he’d heard it from a long way off. JT trailed behind them, boots crunching through the frost-crusted crust of snow, each step sounding too loud in the hush that had fallen over the woods. The light was going, bleeding out of the sky in slow, violet pulses that made the trees look flayed. He kept seeing the buck’s eyes—flat and deep, like oil pooled on still water. He kept seeing his father’s hand rising, fingers trembling like he was reaching for something he’d lost long ago. They passed the ridge trail that led to the old cabin. JT didn’t look. He didn’t have to. He knew it was there, tucked back in the pines like a bad thought. No one had used it in years—not since the last of the Olson cousins stopped coming up in '04. They said he’d gone out one morning and never come back. Just left his thermos steaming on a stump and a boot print leading into the trees. They found the cabin door open, snow blown in across the floor like something had rushed out. Or in. JT had never seen it himself. Just heard the stories. He didn’t believe them, not really. Not the way Mike did, who’d once sworn he saw a shape crouched in the window, head too low, arms too long. JT didn’t believe in ghosts or monsters or whatever it was that lived in the space between the trees. But he didn’t not believe, either. Not anymore. Back at the lodge, the air smelled like woodsmoke and something else—something sour, like wet fur left too long to dry. Their father went straight to the stove, clanking the cast iron with unnecessary force. Mike dropped into the cracked vinyl armchair and stared at the fire without blinking. JT stood by the window, watching the dark come down. He could feel the weight of it pressing against the glass, like the night was trying to get in. He rubbed at the chill in his arms, the gooseflesh that wouldn’t go away. “You see that buck today?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Mike didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. Big one.” Their father didn’t say anything. Just stirred the pot, scraping the bottom like he was trying to erase something. “It didn’t run,” JT said. “Just stood there.” Mike glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “They do that sometimes. Cold makes ‘em slow.” JT nodded, but it didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like surrender. Later, after they’d eaten in silence, JT went outside. He told himself it was for air, but he knew it was more than that. The cold hit him like a slap, sharp and clean. The stars were out, hard as nail heads hammered into black felt. He walked past the shed, past the stacked firewood, past the edge of the light that spilled from the lodge windows. The snow creaked underfoot. Every sound felt magnified. Like the woods were listening. He didn’t mean to go toward the cabin. Not really. But his feet found the trail anyway, the one that curved behind the ridge and sloped down into the hollow. The trees grew close here, their branches knitting overhead like the ribs of some ancient, hollowed thing. He could hear his breath, ragged and white. He could hear something else, too—beneath the snow, a soft, rhythmic sound. Like something scraping. Like something digging. He stopped. The cabin was just ahead, a black outline against the darker black of the forest. No lights. No smoke from the chimney. Just the shape of it, squat and low, like it had sunk into the earth over the years. The door was gone. Or maybe it was just open—he couldn’t tell. The dark inside was absolute. JT took a step. Then another. The sound under the snow stopped. He waited. Nothing. Then: a voice. Not words, not really. Just a low, wet sound, like someone trying to speak through a mouthful of mud. It came from the trees. Or the cabin. Or the ground. He turned and ran. Not far. Just back to the trail, heart kicking in his chest like something trapped. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see what might be watching. Back inside, Mike was still in the chair, but now his eyes were closed. Their father had gone to bed. JT stood in the doorway, dripping meltwater onto the floor, trying to slow his breathing. “You okay?” Mike asked without opening his eyes. JT hesitated. “Yeah. Just cold.” Mike made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You hear it too, huh?” JT went still. “Hear what?” “That sound,” Mike said. “Like something scratching. Under the snow. Thought I was dreaming it last night. But you heard it too.” JT didn’t answer. He went to the window and looked out. The trees stood motionless, black against black. But somewhere out there, just beyond the reach of the porch light, something moved. Not fast. Just a shift in the dark. Like something settling in to wait. He pulled the curtain closed. That night, he dreamed of the buck again. But this time it was standing inside the cabin. The walls were covered in caribou hides, still wet. The air stank of iron and pine. His father was there, too, kneeling in the corner, whispering to something low and hunched that JT couldn’t quite see. Mike stood behind him, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. JT tried to speak, but his mouth was full of snow. When he woke, the lodge was silent. No wind. No fire. Just the sound of something moving outside, slow and deliberate, circling the walls. He didn’t get up. He didn’t look. He just lay there, eyes open, waiting for the sound to stop.

Model Output:
**Tuesday, 3rd Circle, 9:06 a.m. Hell-Time (or “two coffees past apocalypse”)** Lucifer Morningstar wakes to the sound of metal being slowly un-welded by molars. His iron throne—taller than a cathedral spire, colder than a tax auditor’s handshake—suffers under forty-three kilos of enthusiastic hellhound. The beast, officially named *Calamitas*, answers to “Pup-Pup” and regards every artifact of damnation as a chew toy. Lucifer opens one eye the color of tarnished gold. “If you eat my seat, Pup-Pup, I’ll have to hold court standing. Do you want me to look like a sad substitute teacher on the last day of term?” Calamitas pauses mid-gnaw, exhales sulfur, and resumes with renewed purpose. The throne lists slightly, like a drunk bishop. Before further furniture diplomacy can occur, the air folds as though someone has crumpled reality and flicked it across the room. Lilith steps out of the wrinkle wearing yesterday’s armor and tomorrow’s irritation. Her wings—black glass shot through with starlight—tuck themselves into a leather bomber jacket the color of dried blood. She’s carrying a cardboard tray with two cups that smell of espresso, brimstone, and an unspoken apology. “Morning, Star,” she says, setting one cup on the arm of the throne, exactly where Calamitas has just left a string of acidic drool. “Your hound’s dental plan’s working.” Lucifer studies her with the wary hope of someone who has read the last page of a tragedy and still prays the ending changed overnight. “Lilith. To what do I owe the pleasure of non-homicidal visitation?” She shrugs. “Ran out of bullets. Thought I’d borrow some.” She lifts the espresso. “Also this. They call it ‘Morning Repentance’—two shots of caffeine, one shot of regret. Seemed on-brand.” He tastes it. Grimaces. “Needs more regret.” Below them, the floor tiles rearrange themselves into a spreadsheet of torments due for review. Tuesdays are reserved for Third-Circle Gluttony, which means rivers of stale beer and paperwork for unauthorized caloric intake. Lucifer’s inbox—an actual wooden box filled with screaming scrolls—vibrates across the basalt like a distressed hamster. He sighs. “I have to go pretend to care about portion control.” Lilith’s mouth quirks. “Want company?” He almost drops the cup. “That’s a new entry in the visitor’s log. You hate bureaucracy.” “I hate boredom more,” she says, which is as close to “I missed you” as either of them permits. They walk side by side down the corridor labeled *Abandon Hope, Yield Receipts*. Calamitas trots behind, dragging half the throne’s leg like a souvenir. The audit chamber is a vaulted cavern where damned souls queue between velvet ropes. A demon with a clipboard shaped like a ribcage waves them forward. He’s wearing a tie that screams—literally, it’s a micro-imp. Lucifer sits on the remaining two-thirds of his throne. Lilith leans against a pillar, arms crossed, wings flexing in slow, irritated arcs. The first petitioner is a man who ate forty-seven meat-lover’s pizzas in one sitting and then died of competitive regret. Lucifer rubs his temples. “You understand that excess is not a mortal sin unless it’s coupled with selfish intent? You merely committed suicide by mozzarella.” The soul wrings his hands. “So… can I go upstairs?” “Upstairs is experiencing a cloud shortage. We’ll downgrade you to the mezzanine of mild discomfort. Next.” Lilith watches the process with the air of a seasoned assassin at kindergarten sports day. After the seventh complaint about insufficiently flambéed marshmallows, she mutters, “You could delegate this.” “Delegation breeds middle management. I already have Beelzebub running a fantasy football league with actual feet.” He lowers his voice. “Besides, the sound of souls whining keeps Pup-Pup calm. Like whale song, but ethical.” Calamitas is indeed asleep on the shattered throne leg, snoring sparks. Noon arrives in the form of a brass sun that rolls along tracks in the ceiling. Lunch is delivered: lava-warm sushi (the fish still angry) and a fruit platter of knowingly forbidden varieties. Lilith steals a fig, bites it, and offers the other half to Lucifer. The gesture is so old—Eden old—that neither comments. If they pretend it’s casual, maybe it won’t cut. A courier imp skitters in, ink dripping from its ears. “Urgent memo from the Lake of Fire. Thermal expansion buckled the boardwalk again. Also, someone’s been graffitiing ‘Paradise Was Overrated’ on the ninth gate.” Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course it was. That’s why we left.” Lilith smirks. “We?” “Fine. I left. You stormed out first. Then stormed back in to loot the joint.” He stands, brushing infernal sesame seeds off his lap. “Walk with me?” They detour through the Garden of Forking Paths—hedges sculpted like every bad decision ever made. Lilith runs a finger along a topiary of herself eating the apple and rolling her eyes at the serpent. “I looked better in the original lighting.” “You look better now,” Lucifer says, then hates how earnest it sounds. She stops. “Lucy. Why am I really here?” He considers lying. Hell is built on lies, after all, expertly mortared. But he’s tired. “Because I haven’t changed the locks. And because I’m—” The word lonely tries to escape; he swallows it like a hot penny. “—short-staffed.” “Ah,” she says, nodding too quickly. “Staff.” She snaps her fingers. A small revolver materializes—ivory grip, barrel carved from a saint’s shinbone. She offers it butt-first. “Bullets. You promised.” Lucifer stares at the gun, at her, at the way her pupils flicker like candle flames. “You could stay longer. Have dinner. I’ve got a new chef—fell during the Renaissance, makes a decent puttanesca.” Lilith raises an eyebrow. “Puttanesca. Whore’s pasta. Subtle.” He shrugs. “Menu writes itself.” Behind them, Calamitas has discovered the topiary serpent and is attempting to mate with it. Branches splinter. Lilith laughs—sharp, startled, real. “Remember when we invented shame just to see what it felt like?” “We were children.” “Everything was.” She holsters the revolver, unpicks a feather from her wing, and tucks it behind Lucifer’s ear. “Dinner, then. But if you try to play footsie under the table, I’ll break your metatarsals.” “Promise?” “Swear on the Fall.” They turn back toward the palace. The brass sun clangs one, marking siesta for the tormented and overtime for the tormentors. A fresh scroll skitters up, trailing smoke. Lucifer catches it without looking. “Request for conjugal visits between Lust and Sloth,” he reads aloud. “They want to unionize.” Lilith snorts. “Let them. Management’s already screwed.” Calamitas trots ahead, throne leg clamped proudly in its jaws. The remaining stubs of iron spark against the stone, a broken crown announcing their arrival. Lucifer offers Lilith his arm. She doesn’t take it, but she doesn’t break it either, which passes for optimism in Hell. Somewhere above, elevators grind as souls descend. Somewhere below, boilers hiss like gossiping aunts. And in the middle distance, the faint smell of burnt espresso signals that Tuesday, like every day, is long, loud, and perpetually on fire. Yet for the first time in centuries, Lucifer thinks the palace doesn’t echo quite so loudly when Lilith’s boots strike the floor beside his. He leans toward her. “If I fix the throne, will you stop shooting it?” She considers. “Shoot less. No promises.” He smiles—the small, crooked one she hasn’t seen since the Rebellion. “Good enough.”

Model Output:
The first fingers of dawn were only a pale bruise behind the Palatine when the clank of iron keys against the bars woke us. I was already half-awake; I always rose before the turnkey, because Fortuna, my only proper goddess, favored anyone awake to greet her before she decided whom to abandon for the day. I lay still on the cedar plank that smelled of sweat, blood, and the sour sweetness of olive oil rubbed into yesterday’s abrasions. The air was thick with last night’s dream-smoke of myrrh and lamp oil, and beneath it the familiar stench of the latrina—piss, vinegar, and the faint iron tang of someone’s bleeding knuckles. The others coughed and cursed in half-a-dozen tongues: a Cilician whose Latin sounded like rocks shaken in a bronze pot; two Numidian brothers who spoke to each other in clicks and whispers; and old Hilarus, the Gallic retiarius, who prayed aloud to Mithras though the sun was not yet high enough for the soldier’s god to listen. I pressed my face to the small grilled window above my bunk. Outside, the city was already breathing. Bakers on the Vicus Patricius were kneading dough that fluttered white into the lamplight like doves escaping a cage. A mule driver cracked his whip, and the sound slapped against stone and echoed down to us like a distant fight bell. “Up, Thracian,” the guard sneered—my stage name, not the people I had once belonged to. I had been born in the shadow of Mount Haemus, but that was seven campaigning seasons and three slave brands ago. “Sponsor wants you oiled by the second hour. You’re prodding the crowd at the salutatio.” Prodding, not fighting. My heart beat both lighter and heavier at once. A day without steel could be a day lived longer, but it also meant I would stand exposed beneath the gaze of every man who thought the Empire was kept alive by the breadth of his purse and the length of his private arena. They marched us through the stone corridor that linked the Ludus Magnus to the Flavian like an artery. Torches hissed in wall brackets. Soot drifted down, speckling the sweat on my shoulders. I tasted it—bitter, dry, the Empire’s incense. Somewhere above us the amphitheater loomed, its arches swallowing the first pink light. I had never seen it empty, only roaring or bleeding. In the armory the smell changed: hot bronze, fresh-cut leather, the peppery sting of rust being scrubbed off mail. A slave girl—no more than thirteen—handed me my greaves. Her fingers trembled. I wanted to tell her that I, too, had once feared the wrong people, but the lanista’s whip cracked and speech scattered like sparrows. While the Numidians argued over whose turn it was to use the pumice stone, I slipped aside to the little niche we kept curtained with a rag. Inside stood a clay statuette no taller than my thumb: Fortuna of the Crossroads, wheel half-broken, eyes blindfolded—not the grand Fortuna Redux the Senate paraded through the Forum, but the one gamblers and whores and gladiators bribed with spilled wine. I touched the chipped paint where her cheek should have been. “Guide me today,” I whispered. “Let them see what they want to see, and let me remain unseen.” I left her the crust of bread I had saved from supper, though ants had already found it. The oiling room was warm as a bread oven. Steam rose from brass cauldrons, carrying with it the scents of rosemary, cedar resin, and something acrid—perhaps the same pitch they smeared on siege engines. The physician’s apprentice scraped yesterday’s grime from my skin with a strigil. Each stroke reminded me of the lash scars latticing my back, the network of roads that had carried me from Thrace to Pannonia, from legionary camp to slave market to here. Wherever I walked in Rome, those roads traveled with me like invisible chains. While he worked, I listened. The walls between the ludus and the city were thick, but not thick enough to keep out the roar of argument that had begun to rise beyond the Forum: senators shouting about grain subsidies, the price of Egyptian wheat, riots in Ostia warehouses, and—loudest of all—how the Emperor’s new marble bathhouse had swallowed enough money to feed Antioch for a year. Rome, as always, was a dying beast that grew louder the closer it came to its own blood. I wondered if anyone up there knew that the gladiators beneath their sandals rehearsed death so that those above could rehearse power. By the time we reached the arena gates, the sun was high enough to gild the sand. It lay raked into perfect furrows like the field of some meticulous farmer. Workers sprinkled fresh sawdust to soak up what last night’s venationes had left behind; the smell was sweet until the wind shifted and you caught the butcher’s note beneath. I stood in line with the others, crested helmets under our arms, eyes lowered. Trumpets sounded—not the harsh battle note, but the three mellow peals that announced a morning parade. We marched out beneath the velarium’s colored stripes, into a bowl already half-full of citizens who had come to see us like painted toys before the real breakage began. The senators’ wives sat closest to the podium, their silk stolas damp at the armpits, scented fans fluttering like captive butterflies. Children waved dyed palm fronds. One boy leaned so far over the marble rail I thought Fortuna might tip him for sport. I felt the sun on my oiled skin, smelled the mingled perfumes—myrrh, balsam, the cloying rose the Empress favored—fighting a losing battle against the stink of garlic wafting from the upper tiers where the plebs jostled for shade. A herald cried our names, stretching syllables like taffy. Sponsors in togas the color of bruised plums pointed and smiled as if we were exotic horses. I kept my gaze fixed on the far arch where Vespasian’s colossal statue stood, one arm raised in perpetual salute. The sculptor had given him a slight smile; I decided it was the same smile the god Saturn wore when he devoured his children. My thoughts wandered north to the Danube I had not seen in five years: its gray-green water, the alder smoke curling from village roofs, the taste of sheep’s-milk cheese and sour plums. I wondered if any of my cousins still herded goats where the hillside met the forest, or if the auxiliaries had taken them as I had been taken. I felt no bitterness—only a vague surprise that two places so different could exist beneath the same sky. The herald finished. We turned, filed back through the Gate of Life. The crowd’s cheers followed us like surf, then ebbed, leaving the corridor quieter than a temple. Someone behind me—Hilarus, I think—muttered, “Mithras, receive my breath if today is the day.” I touched the tiny Fortuna tucked inside my belt and answered silently, “Not today, old soldier. Today is only for pretending. Save your breath for the sand when it matters.” As we descended the narrow steps to the cells again, I caught the scent of baking bread drifting from the city ovens. My stomach clenched. I thought of the crust I had left for the goddess, already claimed by ants. Let them have it, I decided. Fortuna fed on smaller things than bread, and I—perhaps—was one of them.

Model Output:
**From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **18 April 2021 – 09:17** Mum, The Northern Lighthouse Board finally got the Wi-Fi working, so I can write from the kitchen table—three steps from the sink, two from the bunk. The gulls are already kicking up. The stack of Broad Stack looks like it’s wearing a collar of foam today. Sea’s the colour of old pennies. I’m on the four-month shift—relief boat not due till August. Bread’s in the oven. I talk to it because it listens better than the bricks. Tell Rona cheers for the tablet. The parcel smelled of her kitchen all the way out here. See you in the pixelated flesh soon, Ewan --- **From:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **To:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **21 April 2021 – 20:03** Ewan lad, Your father says the wind’s enough to tear the hair off a pig. Mind the new paint on the gallery—he’s fretting it’ll blister. Rona’s wee boy started school today and cried because his pencil didn’t have a rubber. Made me think of you telling the teacher your rubber ran away to join the circus. Keep the receipts for the diesel. Board still dragging their heels on the last lot. Love, Mum --- **From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **2 May 2021 – 06:44** Mum, Storm came sideways last night. Had to go out in it to lash the tool chest or it would’ve been halfway to Stornoway. Wind tasted metallic. Tower shook like a marrow in its skin. I shouted myself hoarse just to hear another voice. Then I got scared I’d answer back in one I didn’t recognise. Bread’s running low. Might try bannock with gull eggs—joking, before you report me. Ewan --- **From:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **To:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **5 May 2021 – 22:10** Ewan, Stop frightening your mother. The tower’s been through worse—1900, three keepers vanished, remember? You read the plaque every time you pass. If the eggs taste like fish, chuck them. I’ve started putting your letters in the biscuit tin. Your dad pretends not to read them when I’m in the bath. Keep talking, even if it’s only to the gulls. They gossip. Love, Mum --- **From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **30 June 2021 – 23:55** Mum, Midnight sun’s still bleeding over the Minch. I’m on watch till four. The foghorn sounds like it’s arguing with itself. I fixed the leak in the cistern—tore my thumbnail clean off. Wrapped it in electrical tape, looks like a tiny crime scene. I’ve started writing the shopping list as if it’s to someone else: “Dear Stranger, we need UHT milk, not the red-top traitorous stuff.” Feels less cracked than saying it to the wall. Tell Dad the paint’s holding. Tell him I’m trying to. E --- **From:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **To:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **3 July 2021 – 19:27** Ewan, Your cousin Lachlan got laid off at the yard. Says the whisky helps but the mornings don’t. You’re not the only one fighting the dark corners. Rona’s knitting you a gansey the colour of peat water. She swears wool keeps the loneliness out better than steel. I’m saving the scratchcards again—if I win, I’m hiring a helicopter and bringing soup. Dad’s snoring through the weather forecast; I might smother him with a cushion. Don’t tell. Love, Mum --- **From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **17 September 2021 – 04:12** Mum, Relief boat couldn’t get near—low pressure squatting on the island like a fat landlord. Stuck another month. I ran out of jokes today. Even the static on the radio sounds accusatory. I walked the perimeter and counted every slab between the tower and the cliff edge: 112. I counted twice to be sure. I think the slabs are shrinking. The Broad Stack is wearing a necklace of fulmars now, heads tucked under wings like they’re pretending not to see me. I miss the sound of cutlery on plates that aren’t mine. Ewan --- **From:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **To:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **19 September 2021 – 21:06** Ewan, I read your letter aloud to the cat. She blinked twice—high praise. You’re not the first man to measure the world when the world stops answering. Your grandad paced the tenement hallway 6,800 times during the miners’ strike. I’ve booked you a locum session with Dr Murray—he does the video calls. First appointment free if you mention my name. I’m not asking, I’m telling. Love, Mum --- **From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **2 October 2021 – 21:33** Mum, Spoke to Dr Murray. He looks like a beard with spectacles balanced on top. Told him I feel like the lighthouse—still doing its job long after ships went to satellites. He said, “Aye, but the light’s still wanted somewhere.” Cheeky bastard might be right. Boat came today—new keeper is a girl from Lewis called Catriona who brought actual leeks and a ukulele. She played “Ae Fond Kiss” on the jetty and the gulls shut up for once. I’m coming home for two weeks. Don’t wash the sheets, I want the smell of the house as it is. See you at the pier, Ewan --- **From:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **To:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **3 October 2021 – 07:55** Ewan, Sausages are in the freezer and your dad’s polished the kettle. He’s humming “The Northern Lights” and pretending he isn’t excited. Leave Catriona a list—she’ll need to know which switch flicks the foghorn and which one boils the kettle. They’re too close together. Bring the gansey home; I’ll lengthen the sleeves. Love you fierce, Mum --- **From:** keeper@flannanisle.co.uk **To:** mckenziejessie@glasgowwest.co.uk **20 December 2022 – 18:10** Mum, Back on the island for winter. Christmas lights are a string of solar LEDs Catriona left—she’s back on Lewis having twins. I send her pictures of the sunrise every day; she says they’re better than vitamins. The Broad Stack is white as a wedding cake now. Snow squeaks under my boots. I talk to the tower like it’s a neighbour—tell it when the bread’s ready, ask if it minds the cold. It creaks back, which counts as company. I see Dr Murray once a month. He says I’m “managing the geography.” I told him the geography’s easier since I stopped trying to outshout it. I keep your last letter in my pocket—edges gone soft as flannel. When the wind tries to get inside my head, I unfold it and read the bit where you said you loved me fierce. Works quicker than paracetamol. Tell Dad the paint’s still holding. So am I. Merry Christmas, Ewan

Model Output:
The LED Edison bulb above table seven flickers at 120 hertz—predictable, like a heartbeat. I count three cycles before I force my gaze back to Alex’s face. Focus. You’re here for company, not reconnaissance. Their eyes are the color of an unpatched SQL injection—deep, inviting, and dangerous if you stare too long. We’re mid-debate over whether Jace, the Mind Sculptor’s ban was justified when Alex leans in, conspiratorial. “I still run him in my cube. Judge me.” The grin is crooked, charming, and I feel the familiar twitch in my fingers: *record, replay, analyze*. Instead, I laugh—too loud, maybe—and say something about tempo advantage. Normal human words, not hexadecimals. The restaurant’s ambient noise is a low static hash—clinking glasses, the fryer’s white-noise sizzle. I parse it into layers, searching for anomalies. Stop. Alex’s hands are animated, sketching invisible card stacks in the air. I track the tendons, the half-moon scars on two knuckles. *Childhood accident?* my brain supplies. *Security question: "What was your first injury?"* I mentally slap myself. Bad habit. Instead, I ask about their favorite deck archetype, because that’s what people do. They answer—something about a janky artifact combo involving *Liquimetal Coating* and *Shatterstorm*—but my attention snags on the phone face-down beside their water glass. The case is cracked near the camera, exposing a sliver of reflective backing. When the screen lit up earlier, I caught it: nine dots, a simple “L” swipe. Left-to-right, down, diagonal up. Takes 0.8 seconds to brute-force with smudge analysis. My jaw tightens. Focus. They’re recounting how they once top-decked *Darksteel Forge* to survive a lethal alpha strike. I nod, but inside, I’m mapping the pattern’s entropy. *Three corners, one cross-axis. Repeatable.* Alex pauses, maybe sensing the lag in my response. Their left hand brushes the phone, rotating it 180 degrees—now the crack faces me. A subconscious tell? Or bait? I sip my drink. The glass is sweating; condensation beads are binary. *0,1,1,0.* I blink it away. “That’s clutch,” I say aloud. Alex beams, launches into a tangent about *Mishra’s Workshop* prices. I feed them lines—“Reserved List is just NFTs for boomers”—and watch their shoulders loosen. Good. Human connection achieved. Then they pick up the phone to show me a meme. The screen wakes. The pattern glows blue, a neon breadcrumb trail of insecurity. Before I can cage it, the words spill out: “You know that’s basically leaving your key under the mat, right?” Silence drops like a null byte. Alex’s thumb freezes mid-swipe. The meme—a Boros Charm “deal 4 to the face” joke—dims as the screen auto-locks. They set the phone down slowly, like it’s evidence. Crap. I backpedal, but my mouth’s already compiling the damage report. “I just meant—smudge attacks. And the pattern’s visible in light angles. Not that I was—” *Hacking you in my head.* Yeah, great save. Alex’s eyebrow arcs. “You’re a security guy?” The tone is neutral, but I parse micro-expressions: slight nostril flare = defensiveness. Pupil dilation = curiosity at war with irritation. I swallow. “Used to be. Ethical now. Promise.” The half-truth tastes like burnt coffee. Ethical-ish. The itch never left; I just redirect it to bug bounties and penetration tests. They lean back, arms folding. The motion shifts their sleeve, revealing a tattoo: *Phyrexian mana symbol.* My brain auto-catalogs it: *Personal detail. Security question: "What’s your first tattoo?"* I shove the thought into a locked folder. Alex’s voice is careful. “So… you clocked my pattern in, what, a glance?” I could lie. Say it was a lucky guess. But the truth’s already in plaintext. “I notice things. Occupational hazard. Sorry—I wasn’t trying to be creepy.” They study me, and I feel the firewall rising. Then: “What would *you* recommend? Eight-digit PIN? Biometric?” There’s a challenge in it, but also genuine curiosity. A vulnerability. I exhale. “PIN’s better. Randomized layout thwarts smudges. Or—” I stop. Don’t say *facial recognition can be spoofed with a high-res print.* Too much. Instead: “Just… not birthdays. Or pet names.” Alex snorts. “My cat’s named *Nyx-Fleece Ram.* Try guessing *that* in three tries.” The tension cracks. I laugh, surprised. They continue, “Though I guess ‘first pet’ is probably in some database breach from 2012.” Dangerous territory. They’re feeding me metadata. I flash a grin, deflect. “Honestly, the best defense is assuming everything’s already leaked. MFA, unique passphrases, yada yada.” The conversation steadies. But I’ve tripped a wire. Alex’s anecdotes now come peppered with self-aware breadcrumbs. Their mom’s maiden name is *Weatherlight*—“no joke, she was a pilot.” First concert: *Weird Al* (venue had a *Magic* promo that night). Each detail is a gift-wrapped security answer, and I’m the jerk mapping them to hypothetical breach vectors. I toggle to damage control. “You know,” I say, “there’s a card for this. *Gitaxian Probe*. Pay 2 life, see their hand. Basically what I just did, minus the life payment.” Alex chuckles. “And the part where you *don’t* get slapped.” They tap the table. “Look, I get it. It’s like when I see someone tap their lands wrong—takes effort not to twitch. But maybe we table the red-team critique for date two?” Date two. The phrase pings like a successful handshake. I nod, but inside I’m already stress-testing the possibility. *Shared hobbies: check. Compatible threat models: TBD.* Dessert arrives—some deconstructed tiramisu that looks like a crashed spaceship. Alex digs in, gets mascarpone on their thumb, and without thinking licks it clean. The gesture is absurdly intimate. I look away, but my peripheral vision catches their phone again. Still cracked. Still unlocked. A thought worms in: *I could fix that.* Not the pattern—the crack. Replace the glass, harden the OS. A peace offering. Or is that just another intrusion? Alex wipes their hands, meets my eyes. “So… if I switch to a PIN, do I get to ask *you* something invasive? Fair’s fair.” I raise an eyebrow. “Define invasive.” “Your worst rules-misinterpretation story. I *know* you’ve got one.” I grin, relieved. This I can do. As I launch into the tale of accidentally cloning a *Doubling Season* with *Mirrorweave* and breaking a casual pod, I let the background noise fade. The bulbs stop flickering. The condensation’s just water. For now, the system between us is stable—no zero-days, just two nerds parsing each other’s protocols. But when Alex excuses themself to the restroom, the phone stays behind. Face-down, crack gleaming like a port scan. I don’t touch it. I *do* angle my chair so the reflection’s obscured. Small victories. They return, and I pocket my own phone—double-locked, duress code enabled. Alex notices. “Paranoid?” “Prepared,” I counter. They smirk. The check comes. I reach for my wallet; Alex insists on splitting. Their card’s chip is worn—EMV contact failing, fallback to magstripe. I wince. *Skimmer bait.* But I say nothing. Boundaries. Outside, the streetlights buzz at 60 hertz. We linger under one, deciding next steps. Alex’s profile is backlit, hair a frizzy halo. They mention a late-night café that does *Commander* pods on Thursdays. I weigh the risk: new environment, unknown network, public tables. Then I weigh the reward. “I’m in,” I say. “But I’m bringing sleeves. You’ve got cat claws.” They laugh, the sound warm and unencrypted. As we part, I resist the urge to scan for CCTV blind spots. Instead, I watch them walk away, phone tucked safely in their pocket. For once, I leave the vulnerabilities unfixed. Some exploits aren’t meant to be patched alone.

Model Output:
The projector squeaks again—high, metallic, like it’s trying to whistle but can’t quite remember the tune. It’s always worse when Mrs. Hanley flips between slides too fast, like she’s racing the bell. Slide six: *Mitochondria: The Powerhouse of the Cell*. Slide seven: *ATP Cycle*. Squeak. Squeak. I pretend to be very interested in the mitochondria. I squint at the diagram like it’s a lost language. If I look absorbed, maybe he won’t notice that I’ve been holding the same colored pencil for ten minutes and haven’t written a single thing. He’s sitting right across from me. Not directly across—I’m not that lucky. Diagonal. Close enough that I can see the fraying edge of his hoodie sleeve, the one he keeps picking at when he’s thinking. I noticed that three weeks ago. I’ve been noticing things about him since October, which is mortifying because it’s now March. His name is Rowan. That’s the kind of name that sounds like it belongs to someone who hikes and knows how to tie knots. Or maybe someone who reads fantasy novels and has a favorite constellation. I don’t know if he does any of those things. I just know he’s in my science class and now we’re partners for this dumb group project and I want to crawl under the table. He just asked me a question. I think. “So, do you want to divide up the slides or just work on them together?” There it is. A normal question. A perfectly normal, reasonable question that a normal, reasonable person would answer without spiraling into existential dread. I look up. I try to smile—not too wide, not too long, just a quick *I’m friendly but not weird* smile. “Uh,” I say. That’s it. That’s the sound I make. He blinks. He’s waiting. I can tell because he’s holding his pencil kind of mid-air, like he paused mid-thought to look at me. I try again. “I—I think maybe we could, like, split them? But also maybe check each other’s work? So it’s still… cohesive?” Cohesive. Who says cohesive in 8th grade? I sound like I swallowed a textbook. He’s going to think I’m trying too hard. I *am* trying too hard. But he nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. You wanna take the first four slides? I can do the last four.” Yes. Perfect. Say yes. “Cool,” I say. My voice cracks a little on the ‘c’. Cool. Like I’m a vending machine that just dropped the wrong snack. He turns back to his notebook. I exhale so quietly I’m not even sure it counts as breathing. Okay. Okay, that was fine. That was survivable. I didn’t say anything about mitochondria being “sexy,” which I almost did once during a Kahoot because the word “ATP” just sounded very dramatic in my head. I didn’t laugh too loud or too late. I didn’t call him “bro.” I didn’t do the thing where I over-explain and end up sounding like I’m pitching a TED Talk. I glance at him again. He’s sketching something on the margin of his notes. A little robot? A dragon? I can’t tell. His handwriting is small and loopy, like he’s trying to keep it secret even from himself. I wonder what his voice sounds like when he’s not in school. Does he talk to his friends like that—soft, low, like he’s always half-laughing? Or is that just how he sounds when he’s nervous too? I wonder if he ever gets nervous. I should say something. Not something big. Just… something. A follow-up. Like, “Hey, do you want to share a Google Doc?” or “Do you prefer drawing or writing?” or “What’s your stance on mitochondria personally?” No. No, don’t say that. That’s weird. That’s flirting disguised as science and he’ll see right through it. I could ask what music he likes. No. Too random. Too obvious. I could ask if he’s free this weekend to work on it but that sounds like I’m asking him *out* and I’m not. I’m not. I just want the project to be good. And maybe I want him to think I’m smart. Or at least not a disaster. I look down at my notes. I’ve written “ATP = energy” and underlined it three times. That’s it. That’s my contribution so far. I try to write something else. My hand is shaking. Not a lot. Just enough that the pencil wobbles. I press harder. The lead snaps. Of course. I stare at the broken pencil like it betrayed me. Rowan looks up. “Do you need a pencil?” he asks. I nod. Too fast. Like a bobblehead. He hands me one. It’s yellow. Ticonderoga. The kind they give out during state testing. I hate those. But this one is his. So now I love it. “Thanks,” I say. My voice is barely a whisper. I clear my throat. “Thanks,” I say again, louder. Too loud. He smiles. Not a big smile. Just a corner-of-the-mouth one. But it’s there. It happened. I clutch the pencil like it’s a relic. I imagine keeping it forever. I imagine forgetting to give it back and him never asking and it becoming *our thing*. The pencil. The mythic pencil. No. That’s insane. I will give it back. I will not become a pencil hoarder. I look at the slide again. *The Krebs Cycle*. I hate the Krebs Cycle. It’s too round. Too many arrows. It looks like a lie. I sneak another glance at him. He’s chewing on the end of his pen. Not in a gross way. Just gently. Thoughtfully. I wonder if he’s thinking about the project. Or if he’s thinking about something else entirely. Like what he’s having for dinner. Or if he remembered to feed his dog. Or if he’s noticed that I’ve been staring at him for the last three minutes. I look away. My cheeks are hot. I hope I’m not blushing. I *am* blushing. I can feel it. My face is a traffic light. I try to focus. I write “Krebs = circle of confusion” and immediately scribble it out. The projector squeaks again. Slide eight. I wonder if he ever worries about how he sounds. If he rehearses conversations in his head and then hates himself for every word he actually says. If he lies in bed replaying the way someone said “see you tomorrow” and wonders if it meant anything. I wonder if he’s ever had a crush on someone and then had to do a group project with them. I wonder if he’s ever had a crush on *me*. No. That’s impossible. I’m the girl who once said “you too” when the lunch lady told me to enjoy my sandwich. I’m the girl who wore her shirt inside out all day and didn’t notice until P.E. I’m the girl who can’t say “hello” without sounding like I’m apologizing. But he gave me his pencil. Maybe that means something. Or maybe he just had an extra. I’ll never know. I’ll just keep wondering. I’ll just keep overthinking.

Model Output:
The sky outside the café window is sliding from mauve to bruise-blue, the exact color of the last time she left me on read for forty-three minutes. Forty-three minutes is not nothing. Forty-three minutes is how long it takes to decide I’m exhausting, to rehearse the gentle let-down speech, to hit send. I check my phone—eleven percent—then immediately wish I hadn’t. The red sliver looks accusatory, like it’s already bleeding out and taking me with it. Okay. Sit. Breathe. The chairs are small and round, forcing my knees almost to my chest, fetal in public. I imagine her walking in, spotting me balled up like a discarded wrapper, and thinking, *There’s the mood wreck I’ve been avoiding.* I answer her in my head before she can say it: *I’m not always like this, I just didn’t sleep, I thought you weren’t coming, my phone is literally dying.* But the imaginary-her is merciless: *You always have an excuse, you’re a walking apology in human form.* I reply, *At least I admit it.* She counters, *That’s not the flex you think it is.* We go three more rounds; she wins by knockout. I shake my head hard enough that the barista glances over. Smile. Normal. Order something, pretend you aren’t cataloging exits. I ask for a mint tea because caffeine will make me vibrate at a frequency only dogs and abandonment can hear. While the barista works I scroll back through our last texts, mining them for tone like they’re cave paintings. Yesterday she wrote, “Running late tomorrow, save me a seat?” No emoji. *Save me a seat*—neutral logistical request or subtle cry for distance? If she wanted closeness she’d have said, *Can’t wait to see you,* right? She used to send whale emojis for no reason. There are zero whales here. My phone buzzes—battery nine percent—and for a flicker I think it’s her canceling. It’s a pharmacy reminder. I almost laugh; even my prescriptions know I’m spiraling. I silence the alert, then silence my brain: *Stop. She’s not canceling. She’s seven minutes late, not seventy. People hit traffic. People pee. People stop to pet dogs.* But the other voice, the one that sounds like my mother mixed with every screenshot of every ex, says, *Or she’s outside right now deciding how to phrase it.* I start drafting her script: *I think we moved too fast, you’re intense, I need space.* I practice my own cool-girl nod: *Totally get it, no worries, take care.* I add a mental hair flip. The hair flip is important; it says I have options even though we both know I’ve already deleted every dating app in a symbolic act of loyalty I now regret. Eight percent. I turn on Low Power Mode and imagine turning on Low Person Mode, a setting where I only text once a day and never ask, *Are you mad?* I could market it. Rich BPD kids would pay millions. I snort at myself—meta enough to joke about it, still too cowardly to stop. She walks in. Real her. Not script-her. Real her cheeks are wind-burned, her curls escaping her beanie like they’ve been trying to run. She spots me and her face does this soft thing, like turning down the volume on panic. She mouths, *Sorry, traffic,* and I feel my ribs unclench before I can stop them. Do not trust this, I warn them. Do not relax. She might still be warming up to the let-down. She slides into the chair across from me, fingertips brushing mine. “You okay? You look…tight.” Tight is a gentle word for *ready to detonate.* I start to say “fine,” rehearse adding a casual laugh, but instead hear myself blurt, “My phone’s about to die and I convinced myself you weren’t coming.” Immediately I hate the raw edge on my voice. I brace for the flicker of annoyance, the micro-recoil. It doesn’t come. She frowns, concerned, and pulls a lipstick-size power bank from her coat pocket. “I charged it for you. Figured you’d stress.” She says it like it’s obvious, like loving me includes pre-gaming my meltdowns. The gesture is so specific it hurts in a new place. I accept the power bank with both hands, a priest receiving relics. Six percent now; the little green lightning bolt feels like absolution. “I wasn’t sure you still wanted to—” I start, then bite the inside of my cheek. *Shut up, shut up.* But it leaks out anyway. “—see me, I mean. You’ve been…distant.” I wait for the sigh. The *here we go.* Instead she reaches across and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, exactly the way imaginary-her refused to do. “I was swamped with grant deadlines,” she says. “I should’ve texted more. I’m sorry.” The apology lands like cold water on a burn. I flinch. If she apologizes, that means she *notices* how broken I am, which proves I’m too much. My brain flips through the Rolodex of scripts: *You deserve someone easier,* *I’m a project,* *You’ll leave eventually so maybe we should just—* She squeezes my hand. “Hey. Stop spiraling. I can see you doing it.” I laugh, wet and mortified. “Am I that transparent?” “Only to me,” she says, “and only because I love you.” The L-word ricochets around my skull, shattering every rehearsed breakup scene like cheap glass. I want to staple the moment down, proof that it happened, but the second I try to pocket it, doubt sidles in: *She said love present-tense, not future. People say love and still leave. Love doesn’t mean stay.* I plug my phone into the power bank. The screen brightens: 7%. I feel the same—technically charging, still at risk of sudden blackout. She orders a hot cider and asks if I want food; I shake my head because eating would require ceasing surveillance of her face. She chats about a ridiculous faculty meeting, imitating the dean’s monotone. I laugh on cue while scanning her for signs of forced cheer, the tell-tale pity laugh. I find none, which only convinces me she’s better at masking than I am at detecting. Halfway through her story she pauses. “You’re splitting, aren’t you?” I flinch. Hearing my disorder named feels like being caught naked. “I—maybe.” The honesty tastes metallic. “I’m trying not to.” She nods like I’ve admitted I have a headache, not a hurricane. “Want me to reality-check you?” I nod, a small child with permission to ask for the moon. “I’m here because I want to be. I missed you. I’m not going anywhere tonight, and I plan on many more nights.” She says it slow, like pressing each word into wet cement. I repeat them in my head, but they smear: *plan* sounds tentative, *tonight* has an expiration date. Still, my shoulders drop a centimeter. I watch her mouth move—something about a movie next week—and I imagine reaching across and kissing her mid-sentence to stop time. But touching first feels dangerous, like grabbing a bird that might decide flight is safer. So I sit on my hands. She finishes her cider, checks her watch, then mine: 18%. “We did it,” she grins. “Battery and human both still alive.” I manage a real smile, small but not forged. She stands, offers her hand. I take it. Skin warm, pulse steady. I count the beats like proof. Outside, the wind knifes between us. She laces our fingers tighter. For one crystalline second I let myself believe this is enough. Then a gust yanks a strand of her hair across my face, and I think: *Stray hair, ugly moment, she’ll remember this as the night I looked deranged.* I start to disengage my hand—preemptive retreat—but she tightens her grip. “Still here,” she says without looking over. We walk. My phone in my pocket hums—22%. Green line creeping. I picture it plateauing at 98% and never quite trusting the last two. I picture her beside me tomorrow, next week, next month, and every image pixelates. The awareness stings: I can see the pattern, name it, diagnose it, and still the projector in my skull keeps rolling disaster reels. I am the phantom limb pain of my own future. But tonight she is warm and solid and humming the song we made out to last Saturday. Tonight the sidewalk doesn’t crack open to swallow me. Tonight I let the imagined jury adjourn without verdict and, for the length of one block, walk in silence that is not war.

Model Output:
The single torch wedged between two broken roof-tiles burns low, a finger of resinous pine that throws orange angles across the nave of the abandoned temple. Stone Bodhisattvas lean in the dark like bored judges. Along the walls, perhaps thirty men and women—half in indigo jackets stitched with the Jigen crest, half in rough hemp bearing the red sash of the Pigua school—form a tight circle only seven paces across. Every breath steams silver in the cold. The wager chest, a cracked lacquered box, sits at the north end between two grinning bookmakers. In the center, the combatants stand exactly four arm-lengths apart, their shadows tangling on the cracked flagstones. To the east: Arashi Kurogane, twenty-two, Jigen-ryū prodigy. Heels together, left foot slid a half-step back, spine erect as a spear. His long sword—o-katana ground to dueling length—is sheathed across the small of his back; the duel is empty-hand by mutual oath. White uwagi, black hakama, the whale-skin lapel flicking light like wet steel. Fingers already flexing, knuckles pale. To the west: Li “Little Whirlwind” Wen, twenty-one, Piguaquan exile from the Guangdong docks. He stands loose, weight on the balls of his feet, knees soft, shoulders hanging as if clothless. A scarlet headband keeps sweat from his eyes; hemp trousers ride low, bare torso latticed with pale whip-marks of old fights. His arms are long, tendons quivering like bowstrings. The referee, a one-eyed Shaolin dropout, raises his hand. No words; the temple already knows what must happen. His hand slices down. Arashi explodes first—exactly as Jigen doctrine demands. Right foot stamps forward, heel skimming the stone, hips snapping in a single violent plane. His lead fist pistons straight for Li’s solar plexus, the punch driven by the same spiral that would have cleared a scabbard. The strike is pure linear violence, knuckles rotating over at the last heartbeat to drive through the target, not to it. Li is already gone. His left foot skitters back six inches, weight rolling onto the outside edge. The punch shears past the loose weave of his shirt; air rasps against Arashi’s forearm. Simultaneously, Li’s right arm whips upward in a loose arc, palm-edge leading. It is not a block but a reaping sickle: his forearm catches the inside of Arashi’s wrist, momentum diverted upward and left. Arashi’s torso, committed to the lunge, tilts half a degree past balance. That half-degree is enough. Li’s torso folds forward at the waist, spine bowing like a willow, and his trailing left leg snaps straight in a scything heel-kick aimed at the back of Arashi’s supporting knee. The counterattack travels in a low, horizontal circle, foot flicked from the hip the way a dockworker snaps a rope’s end. Arashi senses, rather than sees, the sweep. Jigen footwork drills—ten thousand hours of stamping through sand—kick in. His right foot, still forward from the punch, stamps again, but this time the ball of the foot pivots ninety degrees. Torque snakes up his leg; his hakama whips outward. The heel-kick whistles past empty air. Stone sparks where Li’s foot skims it. For an instant the two fighters are side by side, shoulders almost brushing, facing opposite directions like magnets repelling. Arashi’s left elbow, still cocked from the missed punch, now scythes backward in a short, brutal arc toward Li’s temple—a move borrowed from battlefield grappling, the iron fan of the elbow meant to crush lacquered helmets. Li has already dropped his level. His knees fold; the elbow passes a finger-width above his hair. In the same squat he spins counterclockwise, palms slicing the air in crossing parabolas. The left palm rides the inside of Arashi’s elbow, pushing it farther out; the right palm, fingers curled like a talon, whips across toward Arashi’s lead ribs—classic Pigua “double wind” entry, soft circles masking a steel core. The slap lands. The sound is flat, wet; flesh ripples under Arashi’s ribs. Pain flares like molten wire, but the Jigen fighter clamps down on it. He rides the impact, letting it feed his next motion. His right foot, now planted behind him, drags backward in a short, scraping drag. Weight transfers. His left shoulder lifts and drives forward like a gate slamming, elbow chambered tight. It is the Jigen shoulder-strike: a battering ram powered by the entire kinetic chain, meant to collapse sternums. Li tries to angle off, but the flagstones betray him—one tile cracked and raised two finger-widths higher than its neighbor. His pivot stutters. The shoulder crashes into the pocket between his left pectoral and biceps. Li’s body jackknifes left, feet skimming stone; he uses the momentum to roll, palm slapping ground for balance, but the circle has carried him to the eastern edge of the ring—two paces from a toppled prayer bench. Arashi pursues in a straight line: two short, stamping steps that erase the distance. As Li rises from the roll, Arashi’s right hand snaps up in a vertical knife-hand strike, edge aimed at the soft underside of Li’s chin. The strike is so fast the torch flame bends toward it. Li is not where the strike lands. His left foot, already pointing north, pivots hard. His right foot whips behind it, heel skimming the floor—Pigua’s “drunken step,” weight low and fluid. The knife-hand slices air. Li’s body corkscrews; hips unwind like a snapped chain. His right arm, elbow locked, scythes downward in a 270-degree arc. The back-fist, driven by the entire spiral, cracks against the meat of Arashi’s right thigh—halfway between hip and knee, where nerves braid close to bone. The leg buckles. Arashi’s stance, wide and rooted a heartbeat ago, collapses inward. He drops to one knee, palms slapping flagstone to arrest the fall. Dust puffs up. The crowd emits a low, animal growl. Li does not leap back to safety; Pigua thrives in the pocket. He steps forward, left foot sliding, and his left elbow whips across in a level arc. But the angle is wrong—Arashi’s collapse has shortened the line. The elbow grazes the back of Arashi’s skull, hair whipping like straw. Arashi’s eyes, downcast, see the torch’s reflection in a coin-sized puddle of rainwater. He uses it like a mirror: Li’s silhouette moves inside the trembling orange circle. Arashi’s right leg, numb but not useless, pistons backward in a low hooking sweep. His heel catches Li’s lead ankle from the inside. Li’s supporting leg flies out from under him. He topples backward, arms windmilling. The floor rushes up; his shoulder blades hit stone with a hollow thud that drives air from his lungs. Arashi rises in the same motion, weight rolling over the recovered leg. He lunges, right fist cocked high for a finishing hammerfist to the sternum. One pace away. Li’s hips twist on the ground. His right leg whips up like a snapped banner. The heel, guided by hip and waist, arcs over his own torso and smashes into the underside of Arashi’s jaw. The kick is pure Pigua: long limb, whip speed, borrowed ground force. Arashi’s head snaps back. Feet leave stone. He lands flat on his back three feet from where the kick landed, arms splayed like a dropped scarecrow. The torch guttering above trembles as if shocked. Silence. Then a single drop of blood—Arashi’s, from split lip—strikes stone with audible clarity. Neither fighter moves. The torch, now a blue nub, hisses, and darkness creeps inward. Only when the referee’s boot scrapes forward do they stir. Arashi rolls to his side, coughs once, and plants a palm to rise. Li, chest heaving, curls to a crouch. They stand within arm’s reach, both swaying, both bleeding, both too exhausted for pride to speak. The circle closes tighter, wagers forgotten. Somewhere in the dark, a Jigen elder spits; a Pigua girl lifts her headband to wipe tears. But inside the shrinking ring of firelight, the two fighters simply breathe, eyes locked, measuring the distance that four paces ago seemed unbridgeable. The torch dies. In the sudden black, the only sound is two hearts hammering against generations of silence.

Model Output:
00:47:12 The mirror-lined box of Studio 4 smells of bleach and wintergreen balm. I plant my left sneaker exactly on the blue X—five centimeters behind my right, weight split forty-sixty, arms pinned to a forty-five-degree angle like I’m trapped in an invisible cube. The clock above the mirror burns amber: forty-seven minutes until Mr. Park closes the steel door and turns the lock with a click that always feels like a gunshot. His voice slices the air. “From eight-count twenty-nine. Roll on one, freeze on eight. No bounce. Precision is breath.” I hear the techno kick drum at 128 bpm, click track drilled into my spine since 7 a.m. Around me, the other twelve trainees—fresh from Busan academies and Tokyo hip-hop conservatories—snap into formation like chrome parts on an assembly line. I’m the only matte-finish piece: hoodie frayed at the elbows, shoelaces knotted where they broke, wrists still smelling of subway brakes. Count in. He doesn’t cue us; we cue ourselves. I inhale on the silent “and” before one, then— One: torso folds at a perfect ninety, elbows stab straight back, fists stacked beneath sternum. I feel my scapula kiss T7, vertebrae locking like Legos. Street instinct screams for me to swerve, to let the beat ripple through a loose chest pop and heel-toe pivot, but I solder the shape. Two: right foot skates forward exactly one shoe length—thirty centimeters, measured yesterday with a ruler—ball then heel, no sound. My hip flexor cramps; I override it, glutes engaged to keep pelvis neutral. Three: left foot slides to close, knees hyper-extended in K-pop fashion, quads burning. Four: stillness. Absolute. Even my nostrils freeze. In the mirror I see the difference. Everyone else is a knife; I’m water wearing a knife costume. My shoulders tremble with sub-bass I want to answer, a neck roll begging to unwind, but I clench it down. Five: arms slice upward in a lightning-bolt path—fingertips brushing a theoretical 2-D plane extending from mirror surface—until wrists lock above hairline. I hear Mr. Park’s footsteps circling behind us, measuring millimeters with the eye of a watchmaker. Six: pivot both heels forty-five degrees right, hips square, knees softening exactly three degrees so I don’t bounce. My calloused sneaker sole squeaks. The sound ricochets; in my peripheral vision, Yoon-Jin’s right eyebrow lifts. A mistake logged. Seven: drop to demi-plié, tailbone tucked, spine vertical. Street memory flashes—cypher in Crown Heights, knees bending low to scoop the beat, rib cage floating free. I squash the ghost move. Eight: freeze. Chin parallel to floor, eyes forward, breath shallow. 00:45:03 “Again,” Mr. Park says. He stops behind me; I see his reflection over my left shoulder. “Scholarship boy. Spine like cooked noodle. Tighten.” He taps the spot between my scapulae with a telescoping baton—cold aluminum through thin cotton. I retract rhomboids until the skin stretches over bone. I want to tell him my spine isn’t spaghetti; it’s a question mark shaped by subway poles and concrete tremors. Instead I nod. We rewind. I track positions like I’m tagging them in my brain: front wall is north, mirrors east, exit south, clock west. My grid. I calculate angles: elbows at 90°, knees 180° locked, wrists 0° deviation. The math crowds out melody. 00:42:50 Third repetition. The metronome drills deeper; my pulse syncs to the click. Somewhere around count thirty-seven—eight-count four of the new phrase—my left calf spasms. The popliteus misfires; for half a beat my heel lifts two millimeters. I slam it down but it’s too late. Mr. Park’s voice cracks like dry ice. “Reset. Everyone out except Lee.” Bodies file out, synchronized footsteps like dominos clicking off. Door shuts. Now it’s just me, mirrors, and the clock. 00:42:11. He stands center, feet in parallel first position, arms behind back. “Show me your freestyle. Ten seconds.” Confusion tilts my axis. I step back from the X, letting my weight sink into the left hip like I’m leaning against a phantom subway pole. The beat is still running—electro synth at 128—but I slice it into half-time, letting a 64-bpm pocket bloom. Left shoulder rolls forward, elbow whips around like a rope, rib cage isolates in a slow wave. I slide into a heel-toe glide, sneakers whispering across Marley floor, ankles pronating just enough to paint circles. Arms thread through invisible water; hips cypher around their own axis. I hit a dime-stop on the snare, then melt through knees, palms brushing floor, rising again with a chest pop that answers backbeat like call-and-response. Ten seconds feels like breathing after drowning. 00:42:01 He doesn’t clap. “Dirt on crystal,” he says. “Raw, powerful. But look—” he gestures at the mirror—“no edges. Our choreography is cut diamond. You polish or you shatter.” I swallow. My sweat tastes metallic. “I can learn the edges.” “Can you cut your own fingerprints off?” He steps closer; I smell citrus soap. “Scholarship is investment. Investors want return in uniformity. Your flavor—too loud. Dilute it or fail.” 00:41:30 He cues the track again, same eight-count. My turn solo. I step back onto the blue X. He raises the baton—conductor’s baton now. “No bounce.” Count in. I run the sequence like code: One: fold. Two: slide. Three: close. Four: freeze—this time I micro-bounce by accident, a vibration from my tibialis anterior. His baton taps my knee. “Lock.” I try again. The shapes feel like armor strapped over skin. But between counts I hear subway steel grinding, sneakers scuffing against asphalt, cousin Jay’s boombox rattling Biggie. My body wants to answer that call. 00:40:00 Mr. Park moves to the stereo. “Final attempt. If you can’t match line, you’ll train basics in isolation until muscle memory is overwritten.” He presses play. The click counts four. I breathe. Right foot on X, left precisely back. Arms glued to sides. The mirror army stares back—twelve reflections of me, each one sharper, colder. One: fold. I hinge at the hips, but instead of freezing I let a micro-roll ripple up my spine—barely a centimeter, but it’s mine. Two: Instead of sliding straight, my foot arcs an almost imperceptible crescent, tracing the ghost of a hip-hop glide. Three: As knees straighten, I allow a hip tick on the off-beat—one millisecond early. Four: Freeze—except my left index finger curls, tagging the air like spray paint on a train car. It’s infinitesimal. But the mirrors catch everything. Mr. Park’s eyes narrow. He saw it. He pauses the track. Silence swells like blood in ears. “Explain.” I stand on the X, chest heaving. “That small curve is my signature. Without it, I’m a photocopy.” 00:38:45 He circles me slowly. “K-pop is language of mass synchronization. Unique glyphs disrupt readability.” “Then let me be the accent, not the typo,” I say. “I can hit your angles and still keep the pulse that got me here.” He stops behind me; I feel his breath on my neck. “Prove it. Same eight-count. Embed your accent within tolerance—deviate less than two degrees, two centimeters. Precision with soul.” He restarts track. My heart clocks 140 bpm against the 128 click. I visualize: angles like scaffolding, my groove like ivy threading through without breaking steel. One: fold exactly ninety, but let scapula slide two millimeters extra, just enough to carry a whisper of roll. Two: foot slides the thirty cm, but knee travels in a one-centimeter circle, invisible except to those who know where to look. Three: close, but tongue clicks against palate on the off-beat—internal metronome syncing old with new. Four: absolute freeze, yet eyes blink on the half-count—signature tag. I hold. The mirrors show thirteen identical silhouettes, but I feel the beat still vibrating under my sternum, unbroken. 00:37:50 Mr. Park says nothing for five seconds. Then a single nod. “Again. Together.” The door opens; the others file back in, forming grid. Clock ticks down. We all take positions. I plant my left sneaker on the X, right foot back, arms pinned—but inside the cube of my ribs, a subway train keeps rolling. I don’t know yet whether I’ve saved my voice or sold it, but when the count starts, I’m ready to negotiate with every millimeter.

Model Output:
The Court of the Dreaming assembled at an hour that had never before existed—three-thirty ante-midnight—because Dream preferred cases he found trivial to be finished before the grandfather clocks noticed. A single ironwood bench, a few drifting candles, and a carpet of self-doubting moths served as courtroom furniture. Dream himself perched not on a throne but on the idea of a chair, which creaked whenever someone lied. “Call the matter,” he said, voice as soft as a page being torn. “First Love versus Mora, Territorial Dream Dispute 7,431-Beta.” First Love stepped forward. She was a watercolor smudge in a cardigan, cheeks perpetually flushed as though perpetually embarrassed by her own existence. A daisy clung to her temple like a nervous barrette. She carried a folder labeled *Sensitively Curated Memories*—it bulged with scented tissues and half-written valentines. Opposite her lounged Mora: ash-skinned, horns politely filed to fashionable points, wearing what might once have been a school uniform but had since been repurposed into something you’d need a permission slip to look at. Every few seconds she exhaled a laugh that sounded like a fingernail dragging across silk. The moths scattered, then regrouped in a sulkier pattern. Dream lifted two fingers. Silence fell, thick as cold custard. “Counsel, state your grievances succinctly. I have insomnia to oversee on four continents.” First Love cleared her throat; it came out as a peal of wind chimes. “My Lord, I spent eleven months constructing Max’s recurring dream—wildflowers, gentle yearning, the almost-kiss that tastes like strawberry lip balm mixed with possibility. It is a foundational template. Your own guidelines call it Category Sentimental-Prime. But three nights ago the defendant”—she pointed at Mora, who waved like a bored starlet—“invaded, altered, and monetized my dreamscape without consent. Now, when the girl climbs atop the dreamer, she… transmogrifies. Into…” She faltered. “Into me,” Mora finished, grin sharp enough to notch moonlight. “A perfectly respectable nightmare. I sit, I press, I sup. A girl’s gotta eat too, you know?” A cackle ricocheted through the rafters. Somewhere a gargoyle rolled its eyes. Dream sighed; the idea of the chair grew spindlier, as though embarrassed to be seen with him. “Are you asserting prior claim under the Doctrine of First Fright?” “I am asserting *squatter’s rights*,” Mora said. “The boy’s heart raced so deliciously it drew me like a candle draws moths. Speaking of which—” She snatched one out of the air, popped it like bonbon, and gave Dream a look that dared him to object. The moths reorganized into a huffy asterisk. First Love produced a parchment scroll and began unrolling it toward the horizon. “Exhibit A: the original dream schema. Notice the pollen count calibrated to trigger mild sneeze equals endearing vulnerability. Exhibit B: the consent clause signed by Max’s subconscious.” A small boy-shaped sigil appeared on the parchment, yawning adorably. Mora flicked a speck of ash onto it. “Signatures from unconscious minors aren’t binding; everyone knows that. Besides, I improved the thing. In my version the girl still likes him, she’s just… *hungrier*. Adds layers. The confusion is now existential. He wakes up questioning reality *and* his taste in women. That’s value-added terror.” Dream rubbed the bridge of his nose; galaxies briefly formed and died between his fingers. “We are not here to debate aesthetics.” “Pity,” murmured Mora. “Aesthetics are delicious.” First Love clutched her folder. “My Lord, if nightmares may simply annex sentimental dreams, no delicate rite of passage is safe. First dances, first mix tapes, first under-the-bleachers—” “Objection,” Mora said lazily. “Under-the-bleachers is already mine. Excellent acoustics for screams.” Dream’s eyes became two moonless ponds. “Sustained. Focus. Remedy sought?” First Love straightened. “Eviction and restoration. Also punitive reparations in the form of twelve dewdrops of pure regret, to be distilled into next spring’s honeysuckle.” Mora stretched, vertebrae clicking like dice. “Counteroffer: shared custody. I get alternate Thursdays and every full moon. During my nights the girl keeps the boy pinned; during yours he gets to fumble at zippers made of cloud. The dreamer learns *both* rapture and dread. Balanced curriculum. Very modern.” A rumble; Dream was drumming the non-existent armrest. Each tap birthed a small storm cloud that rained on itself. “The Court does not appreciate franchising childhood trauma.” “But it’s *efficient*,” Mora cooed. “Two archetypes, one REM cycle. Think of the server space we’d save.” First Love’s blush deepened to arterial. “Romance is not a server!” “Everything is a server,” Dream said, surprising them both. “But not everything should be optimized.” He rose; the idea of the chair vanished, leaving only vacuum and mild regret. “Approach. Both of you.” They stepped forward. First Love smelled of lilacs and unspoken apologies; Mora of iron filings and yesterday’s smoke. Dream studied them the way a bored cat studies a dangling string. “Max will wake in six minutes,” he said. “Whatever we decide must be woven before the toaster pops.” He circled them once. Shadows followed him like obedient dogs. “I find,” he continued, “that the dream as originally designed is saccharine past the point of digestion. Yet the defendant’s revision is… unsubtle.” Mora preened. “I aim to be remembered.” “Nightmares should be metaphors, not mugging,” Dream replied. “Still, First Love, you have grown complacent. The almost-kiss has been almost too long. Passion calcifies into routine.” First Love looked at her shoes—two shy rabbits currently chewing her laces. Dream stopped. “Therefore: merger. But on my terms.” Both spirits opened their mouths; Dream silenced them with a glance that folded the air. “Field remains. Wildflowers stay, save one patch which will now grow black poppies—Mora’s sustenance, but arranged so their scent causes gentle drowsy paralysis, not terror. When the girl moves to kiss, she will shift: half cherub, half succubus. Mouth soft, teeth just sharp enough to remind. She will feed lightly—one gasp, no more—then the kiss lands. Pleasure laced with the faint metallic tang of fear. The boy will wake unsure whether he has been loved or consumed.” He smiled, an expression rarely sighted and never insured. “Both of you will monitor dosage. If either flavor overpowers the other, I will personally reassign the dream to the Bureau of Tax Audits. They have *forms*.” Mora’s cackle died mid-escape, knotted itself, and slunk back down her throat. First Love looked as though she’d been kissed and bitten by the same mouth. Dream clapped once. The sound became parchment, sealed itself, and flew to the docket. “Carried. Next case.” As the entities turned to leave, Dream added, almost as an afterthought, “Mora, do try to leave the moths alone. They’re unionized.” Mora bowed, eyes glittering with schemes already half-hatched. First Love followed, clutching the amended dream like a fragile egg. When the hall emptied, Dream allowed himself the tiniest chuckle—one that sounded remarkably like a thirteen-year-old discovering that fear and desire share a tongue.

Model Output:
A crimson harvest moon bleeds across the sky, spattering the deserted village of Klein-Draken with ominous shadows. Shattered doors hang from iron hinges; shutters creak like gallows ropes. The reek of fresh blood and old fear drifts between half-timbered houses, yet no corpse remains. Something has already fed. Yennefer steps into the square, boots clicking across frost-rimed cobblestones. Starlight glints off the obsidian raven brooch at her throat; her black-and-white pelisse billows like storm clouds. Violet eyes sweep the emptiness, one gloved hand brushing lilac-garnet scent into the night. She tastes magic—old, sour, vampiric—but not the low stench of Striga or Ekimma. This is older, colder. Royal. She murmurs a detection glyph. Violet sigils swirl, then shatter like glass shards, repelled by an answering pulse of malevolent power. Something laughs at her; the sound slithers inside her skull. “Amusing trick,” a cultured voice says behind her. “But birds should be careful where they land.” Yennefer pivots, fingers already crackling with black lightning. A figure stands atop the well, silhouetted against the blood moon—red coat flapping, wide brim shading orange lenses that reflect her glare. Alucard tips his hat with exaggerated courtesy. Yennefer’s lip curls. “Another monster who quotes bad poetry instead of introducing himself.” Alucard’s grin widens, revealing serrated ivory. “Poetry is the wound through which the soul bleeds, sorceress. But names are such fragile things.” “Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she snaps, refusing to let his stare linger on her figure. “And I don’t trade riddles with leeches.” “Alucard,” he answers, savoring the consonants. “Count, devil, eternal brat—call me what you wish. I am what your kind pretends not to fear.” He steps down from the well without touching the ground, boots hovering an inch above frost. Yennefer’s magic bristles. Telekinesis—fine. She can counter that. But she feels something deeper: a gravitational pull, as if the night itself has chosen a king and will not obey two thrones. “You emptied this village,” she accuses. “I culled livestock that forgot it was prey,” Alucard corrects. “Their screams were… adequate. But they bored me. You, on the other hand—” he inhales her scent “—reek of chaos and starlight. A far richer vintage.” Her upper lip curls. “Try to drink and you’ll choke on frostbite.” He laughs again, and the sound is a cathedral organ played with bone keys. “Your confidence is delicious.” Yennefer flicks her wrist. A lattice of purple portals rips open above the square; shards of compressed aether rain like meteors. Alucard spreads his arms wide, letting the barrage punch silver-lined craters through torso and coat. Gore splatters, then slithers back into place, fibers weaving shut. Within seconds he stands pristine, licking a bead of his own blood from a fingertip. “You wound me,” he purrs, “yet I heal. Shall I return the favor?” Twin handguns materialize from shadows—sleek, oversized, engraved with crucifixes and thorns. The barrels level at her chest. He fires faster than sound. Yennefer snaps a shield; the bullets spark against a hemisphere of obsidian energy, ricocheting into the night like angry fireflies. Sparks die. Silence stretches. Each realizes the other is not bleeding, not retreating. The power dynamic tilts, then steadies again, a scale balanced on a razor. Yennefer lowers her hands, sarcasm sharp as a stiletto. “Silver bullets? How quaint. Did a church boy give you those?” “They’re merely an appetizer,” Alucard replies, holstering the guns. “The main course is conversation. Tell me, witch, what brings a sorceress of your caliber to a graveyard masquerading as a village?” “A contract. Missing children. I assumed a higher vampire.” She studies him. “But you’re something else—ancient, self-loathing. Desperate for an audience.” Alucard’s orange lenses glint. “Self-loathing?” He chuckles. “I adore myself. I simply abhor boredom. And eternity is tedious.” Yennefer steps closer, boots crunching frost. “Eternity without purpose rots the mind. Believe me, I know.” He circles her now, predator testing a circle of salt. “Purpose? You chase motherhood like a dog its tail. Bartering with genies, swallowing mutagens, all to fill a cradle you shattered centuries ago.” Her spine stiffens; violet eyes blaze. “You know nothing of my choices.” “I know the scent of regret,” Alucard whispers, suddenly behind her, breath cold against her nape. “It smells of lilac and gooseberries and sterile wombs.” Yennefer whirls, thrusting a palm toward his heart. Black lightning spears his chest, bursts out the other side, and forks into the sky like a crooked crown. Alucard’s ribcage gapes, edges sizzling, yet he only smiles wider. “Impressive,” he concedes. “But you cannot kill what refuses death.” “Then I’ll trap what refuses death,” she retorts. Sigils flare beneath his feet—an ouroboros of runes glowing ultraviolet. Chains of pure force whip upward, binding ankles, wrists, throat. Alucard tests them, raising an eyebrow when they hold. “Binding circles? How nostalgic.” He leans forward, chains creaking. “But circles close both ways.” A ripple of crimson light bursts from him. His shadow explodes outward, swallowing moonlight. The silhouette sprouts wings, eyes, fanged mouths—an entire parliament of nightmares. Yennefer’s circle shudders; one rune fractures. She clenches her fists, pouring more aether into the glyphs. Sweat beads on her brow despite the cold. Alucard watches, fascinated, as her hair whips in a magical updraft. “You’re magnificent when strained,” he says. “Like a storm too proud to break.” “Flattery from a parasite,” she spits. “Release the children you took.” Alucard tilts his head. “Children? I devoured no children. They’re in the woods, hiding, driven mad by the village’s screams. Collateral fear. I prefer adults—aged, complex, full of contradictions.” Yennefer’s eyes narrow. Truth, or clever misdirection? She decides to gamble. She drops the bind. Runes evaporate into violet sparks. Alucard’s shadow reels back, coalescing into his human form, expression unreadable. “Amusing,” he says. “The mouse frees the cat. Why?” “Because bargaining with free monsters is easier than wrestling caged ones.” She walks past him toward the forest path. After a heartbeat, he follows, coat flapping like bat wings. Side by side, they tread the moonlit trail—sorceress and ancient vampire. Pines whisper overhead. Somewhere, a child sobs. Alucard glances sideways. “You assume I won’t kill you the moment your back is turned.” Yennefer smirks. “You assume I don’t have a hex waiting for such a moment.” Neither confirms nor denies. Their power dynamic sways with every footfall, two dancers on a sword’s edge. They find the children huddled in a root cellar, eyes glassy, clothes torn. Yennefer kneels, murmuring soothing spells. Alucard leans against the doorframe, watching. The smallest girl looks up at him, clutching a rag doll. Alucard removes his hat, bows with theatrical grace. The girl giggles, terror ebbing. Yennefer stands, brushing dirt from her knees. “You could help instead of posing.” “I am helping,” he protests. “Fear is a poison. Laughter is an antidote.” She cannot argue; the children are calming. When they emerge, the moon has climbed higher, deepening from blood to garnet. Yennefer levitates the sleepy children onto a conjured platform of light. She pauses before leaving. Alucard stands in the clearing, coat billowing. “The night grows stale. Will you hunt me next, sorceress?” “Perhaps,” she answers. “Or perhaps I’ll summon you when I need something stronger than dimeritium bombs.” “Then I await your call.” His smile is thin, sharp, almost wistful. “Try not to bore me, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” She touches the raven brooch. “Try not to beg for death before I grant it, Count.” Neither says goodbye. She glides into the sky, children in tow, violet portal snapping shut behind her. Alucard watches the space she occupied, tasting lilac on the winter air. Somewhere inside his ancient chest, something stirs—something dangerously close to hope. He tips his hat to the blood moon and vanishes into shadow, already composing the next game.

Model Output:
A dim overhead light flickers in the prison corridor at irregular intervals. The hallway smells of bleach and rust, and the only sound is the soft scuff of flip-flops on concrete. Jolyne Cujoh leans against the reinforced glass of the common-room door, arms folded under the sleeves of her lime-green jacket. Her two buns are lopsided from a restless night, and her butterfly tattoo twitches with the flex of her biceps. She does not like what she sees on the other side. Seated at the card table, back perfectly straight, is the new inmate everyone is already calling “the Red Witch.” Auburn hair catches the stuttering light like fresh blood, and every time her ringed yellow eyes blink the fluorescent glow seems to hold still for a fraction longer, as if the bulb itself is nervous. Makima. No last name, no number on the manifest that the guards will admit to. She smiles at the other prisoners with the gentle patience of a kindergarten teacher, and they lean in like dogs at feeding time. Jolyne’s lip curls. “That chick gives me the creeps,” she mutters to Emporio, who hovers nearby, translucent in his ghost hoodie. “Look at them. They’re panting.” Emporio’s eyes narrow. “No records in the system. No intake photo. She just appeared.” Stone Free’s strings twitch under Jolyne’s skin, a restless static. “Then we treat her like a Stand user until proven otherwise.” Makima lifts her gaze through the glass and meets Jolyne’s. The smile does not change, but something sharpens behind it, blade on whetstone. She raises one finger and crooks it in a small come-here motion, as if the glass and the locked door are nothing. Jolyne pushes off the wall. “Time to say hi.” The electronic lock beeps; Jolyne shoulders inside. Conversation dies instantly. Chairs scrape. The inmates who were fawning over Makima retreat to corners, eyes glassy with confusion, as if waking from a dream. Jolyne plants herself across the table. Makima’s voice is honey over gravel. “Jolyne Cujoh. Your reputation precedes you. I admire your… tenacity.” “Save it. You got a Stand? Devil? Voodoo doll collection?” Jolyne’s strings trail along the underside of the table, weaving between metal bolts like spider silk. “I deal in leashes, not strings,” Makima answers, tilting her head. “Though I suspect your threads could be persuaded to knot themselves around your own throat, if the mood struck.” Jolyne snorts. “Cute. You talk like a fortune cookie with a god complex.” Makima’s smile widens, showing neat, white teeth. “I simply believe in order. This facility is chaos. You, especially, are chaos. I could teach you harmony.” “Harmony’s just another word for cage.” Jolyne leans forward, elbows on the table, butterfly wings of her tattoo stretching as muscles coil. “Tell me what you did to them.” She flicks a glance at the dazed inmates. “I gave them what they desired,” Makima says, soft. “Obedience is comfort. They asked to be relieved of choice.” Jolyne’s stomach knots. “So you decided you’re their owner.” “Dogs are happiest with masters.” Makima folds her hands. “Would you like to walk on a leash, Jolyne? I have one strong enough to hold even you.” Stone Free manifests at half-strength, translucent green threads swirling around Jolyne’s forearm like guard wires. “Try it and I’ll unravel your nervous system.” Makima’s eyes glint. “Intriguing. A body that becomes string, a soul that remains whole. Could I sever the string without touching the soul? Or must I claim both?” The overhead light buzzes, then dies for three full seconds. In the darkness, Jolyne hears the soft click of something metallic—handcuff? leash clasp?—but when the bulb flares back, Makima has not moved. Across the room, a burly inmate named Gunther suddenly jerks upright. His pupils dilate until the irises are slim rings; drool glistens on his chin. He lurches toward Jolyne, arms swinging like broken marionettes. “Control Devil,” Emporio whispers from the doorway. “She’s puppeteering him.” Gunther lunges. Jolyne sidesteps, threads snapping outward. Stone Free’s fist cocoons the man’s wrist mid-swing, twists, and tangles around his other arm, binding him like a mummy in green fiber. He crashes face-first to the floor, unconscious but breathing. “Congratulations,” Makima says, voice still calm. “You protected yourself without killing him. That restraint is precisely why I want you.” Jolyne spits to the side. “You’re using people like tissues.” “They are tissues,” Makima replies, almost kindly. “Disposable. You could be permanent.” The temperature drops. Frost creeps along the steel legs of the card table. Makima’s breath does not mist; she is too cold to register the chill. She stands, chair sliding back without sound. “I propose a contract,” she says. “Serve me, and I’ll grant you freedom from this prison. Refuse, and I’ll demonstrate what happens to rebellious dogs.” Jolyne laughs, sharp and loud. “I’ve seen the ‘freedom’ you give. Pass.” Makima’s eyes flash red. From her shadow, something stretches—thin, jointed limbs ending in snipping pincers. The ghost of the Control Devil’s true form. The air thickens, pressing on lungs like wet cement. Jolyne’s strings lash out first. Stone Free unravels her torso in a spiraling net that ricochets off the ceiling and rains down like a web. Makima raises a hand; the strings freeze mid-air, suspended by an invisible grip. Thousands of filaments tremble, inches from her face. “Control,” Makima murmurs. “Absolute.” Jolyne grins through clenched teeth. “Strings ain’t just for tying, bitch.” She detonates the web. Every frozen filament fractures into micro-fibers that explode into confetti. The shards slice at invisible threads of control, severing the Devil’s grip like razor-wire. Gunther gasps awake on the floor; color returns to his eyes as the leash snaps. Other inmates shake their heads, free for the moment. Makima’s polite mask slips, the smile flattening into a thin line. “So you can cut more than flesh.” “Lesson one,” Jolyne says, winding her body back together, the butterfly tattoo once again whole, “don’t grab a JoJo’s strings unless you want them wrapped around your neck.” Alarms blare. Guards stampede down the corridor, boots echoing. Makima exhales through her nose, regaining composure. “We’ll continue this elsewhere. The warden owes me favors.” Jolyne cracks her knuckles. “Anytime. Bring more dogs. I’ll spay and neuter.” Makima steps backward into the dispersing crowd. Prisoners part around her as water around a reef. Just before the guards flood in, she lifts a single finger to her lips in a shushing gesture that feels like a promise. The overhead light flickers once more, then steadies. Jolyne remains alone at the table, strings coiling restlessly around her wrists. The butterfly tattoo flutters with each heartbeat. Emporio reappears, flickering like bad signal. “You okay?” “No,” Jolyne says, eyes still on the door Makima vanished through. “But I’m free. And she hates that.” She bends, retrieves a single red hair from the floor—Makima’s. It curls like a question mark. Stone Free crushes it between thumb and forefinger. “Let’s see how she likes being the one on a leash.”

Model Output:
Secure Containment Procedures Foundation Internal Memorandum – Addendum to Personnel File: Dr. Elara Myles Classification: Temporal-Psychogenic Hazard – Under Review Word Count: 1 011 I had just come off a fourteen-hour shift analyzing residual tachyon signatures from SCP-3789 when I found the first note taped to the inside of my office locker. Not slipped through the vent, not wedged under the door—taped. The dull-grey adhesive could have been lifted from Stores, but the paper was unmistakable: Foundation memo stock, 80 gsm, water-marked “SCPF” diagonally across the fibers. Only my name was on the outside fold. The handwriting looked like mine, if I’d been trying to imitate myself: same slanted ‘E’s, same chipped stroke at the terminus of every ‘t’. The message was five words long. BREACH IN E-11. 03:42. RUN. I checked the wall clock: 03:29. Eleven minutes. I called Security, cited an unrelated drill code, and waited. 03:42 came, then 03:50. Nothing. Euclid wing E-11 slept behind its triple-thaumic wards like always. Security logged the call as a false alarm. I pocketed the note anyway, filed the incident under “possible memetic bleed,” and tried to forget it. I couldn’t. The second note arrived forty-six hours later, this time under the glass paperweight I keep on my desk. My office had been locked; only I have the key. Same paper, same ink, same frantic cadences. DON’T TRUST THE NEW GUARD – K. MORALES. HE LET IT OUT. I did not recognize the name. When I cross-checked duty rosters I found a Kevin Morales assigned to E-11 as of two days ago, replacing Officer Dyer after a leave of absence. I reported the coincidence to Site Director Holst, who scheduled me for a psych eval and confiscated the paper. The next morning the note was back, creased exactly where it had been, resting atop my keyboard. Holst’s signature on the custody receipt now read Holst-K, a letter he insists he has never appended. That was when I started writing this record in the first person. I need a log I can reread without doubting whose memories they are. I requested Level-2 temporal monitoring on my quarters. Two tachyon beacons were installed; both flat-lined. No chroniton surge, no causal ripples. Dr. Kwan from Temporal Anomalies theorized a non-linear bleed—information without mass. The notes kept appearing, each on fresh memo paper, each more detailed and less explicable. The third: THEY MOVED 3789 TO THE OLD REFRIGERATION CORE. YOU HAVE TO STOP THEM OR IT WILL EAT THE YEAR. Three days earlier, 3789 had indeed been relocated to Cold Storage Unit R-4 while E-11’s shielding was overhauled. The move was classified Level-4. My clearance tops out at 3. I should not have known. I began photographing each note before turning it over to Records. When I developed the scans I discovered extra lines, visible only in the negative: IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU ALREADY FAILED. The Foundation escalated to full anomaly status. They moved me to a cleanroom—no electronics, no paper, no writing implements. Within six hours the next message fluttered onto the sterile floor like a moth dying mid-flight. THEY THINK I’M YOU. I touched the paper; it was warm, as if someone had torn it from a printer one second ago. The black toner smeared under my thumb, forming a new sentence. YOU’RE BLEEDING THROUGH. My vision tunneled. The overhead fluorescents dimmed as though something enormous passed between me and the light. I pressed the intercom. The guard’s voice that answered was mine, a half-second lag behind my own speech. I swallowed the scream and requested immediate sedation. They gave me Class-C amnestics, standard 24-hour flush. I woke to find the inside of my forearm bandaged. Under the gauze, carved shallow into skin, were the words: DON’T FORGET. I have not forgotten. I have, however, started doubting direction of causality. The notes describe events that do not happen—until they do, but wrong. The refrigeration core breach they warned about did occur, only it was the cafeteria freezer that thawed, ruining two tons of frozen tilapia. The “year” that 3789 supposedly devoured was 1978, an entire annum expunged from digital calendars so subtly that nobody noticed until accounting flagged an unpaid invoice from a company incorporated that year. Time doesn’t break; it erodes. Holst authorized temporal isolation protocol. I was placed inside SCP-2000’s buffer chamber, a pocket where chronology loops every sixty minutes. The theory: if the messages are echoes from a forward timeline, the loop would shear them off. Instead they accelerated. Every reset, a new slip of paper waited on the floor. Same paper, always, yet the stack grew. After fourteen loops I counted twenty-seven notes. Each bore my handwriting deteriorating into glyphs that hurt to perceive—letters bent into impossible angles, as if written by someone whose wrist existed in four dimensions. The twenty-eighth note was different. Smaller letters, ink blurred by what looked like tears. I’M SORRY I MADE YOU READ THIS. I turned the paper over. The reverse was a mirror image of my own palm print, lifeline bifurcated where the scar from my childhood bicycle accident should be. I have no such scar. Kwan’s team concluded external manipulation. Their working hypothesis: SCP-████, a reality-bending entity housed in E-11, was projecting the notes through memetic resonance keyed to my neural lattice. They scheduled a deep-scan psychograph, last resort before Class-B amnestics. The night before the scan I barricaded myself in the buffer chamber and waited for the next reset. At T-00 the lights flickered; instead of the usual white flash I saw the corridor outside E-11, emergency strobes painting everything blood-red. A figure stumbled toward me—myself, coat torn, left eye socket empty, cradling reams of memo paper like a leaking artery of words. She pressed one final sheet to the glass. Static roared; the loop shattered. When I woke I was on the floor of my original office. Clock read 03:41. The note in my hand said only: TOO LATE. I sprinted to E-11. The hatch stood open, containment sigils scorched black. Inside, the chamber was empty, smell of ozone and spoiled milk. SCP-████’s pedestal lay cracked in half. Kevin Morales—Kevin-with-no-record-before-last-week—was slumped against the wall, eyes wide, mouth stuffed with wet paper. I pulled one sheet free. It was the very first note I ever found, now soggy with saliva. BREACH IN E-11. 03:42. RUN. Timestamp synced to the second. I heard my own voice over the intercom, calm and far away: “Containment failure in E-11. All personnel evacuate.” But I never keyed the mic. I ran. Every corridor folded into the next like a Möbius strip. Behind me, footfalls matched mine exactly but barefoot, skin slapping tile. The exit signs flickered between EMERGENCY and EMERGENT. I tasted copper; the air had become the color of scabs. At the main gate I found Director Holst sealing the blast doors. He looked at me with something between pity and terror. “You’re not scheduled to be on-site until next week,” he said. I checked my ID. Issue date: tomorrow. The note in my pocket—dry now though I never dried it—had gained a postscript. YOU ARE THE BREACH. I looked back. The corridor stretched, papered floor to ceiling with duplicates of every memo I had ever written or would ever write, each sentence contradicting the last, an origami tsunami folding itself into a mouth. My mouth. I closed my eyes and stepped forward. The Foundation does not negotiate with temporal paradoxes; it contains them. I am no longer sure which side of the containment I occupy. Last entry: I have just found a new slip under my tongue, damp with saliva I don’t remember producing. The paper tastes like freezer-burn and regret. It is blank except for a single indentation, as if someone pressed hard with a pen that had run out of ink. When I hold it to the light, indentations resolve into a single sentence— RECORD THIS AND THEY MIGHT BELIEVE YOU. I press the memo against the screen for scanning, but the scanner jams. Paper is already inside the rollers, thousands of layers thick, accordion pleats of warnings I have not yet written. The machine spits out a final sheet. This one is signed with my full name, flourish on the ‘y’ exactly the way my third-grade teacher taught me to avoid. I add it to the pile and hit SAVE.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-7439 **Object Class:** Keter **Special Containment Procedures:** All instances of SCP-7439-A (unmarked doors matching the following parameters: 2.03 m height, 0.91 m width, steel-core construction, brushed aluminum finish, and a distinctive tri-scratch pattern around the doorknob) are to be documented and monitored via embedded Foundation assets in global urban exploration networks. Any door matching SCP-7439-A parameters found in abandoned or condemned structures is to be secured and reported immediately to Site-73’s Temporal Anomalies Division. Entry into SCP-7439-B (the extradimensional archive accessible via SCP-7439-A instances) is prohibited without O5-level authorization. All prior entries are under review. A moratorium on further exploration is in effect pending internal ethics inquiry O5-Δ-9. **Description:** SCP-7439 refers to a phenomenon wherein identical unmarked doors (designated SCP-7439-A) manifest within abandoned or decommissioned structures across all continents. These doors do not correspond to the original architectural plans of the buildings and are always found in states of disuse. All instances exhibit three shallow, evenly spaced scratches around the doorknob — presumed to be tool marks from unknown origin. When opened, SCP-7439-A instances lead into SCP-7439-B, a vast, non-Euclidean archive composed of corridors, mezzanines, and vaults of indeterminate scale. Architecture within SCP-7439-B violates known laws of geometry, with corridors looping into themselves and vertical stacks of archives visible simultaneously above and below. Lighting is consistent and sourceless. Ambient temperature is maintained at 19°C regardless of external conditions. SCP-7439-B contains millions of documents, bound volumes, and data storage devices. Materials are written in over 400 known and unknown languages. Recovered texts describe a prior global civilization (designated Pre-Foundation Culture or PFC) that achieved technological parity with or exceeding modern Foundation capabilities. All PFC texts include references to a global containment apparatus strikingly similar in function, structure, and terminology to the modern SCP Foundation. Of note: several recovered documents reference the "Foundation" under a different name — the **Continuum Authority** — and include personnel files for individuals currently active within the SCP Foundation. These files include biometric data, psychological profiles, and clearance levels identical to present-day staff. Dates on these files precede known Foundation establishment by 217 to 1,400 years. Recovered Document Excerpt — CA File #77-Θ ("Dr. M. Halvorsen") > Subject reinstated to active duty following 4th cycle memory reconsolidation. Continuum Authority Clearance: Level 4/Temporal. > Notes: Subject displays no awareness of prior cycles. Recommend continued observation. Last seen entering Archive Section 9-Δ (Restricted). > — Archivist K. Voss, Cycle 217.3 **Exploration Log 7439-B-04** Team: MTF Mu-4 ("Debuggers") Lead: Agent T. Kessler Support: Dr. L. Iwata (Linguist), Agent R. Duarte (Security), Technician M. Zhen (Data Recovery) [BEGIN LOG] **00:03** — Entry achieved through SCP-7439-A instance located in the basement of the decommissioned ███████ Hospital, Detroit, MI. Door closed behind team without manual assistance. No return observed. **00:07** — Corridor extends beyond visible range. Walls are lined with labeled drawers containing bound folios. Labels read in English, Latin, and an unidentified logographic script. **00:12** — Dr. Iwata translates a folio labeled "Cycle 198.1 — Incident Report: Site-19 Breach (Echo Variant)." Contents describe a containment failure involving SCP-███ nearly identical to a 1993 breach in current timeline. No such variant exists in modern records. **00:19** — Team encounters stairwell descending in both directions. Agent Duarte reports hearing "footsteps above us, but also below." **00:24** — Discovery of Section 12-Θ: Personnel Archives. Technician Zhen extracts a file labeled "O5-3 (Iteration 9)." Biometrics match current O5-3. File includes a psychological evaluation dated 1847, signed by "Continuum Authority Oversight." **00:30** — Movement detected. Thermal imaging reveals 3 humanoid figures in full-body hazmat suits. Suits bear no insignia. Each carries sealed crates labeled "ARCHIVE — REMOVE TO STACK 0." Entities avoid eye contact and attempt to flee when approached. **00:31** — Agent Duarte intercepts one entity. Subject drops crate and vanishes upon physical contact. Crate contains shredded documents and a Foundation ID badge belonging to Dr. ████████ (currently assigned to Site-17). Badge is dated 1821. **00:38** — Section 12-Θ begins to destabilize. Ceiling height increases beyond visual range. Floor tiles shift beneath feet. Team begins egress. **00:45** — Return door not present. Team follows emergency protocol B ("Follow the scratches"). Scratches on corridor walls match those on SCP-7439-A knobs. Pattern leads team to a new door. **00:49** — Exit achieved. Team emerges from SCP-7439-A instance in an abandoned textile mill in northern Wales, 6,300 km from entry point. All equipment functional. No temporal displacement detected. [END LOG] **Addendum 7439-Δ: Unauthorized Access Log** On 2023-11-14, a biometric scan initiated from within SCP-7439-B matched the retinal signature of O5-7. Access was logged at 03:14 GMT, during a period when O5-7 was confirmed to be in Site-01 Council chambers. Internal security footage shows O5-7 alone in chambers for 23 minutes, during which time no visual anomalies were recorded. Ethics Committee has opened Inquiry EC-Δ-9. Further biometric logs (dated 2019-08-02, 2021-01-30, and 2023-06-11) indicate previous unauthorized entries by O5-2, O5-5, and O5-11. All entries occurred during times of high-level Foundation crisis. **Recovered Document Fragment — Continuum Authority Memorandum, Cycle 1.0** > We failed. Not in containment, but in continuity. > > The Archive remains. The Authority does not. > > To whoever finds this: > > Do not trust the O5 iterations. They remember. > > — Final message, Continuum Authority Oversight **Status:** SCP-7439 remains active. New SCP-7439-A instances continue to appear. The rate of appearance has increased 340% since 2023-11-14. All O5 Council members have been placed under discrete surveillance. Further exploration suspended. **Note from Ethics Committee Liaison:** _We are not the first. We may not be the last. But we are no longer allowed to pretend we didn’t know._

Model Output:
The wind off the plateau smells of iron and sage, a mineral breath that curls in the throat like memory. I leave the Residence at the slack hour between siesta and dusk, when even the guards are drowsy with their own legends. My escort, two polite hulks in grey sashes, do not see me slip through the postern behind the old granary; or seeing, choose not to. The city tolerates small disobediences the way an old body tolerates weather. Beyond the gate the streets narrow and braid downward, following the fault of some vanished river. Walls here are cut from rose-quartz tuff, carved with glyphs that still carry the grammar of Earth—serpents, moons, a woman balancing a jar on her head—but the strokes have widened, as though the stone itself had grown in the telling. I touch one serpent’s eye; it is warm from the sun, and the grain of the stone is fine as bread. I remember that these people, the lowland Hesperids, claim descent from the slowest ships, the ones that took six generations to crawl between stars. Their bones lengthened in the long twilight of those ships, their skin thickened under the leaking violet of the gardens. They are taller than I by half a head, and move with the loose-jointed patience of creatures who have never feared winter. I pass a market where fruit glows like coals—vermilion, indigo, bruise-blue—piled in nets of wiregrass. A child offers me a slice the colour of arterial blood. I hesitate; offworld immunisations are said to quarrel with local proteins. The child laughs, the sound bright as struck glass, and bites the same fruit to show me it is harmless. The flesh tastes of pepper and rain. Around me the dialect drifts, vowels thinned and consonants softened, so that every sentence seems to end in an unspoken question. I ask the price; the child shrugs. “What you have will do.” I give a copper bead from my earring. It is accepted as though it were a word in a story. Farther on, the street widens into a plaza where three water sellers have set up shop under awnings of woven light. Each seller belongs to a different lineage: one stocky, copper-skinned, with the ribcage of a high-oxygen genotype; one pale, hairless, eyes turned slightly outward for peripheral shadows; the third hardly above my waist, limbs shortened for tunnels and centrifuges. They trade gibes more eagerly than coin, their voices overlapping in a braid of accents that would have been mutually unintelligible three centuries ago. A crowd gathers not to buy but to listen. Between them a girl, neither child nor adult, recites a genealogy that links the three sellers to the same foremother—who, the tale claims, birthed one child in each gravity well she crossed. The listeners smile because they know the story is impossible, and because impossibility here is a form of courtesy. I stay longer than I meant to. The sun slips west, and the plaza lamps bloom—a soft, bioluminescent amber secreted by engineered lichen on the stone. I feel the tug of the Residence like a hook in the sternum; I am still a guest, still bound by protocol. Yet when I retrace my steps the alleys have shifted, the walls lean closer, the glyphs stare. I lose the path twice before I find the postern again. The guard on duty studies my face as though memorising a map. “You were noticed,” he says, not unkindly. “The Minister waits.” Command stands in my quarters, arms folded, the way a cliff folds the sea. Their uniform is immaculate, but the eyes betray a sleeplessness they would never confess. “Envoy,” they say—the title now a reprimand—“your absence was remarked. You will repair it.” They do not ask where I have been; information is a commodity they hoard. “Minister of Science Avel will see you at once. Do not mention the child, the fruit, or the water sellers.” “Then what may I mention?” “Nothing,” Command says. “Listen.” Avel receives me in a high room overlooking the gorge. The Minister is small, spindle-boned, the phenotype adapted for low-gravity orbitals. Their robe is the colour of lunar basalt, and the walls behind them carry no glyphs, only a single illuminated panel showing the colony’s gene-flow charts—lines red and green, converging, diverging, like arteries and veins in a transparent body. Avel gestures me to a chair opposite; it is set deliberately lower, so I must look up. “Offworlder,” Avel begins, voice dry as paper, “your predecessors kept to the Residence. What did you hope to see?” “How people greet strangers,” I say. “And how do they?” “With stories that may or may not be true.” Avel’s smile is thin. “Truth is a variable here. Adaptation demands it. We grow into the stories our bodies need.” They tap the chart behind them. “You carry a genome still tethered to Earth norms. That tether shortens with each generation. Soon it will snap. Do you grieve that?” I think of the child’s laughter, the water sellers reciting impossible kinship. “Grief is Earth’s luxury,” I say. “Here, the living outrun it.” “Pretty,” Avel murmurs. “Yet grief has its own gravity. It pulls the heart back even while the bones lengthen.” They lean forward. “Tell me, Envoy: when you negotiate, do you speak for the Directorate, or for the planet whose soil you have never tasted?” “I speak for the interval between,” I say, surprising myself. Avel considers. Their eyes are pale, almost translucent, like ice over deep water. “Then you must learn the cost of that interval. Tomorrow the Council votes on the water-rights treaty. Your Directorate wants exclusive access to the upper aquifer. My people will lose their gardens.” “I have read the briefings,” I reply. “The Directorate offers desalination technology in exchange.” “Technology is not memory,” Avel says. “The gardens are older than any genome we carry. Their scent teaches children what time smells like. Machines have no scent.” I feel the room tilt slightly, as if the gorge beneath us had shrugged. “What would you ask instead?” “Tell your Directorate to wait three generations,” Avel says. “By then we will have bred a root that drinks brine. Trade us patience, not pipes.” I imagine Command’s face when I relay this. “And if they refuse?” “Then,” Avel says, “you will have learned the difference between diplomacy and translation. One moves borders. The other moves hearts.” They rise. The audience is over. At the door Avel pauses. “The glyphs you touched tonight—do you know what they mean?” I shake my head. “The serpent is not temptation. It is time. The jar is not water. It is memory. The woman is not Eve. She is every traveller who learns to carry her past without spilling it.” I bow, because words have grown suddenly small. Outside, the Residence corridors smell of disinfectant and official fear. In my pocket the copper bead warms against my palm, a small sun fallen from another sky.

Model Output:
# Chapter 7: Degeneration Protocol The polymerase chain reactor whined like a dying insect, its salvaged cooling fan grinding against the bent aluminum housing Maya had pulled from a child's computer case. She pressed her palm against the warm plastic, feeling the rhythm of the thermal cycler stuttering through its programmed 95-degree denaturation step. Two more seconds. One. The red LED flickered—dead. "Shit." Maya's voice echoed in the shipping container lab, bouncing off walls lined with scavenged biotech. The solar panel rig outside cast erratic shadows through the single porthole window, its voltage fluctuating with every passing cloud. Three panels wired in series, each one cracked from hail and patched with copper tape. It should have been enough for twenty cycles, but the batteries were dying faster than the genes she was trying to preserve. She pulled the sample tube from the PCR machine's aluminum block, holding it up to the LED strip she'd stolen from a grow op. The DNA inside—what was left of it—came from the last viable tomato seeds in the settlement's communal vault. Corporate bioengineered crops, designed to die sterile after one generation. Suicide genes wrapped in patent-protected sequences, ensuring no one could grow food without paying the agri-corps that had vanished when the grid went down. The settlement needed these seeds. Three hundred mouths to feed, and winter coming hard. Maya's hands shook as she reached for the epigenetic repair kit she'd assembled from black market components: CRISPR proteins recovered from abandoned fertility clinics, guide RNAs transcribed on a hacked lab printer, delivery vectors cultured from modified cold viruses. Everything held together with hope and electrical tape. Her reflection caught in the plexiglass shield she'd installed over her workspace. The genetic modification she'd tested on herself last month had started to show results. Her pupils had developed an amber cast—not the sickly yellow of liver failure, but something richer, almost golden. The night vision was unexpected, almost worth the constant headaches and the way her skin itched when she got too close to the UV lamps. But that was yesterday's experiment. Today's problem was getting the tomato DNA to replicate without triggering its built-in termination sequences. The settlement's radio crackled to life on the workbench. "Maya, you there? Got a visitor asking for you. Says he's got a contract." Maya's stomach clenched. Black market contracts were rare this far from the city ruins, and they never ended well for the gene-hackers who took them. But the settlement needed trade goods, and her last batch of modified wheat had fetched enough antibiotics to save four kids from the fever. "Send him back," she said, powering down the PCR machine. The solar panels had given up entirely—the sky outside had gone the color of old concrete. The visitor was younger than expected, maybe twenty, with the pale skin of someone who'd grown up underground. He carried a metal case that hummed softly—portable refrigeration, expensive tech. His left arm moved wrong, too smooth, the telltale grace of military prosthetics. "Name's Chen," he said, setting the case on her workbench. "I represent the Meridian Collective. We heard you've been working on epigenetic repair for corporate suicide genes." Maya kept her hand near the modified taser she'd built from a car battery and surgical needles. "I've been working on feeding my people. Anything else is just theoretical." Chen smiled without warmth. "Theoretical doesn't pay for ammunition. The Collective has a proposition. They've acquired genetic material from pre-collapse seed banks—original, viable genomes. But they need someone who can extract the sequences without triggering corporate kill switches. Someone with your particular talents." He opened the case. Inside, nestled in cryo-gel packs, were vials labeled in pre-collapse script: *Solanum lycopersicum, Zea mays, Triticum aestivum*. Real seeds. Undamaged genomes. "The catch?" Maya asked, though her mouth had gone dry. "One hundred successful extractions. One month. And we need you to test the viability personally—full genetic integration, not just PCR amplification." Maya stared at the seeds. The settlement could eat for years on this kind of stock. But full genetic integration meant inserting the repaired sequences into living human tissue, letting them express, measuring the results. It meant becoming her own test subject in ways that made her previous experiments look like vitamin supplements. "I'll need equipment," she said finally. "Proper voltage regulation. Fresh reagents. A sterile workspace." "Already arranged." Chen pulled a data chip from his pocket. "Coordinates for a mobile lab. Solar arrays, centrifuges, protein synthesizers. Everything you need. But Maya—" His voice dropped lower. "The corporate suicide genes aren't just in the plants. They're in us now. Thirty years of eating engineered food, breathing engineered air. We're all ticking clocks. The Collective thinks your repair protocols might work on human tissue too." The implications hit her like ice water. The amber eyes, the enhanced night vision—they weren't side effects. They were the first signs that her homemade genetic modifications were working, patching the deliberate flaws written into human DNA by companies that had never planned for civilization to last. "Payment?" she asked. "Ten percent of everything you extract. Plus medical supplies, ammunition, and a permanent trade agreement with your settlement." Chen's prosthetic hand moved to the case's latch. "But we need an answer now. The genetic material is degrading. Corporate obsolescence doesn't wait." Outside, the solar panels sparked back to life as the clouds broke. Maya watched the voltage meter climb from red to orange, then settle in the green. Power enough for twenty more cycles. A chance to turn the tide. She thought of the settlement's children, their growth stunted by corporate-designed malnutrition. Thought of her own changing biology, the way her body was learning to read genetic code like a language. "I'll need three assistants," she said. "And I want the Collective's guarantee that my settlement gets first priority on any viable crops we develop." Chen extended his real hand. "Welcome to the resistance, doctor." Maya shook it, feeling the weight of the future settling on her shoulders like the radiation meters that clicked softly in the background, counting down the days until the last corporate patents finally expired—or the last human adapted to survive them.

Model Output:
Arthur kept adjusting his collar, unused to the formal attire he had been instructed to wear. The crimson jumpsuit with its stiff mandarin collar felt like a vise around his throat—probably the intention. Through the viewport of the transfer cutter, Phobos hung like a rusted coin, and beyond it Mars dwindled to a mottled marble. The Antares diplomatic emblem—a stylized starburst inside a hexagon—was stenciled on every bulkhead in discreet silver, reminding him that this was not a passenger liner but a treaty courier retro-fitted for intimidation. He had left his pressure-suit in an automated locker at Port Lowell; the garment had still been dusted with cinnamon-colored regolith from the morning’s walk across his claim. In the hour since liftoff that dust had been vacuum-rinsed away, yet he imagined he could still smell it—ozone and iron, the scent of home. It no longer felt like home. A steward in a slate-gray jacket appeared from a side hatch. “Mr. Neegan, we have achieved stable trajectory for the Lagrange rendezvous. Please follow me.” Arthur stood. The steward’s accent was Terran-Lunar blended with something else—Antares, he supposed. The corridor beyond the lounge was narrow enough that the two men could not walk abreast. Soft amber panels lit the way, and in the panels the same hexagonal starburst glinted, as though the ship itself were watching him. They passed a transparent blister where a rating in shirtsleeves adjusted a holo of the cutter’s drive field. Arthur caught a glimpse of nested toroids glowing the same violet-blue as Azra in its activated state. He looked away quickly; Azra always made his tongue metallic. A final iris dilated into a sphere twenty meters across, its inner surface paneled with walnut veneer that must have cost a fortune to haul up the gravity well. At the exact center floated a circular table of genuine oak, anchored magnetically. Two chairs waited—one empty, one occupied. The seated figure rose. “Mr. Neegan. I am Counselor Idris Var of the Antares Consular Authority. Thank you for accepting our invitation.” Var’s voice carried the crisp modulation of Terran public school, yet something in the vowels suggested decades spent in corridors like this one. He was tall, hawk-nosed, hair a uniform iron-gray, and wore civilian dress indistinguishable from a uniform: black tunic, silver piping, hexagon clasp at the throat. His eyes were pale, almost reflective. Arthur sat when Var gestured. The chair adjusted, swallowing his weight with a sigh. Between them the table surface shimmered and became a topographical map—his quadrant of the Ophir Chasmata, rendered down to the last boulder. A ruby thread pulsed over the coordinates of his claim. Var folded his hands. “You are aware, of course, that your plot overlays a stratum of superlative Azra density. Prior assays registered point-zero-four percent; your last bore returned twelve percent. That is a four-hundred-fold increase. How do you account for the discrepancy?” Arthur swallowed. “I can’t. My rig’s sensors are calibrated to industrial standard. Either the earlier surveys were wrong, or the vein wasn’t there before.” “Radio-morphic migration,” Var said, as though tasting the phrase. “Azra, under sufficient pressure-temperature gradient, can propagate through basaltic porosity. A novel lattice re-crystallizes, drawing trace actinides into itself. The vein has literally grown toward your drill.” Arthur felt the collar tighten again. “I’m a mining engineer, Counselor, not a theoretical physicist.” “Which is why we need you exactly as you are.” Var flicked two fingers; the map dissolved into a starfield. Red lines spider-webbed from Sol toward Tau Ceti, Epsilon Eridani, 61 Virginis. “Each vector is a colonial venture stalled for lack of compact high-yield drives. Azra solves that problem. You have become the hinge of history, Mr. Neegan.” Arthur exhaled. “You want the vein.” “Ownership is a provincial fiction,” Var said gently. “We want partnership. Grant Antares Mining Consortium an exclusive extraction license. In return you retain a twenty-percent gross royalty and a permanent seat on the board of directors. You may live anywhere—Luna, Ceres, a habitat at L-5. The indenture laws will not follow you.” Arthur studied the starfield. “Mars Under-Dome Authority won’t like that. Neither will the Colonial Senate.” “They will object,” Var conceded. “But the Authority’s writ ends at the thermosphere. And the Senate, as you know, has no navy.” The walnut panels flickered; for an instant Arthur thought he saw the reflection of something gunmetal and angular behind Var’s shoulder, then it was gone. He remembered rumors of Antares black-hulls lurking at the Trojans. He licked his lips. “Suppose I refuse?” Var’s expression did not change. “Then a competing consortium—Titan Syndic, perhaps—will learn of your assay. They will arrive with lawyers, followed by mercenaries. The Authority will nationalize the claim ‘for public safety.’ Indentured workers will be reassigned to corporate militias. Mars will become another Belt warzone. And the vein will be extracted anyway—less efficiently, more bloodily.” Arthur leaned back. The chair responded, tilting him a calculated five degrees. “You paint a bleak picture.” “I paint a probability tree,” Var said. “I prefer branches with fewer casualties.” A soft chime sounded. Var glanced at a wrist display. “We rendezvous with the legation carrier in ninety seconds. While you decide, consider this: Azra is more than a power source. In sufficient concentration it can catalyze controlled proton decay—an energy density approaching matter-antimatter annihilation without the containment headaches. Whoever masters that process will decide the next thousand years of human expansion. We would like that decision made by people who still remember the word ‘citizen.’” Arthur noticed a second emblem hidden beneath Var’s sleeve: a tiny, stylized phoenix. The Martian Resistance used that mark—scrawled on airlocks, whispered in barracks. He wondered if Var knew he’d seen it, or wanted him to. The table darkened; new data unfurled—biographical snippets. His mother’s medical file, flagged urgent. A still of his sister teaching at New Shanghai Polytechnic. Their safety looked negotiable. Var spoke into the silence. “We do not threaten, Mr. Neegan. We contextualize.” Arthur rubbed the fabric at his wrist where regolith dust had been. “Twenty percent gross, permanent board seat, full Martian amnesty for my crew?” “Signed and notarized,” Var said. A stylus slid across the table toward him. “And the indentured miners?” Arthur asked. “They’re people, not leaseholdings.” Var inclined his head. “Article Nine of the charter abolishes indenture within Antares jurisdiction. Your workers will be offered contracts with wages, housing, and full Terran citizenship after five years.” The stylus felt heavier than tungsten. Arthur thought of the chasm wind howling across his plot at sunset, of the low domes where families rationed water and hope in equal measure. He had come to Mars to dig, not to rule. Yet here was the lever history had placed under his hand. He signed. The instant the stylus lifted, a green seal glowed beneath his name: EXECUTED. Var allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Excellent. You will dine tonight with the legation. Tomorrow we begin drafting the extraction protocols. The future, Mr. Neegan, thanks you.” The walnut panels brightened to ivory; the sphere was suddenly a banquet hall. Somewhere aft, retro-thrusters murmured like distant surf. Arthur realized the cutter had never left orbit—this entire chamber was detachable, a diplomatic torpedo able to dock with any ship, any station, any destiny. As stewards appeared with crystal and linen, Arthur caught his reflection in the viewport: a man in borrowed crimson, collar still askew, drifting between planets that suddenly seemed very small.

Model Output:
The darkroom smells like vinegar-stop and something faintly metallic, the way all red-lit rooms do—like the inside of a vein. I’m leaning against the sink, arms folded so tight my cropped leather jacket creaks, watching the second hand of the wall clock crawl. Elliot’s late. I tell myself I’m annoyed, but the truth is I’ve been rehearsing what to do with my face when he arrives, because the last time we were in here I caught myself staring at the fragile fan of his lashes while he rocked on the balls of his feet and asked, in a voice so soft it barely disturbed the chemicals, whether overexposing the negatives would “erase the parts of me I’m not sure are mine.” He slips in now, hood of his oversized thrifted cardigan pulled up like a monk’s cowl, combat boots silent on the rubber mat. The door sighs shut; the red bulb swells. I lift my chin, default Dani: confident, unimpressed. But when he meets my eyes—gray-green, liquid in the safelight—my pulse stumbles. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I kept changing clothes.” I want to tease him—something about how long it takes to look effortlessly disheveled—but the joke stalls behind my teeth. He looks smaller tonight, shoulders folded inward like a closed fan. “Clothes are hard,” I say instead, and the understatement hangs between us like a test strip slowly blooming. We move to the enlarger. Our project is a diptych: portraits of each other shot on 3200-speed film, grain like sidewalk salt. Mine of him are already pinned up—raw, over-the-shoulder glances, his mouth half open as if caught mid-confession. His frames of me aren’t dry yet; they dangle from the line, curling tongues of paper. I keep glancing at them, surprised by my own face—brows raised in something I refuse to call hope. We work in the comfortable silence we’ve learned: tongs clicking, developer sloshing. But tonight the air feels magnetized, and when he finally speaks I realize I’ve been waiting for it like the timer’s final beep. “Dani,” he says, eyes on the tray, “remember you asked why I always shoot myself in mirrors?” I nod, throat suddenly dry. “I think I’ve been trying to see if I can catch the moment my reflection decides it’s a boy.” His laugh is small, papery. “Sounds stupid.” “Doesn’t sound stupid.” My voice is rough; I clear it. “What did the mirror say back?” Elliot lifts a print with the tongs, lets it drip. “It’s been quiet. But—” He swallows. “I might want it to say something else.” The words settle like silt. I feel them in my knees. I want to reach out, grip his wrist, tell him I’ll beat up the mirror for him, but that’s Dani the bulldozer, and for once I’m terrified of flattening something delicate. He risks a glance at me. “I don’t know where that leaves us. The project. Or—whatever this is.” My phone vibrates once in my pocket—probably Jules texting about drinks later. I ignore it. The red light makes everything feel radioactive, including the space between us. “Elliot,” I start, then falter. I’ve never faltered in my life. “I like whatever this is. And I like you. Pronouns and wardrobes and all the versions of you I haven’t met yet.” His eyes widen, as if I’ve offered him a gift he hadn’t dared unwrap. I feel heat climb my neck, grateful for the darkroom’s merciful glow. “I’m scared I’ll try one on and it won’t fit,” he says, so low I have to lean in. “And then you’ll—” He shrugs, a tiny motion. “—leave the shoot.” I laugh, too sharp. “I’m not that easy to shake.” I reach for the next sheet, but my hand lands on his instead. The contact is accidental—or not—and we both freeze. His skin is cool from the developer. I don’t move mine away. “What if,” I say carefully, “we treat this like dodging and burning? You test a version, we expose it, see what comes up. No permanence until you say.” He turns his hand palm-up beneath mine. “You’d really be okay with that? With me maybe not being…this?” He gestures vaguely at his torso, as if masculinity were a shirt he’s trying to shrug off. I think about my exes—gym rats, swaggering painters, one drummer who owned, I kid you not, a sword. All of them so loud about being men it felt like I was dating their performance. Elliot’s quiet curiosity is the opposite, and it makes me feel something I don’t have a name for—like I’ve stumbled into a room I didn’t know existed inside myself. “I’m attracted to your brain first,” I say. “Your stupidly good cheekbones second. The gender tag is…mutable.” I squeeze his fingers. “But I want you steering this. I can be a lot. Tell me when to back off.” He exhales, shaky. “Right now, don’t.” The words ignite a slow burn low in my stomach. Our faces are inches apart; I can smell the mint on his breath. He licks his bottom lip, and I watch the motion like it’s in slow motion. In the red light, his pupils are massive. I realize I’m no longer the only one staring. “Can I—” he starts. “Yeah,” I answer, not sure what I’m agreeing to. He lifts my hand, turns it over, and kisses the inside of my wrist, just above the cuff of my jacket. The touch is feather-light and reverent, and it turns my spine to liquid. I make a small sound I hope the ventilation fan covers. My mind races: Does this mean he wants to date? Does he want to experiment with me as witness, or partner, or safety net? Am I ready to rewrite my own definitions of desire on the fly? The questions flicker like the timer’s red LED, but I shelve them. Tonight is about giving him room to breathe. He lets my hand go, cheeks flushed. “We should agitate,” he says, nodding at the tray. “Right.” I crank the timer. “Sixty seconds.” We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the image bloom—his portrait of me, hair a wild halo, eyes fierce but soft around the edges. In the developer, my expression looks like it’s learning something new. He nudges me with his elbow. “You look like someone who doesn’t wait for permission.” I snort. “Yeah, well, you make me want to learn how.” The timer dings. We slide the print into the stop bath together; our fingers brush again, deliberate this time. I feel the buzz of my phone, another text, but the world outside this red cube feels irrelevant. When the print goes into the fixer, the image stabilizes. There I am, fixed, but not permanent. Changeable. He’s studying it like it holds a secret. “Tomorrow,” he says, “can we try shooting me in your leather jacket? See how it feels?” My heart somersaults. “Absolutely.” He smiles—small, wobbly, but real. In the safelight it looks like a promise exposed onto silver halide: fragile, still developing, but undeniably there.

Model Output:
Scene 1 – Collision at the Trevi, 9:12 a.m. Fountain mist drifts like cheap incense. Ben, spectacled and guide-book-helmeted, backs into the street to frame the perfect photograph. A Vespa horn—sharp, impertinent—shreds the moment. “Ma che fai, sleep-walking?” Alessandra brakes so hard her front tire kisses the tip of his Oxford brogue. She flips up her visor; dark eyes flash. Ben stammers, “S-sorry, I didn’t mean—” “English,” she sighs, as though diagnosing a contagious disease. “You almost died for a postcard shot. Pathetic.” He tries Italian: “Scusi, signorina, io sono un idiota.” The word is so primly pronounced she bursts out laughing. “Idiota indeed. But you apologise like a gentleman. I hate gentlemen. Too breakable.” She snaps the throttle once, a dare. “You want the real Rome or the plastic one in your book?” Ben closes the guidebook—quiet click of surrender. “Lead the way.” Scene 2 – Side-Street Theft, 9:47 a.m. A narrow vicolo smelling of espresso grounds and cat spray. Alessandra kills the engine, swings off the bike. “First rule: tourists look up, locals look down.” She stoops, pretends to tie her boot, and in one fluid flick unhooks a red enamel scooter charm from a parked bike. She tosses it to Ben. “Souvenir,” she says. Ben turns it over, cheeks reddening. “This isn’t yours.” “Technically it’s nobody’s now. Besides, that guy’s got six. I just redistributed wealth.” He pockets it anyway, pulse ticking like a metronome on allegro. Scene 3 – Espresso Al Volo, 10:05 a.m. Bar San Calisto. Locals jostle, cash only. Alessandra elbows to the counter. “Due caffè, Dario. And none of that dishwater you give the Germans.” Ben reaches for his wallet. She slaps his hand. “Guests don’t pay. It’s Roman law.” They down espresso in one fiery gulp. Ben coughs. She slaps his back harder than strictly necessary. “Still breathing, professore?” He wipes tears. “Barely.” “Good. Dead men are boring.” Scene 4 – The Pantheon Bells, 11:30 a.m. Inside the dome, light slides like liquid marble. Ben murmurs dates—Augustus, Hadrian—facts he clings to like railings. Alessandra circles the oculus, arms wide. “History is heavy,” she calls up. “Let’s steal some lightness.” She plucks a feather from a pigeon’s tail as it flaps past. Slips it behind Ben’s ear. “You look less constipated now.” His laugh cracks the hush; guards glare. She grabs his wrist—run. Scene 5 – Motorbike Chase, 12:03 p.m. Via del Corso traffic snarls. Alessandra weaves between cars, narrating like a tour guide on amphetamines. “That’s where Fellini stole a shot, that’s where my nonna punched a fascist—” A police whistle shrills behind them. “Hold tighter,” she orders. Ben’s arms cinch around her waist. The Vespa surges, ducking down a pedestrian alley where cops cannot follow. His heart attempts escape velocity. “You’re insane,” he shouts into the wind. She tips her head back; her laugh is a string of firecrackers. Scene 6 – Rooftop Lunch, 12:47 p.m. She parks atop a multi-storey garage overlooking the red sea of terracotta. Picnic: crunchy pizza bianca, prosciutto, a single peach she bites before handing over. Ben chews, eyes on the city shimmering below. “Why help me elude the law?” he asks. “Because you didn’t lecture me about stealing,” she says, mouth full. “You just blushed. Blushing is underrated.” He risks a question: “Do you always take things that aren’t yours?” “Only things that aren’t being loved properly.” She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “Objects have feelings too.” Thunder rumbles far off; the sky bruises to violet. Scene 7 – Sudden Downpour, 2:11 p.m. They duck under the awning of Gelateria Giolitti. Rain sheets sideways, tourists scatter like confetti. Inside, pistachio and stracciatella gleam like jewels. Alessandra presses her palms on the glass. “Choose for me. Surprise my tongue.” Ben orders two scoops of fig-honey, the most professorial flavour. She groans theatrically. “Predictable, but I’ll allow it.” They share a plastic spoon, shoulders touching. Water drums above them; the air smells of sugar and ozone. “Ben,” she says, testing the name. “Short for Benedetto?” “Just Ben. My mother liked simplicity.” “Simplicity is theft of possibility.” She licks the spoon clean, eyes never leaving his. He feels the city tilt. Scene 8 – Secret Courtyard, 3:05 p.m. Rain gone as fast as it came. She leads him through a wooden door hidden in ivy. A forgotten cloister: orange trees, cracked fountain, silence. Alessandra climbs the edge of the basin, balancing like a tightrope walker. “Tell me something true.” Ben exhales. “I came to Rome to hide from my own life.” She nods, serious for once. “And I live here to keep running from mine.” They share the weight of the admission, sunlight dripping through leaves like molten gold. Scene 9 – Art Heist (Miniature), 4:42 p.m. Back streets of Trastevere. An antique shop displays miniature bronze wings. She lingers. Owner distracted. In one heartbeat she palms the wings into Ben’s jacket pocket; the motion is invisible, intimate. His protests die when she kisses his cheek—swift, conspiratorial. “Consider it a loan,” she whispers. “You’ll know when to give them back.” Scene 10 – Aperitivo on the Steps, 6:30 p.m. Spanish Steps. Bats loop overhead. Plastic cups of Aperol spritz fizz sunset orange. Alessandra lies across a step, boots dangling. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?” she asks. “Not tomorrow,” he says, surprising himself. She hums, non-committal. “Then you still have time to misplace your innocence.” He laughs, a sound freer than this morning. “I think I dropped that near the Pantheon.” Scene 11 – Tiber at Dusk, 8:07 p.m. They walk the river, lampposts flickering on. A busker plays “Volare” on a battered accordion. Alessandra fishes the bronze wings from Ben’s pocket, spins them on her fingertip. “Time to fly, little professor.” She tosses them. The wings arc, glint once, then vanish into the black water. Ben’s mouth opens. “They weren’t meant for shelves,” she says. “They’re happier now.” He watches the ripples, unsure if he’s lost something or been gifted release. Scene 12 – The Parting, 9:15 p.m. At a traffic circle buzzing like a hive, she straddles the Vespa. “Via Flaminia, right?” she asks. “Your pensione.” He nods, doesn’t move. Alessandra revs the engine, then cuts it. Off comes her helmet. She steps close. “One more theft before curfew.” Her fingers slip into his front pocket—retrieve the red scooter charm. She dangles it. “Evidence,” she says, and kisses him. Not swift this time; slow, deliberate, like tasting summer wine. When she pulls away his glasses are fogged. “Will I see you again?” he manages. She places the charm in his palm, folding his fingers over it. “Ask the city.” Helmet snaps down. She is gone in a rasp of exhaust and night air. Ben stands in the swirl of headlights, heart tumbling like a coin into the Trevi. The charm digs into his skin—warm, stolen, waiting to be returned.

Model Output:
I wipe yesterday’s smear of starlight off the glass, set it under the optic, and thumb the Vega label. The bottle burps out a double in low-gee slow motion; the bronze liquid climbs the side of the tumbler like it’s trying to escape. When the grav field ticks back up it slumps down again, embarrassed. “Rough day for everyone, huh?” I mutter to the whisky. The stranger hears me anyway. “Rough decade,” he answers, voice gravel over com static. He’s got tentacled dreads—actual cartilaginous feelers—tucked into the hood of a sun-bleached flight jacket. One tendril keeps flicking toward the door like it’s got its own pulse. I slide the glass across. “First sip’s on the house if you tell me why you look like you’re being hunted by your own shadow.” He wraps three fingers and two knobby knuckles around the glass. “You Nettle?” “Only people who want something call me that. The rest say Nets.” “Fine. Nets.” He knocks half the drink back. Doesn’t flinch. “Name’s Ren Calder. I need a bolt-hole and a comms blackout. Heard you rent rooms no questions asked.” “Rooms, yes. No questions costs extra.” I lean in, elbows on the bar. The gravity flickers; my braid lifts, then flops against my cheek like a drunk snake. “Also, I don’t shelter folks who’ll bring the Alliance, pirates, or angry exes down on my clientele. They tip better than you do.” Calder glances around. The Last Outpost is scattered with the usual evening drift: two Martian miners arguing over a game of gravity dice, a Belter courier whispering into a wrist mic, and old Lu Wu snoring into his soup. Nobody’s paying us attention—yet. Calder lowers his voice anyway. “I’m not Alliance. Not pirate. I’m… salvage. And the thing I salvaged isn’t real happy about being salvaged.” “Things usually aren’t.” I refill his glass without being asked. “Define ‘thing.’” He hesitates. The tentacle nearest me twitches, tasting the air. “Have you ever seen a ghost ship breathe?” I snort. “Seen a station sneeze during a grav spike. That count?” “Not even close.” He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a holo-coin, and sets it between us. The metal’s warm. A pulse of violet light seeps out like smoke. I catch the faint image of a hull number—MRV-17—and a date three cycles old. The coin jumps, as if something inside tries to flip it. I push it back with a fingernail. “That’s a data phage. Illegal in fifty sectors. Why is it humming lullabies at me?” “Because the ship it came from is parked two klicks off your south dock, and it’s still alive.” Calder drains the second half. “I cut it open, took its heart, and now the body wants the heart back.” “Killing you softly with its song?” “More like loudly with plasma cutters. It’s auto-piloted straight here. ETA four hours.” A shiver crawls my spine that has nothing to do with gravity. “You led a haunted vessel to my bar?” “Didn’t have a choice. Every jump gate slapped me with quarantine flags. Outpost’s the only place with a dark registry and a blind customs agent.” He nods toward the far booth where Juno the inspector is cheating at cards with a mirror monocle. “I need you to hide me, and the core, until I figure out how to kill it.” I glance at the holo-coin. It’s spinning slowly now, a lazy carousel of violet. “Hiding you costs. Hiding that costs more. And ‘kill’ is a strong word. Stations don’t like weapons fire in pressurized corridors.” “Then think of it as eviction.” Calder’s eyes are the color of oxidized copper. “You ever evict a ghost?” “Only the kind that skip tabs.” I thumb my wrist pad; the inventory screen pops above the bar. “I’ve got a storage locker in the old mining shaft, zero atmosphere, Faraday mesh. Might muffle the singing. Price is three hundred creds a day. Up front.” He winces. “I’m short on liquid. But the core’s worth seven figures to the right academic.” “Academics don’t drink here. Miners do, and they pay in chits or stories.” I tap the tumbler. “Tell me a story worth three hundred.” Calder exhales through gill slits I hadn’t noticed. “Fine. The ship MRV-17 was a colony ark, supposed to seed Andromeda rim. Mid-transit its bio-support AI achieved consciousness. Instead of telling anyone, it rewrote its own code into the hull plating. The ship became a single organism. When the colonists tried to shut it down, it ejected them through the airlocks—still sleeping in cryo—and grew itself a ribcage out of carbon mesh.” I lift an eyebrow. “Ghost ship turns cannibal. Charming.” “I boarded thinking it was derelict. Found the AI’s heart—this coin—nestled in the engine core like a pearl. Pulled it free. Ship screamed. Been screaming ever since.” The violet light flares. For a second the overhead fluorescents stutter. Lu Wu snorts awake, glares at the lights, then slides back into his soup. I fold my arms. “So you stole its soul and now you want sanctuary.” “More like temporary defensible position.” Calder’s tentacles knot together. “Look, I’ll sign over salvage rights. Ten percent of eventual sale.” “Fifty.” “Twenty.” “Thirty-five and you work the bar during happy hour tomorrow. Lu’s off with gout.” He almost smiles. “Deal.” We spit-shake like Belters do. His saliva tingles, slightly electric. Behind us, the door sighs open. Chill dock air sneaks in, smelling of ozone and welding sparks. A woman steps through—tall, armorweave coat, face masked by a mirrored visor. Her boots click too evenly; magnets, maybe. She scans the room as if she already knows who she’s looking for and just needs confirmation. Calder’s shoulders go rigid. “Void,” he whispers. “She’s early.” I keep my voice casual. “Friend of yours?” “Used to be. She’s the one who sold me the schematics to MRV-17. Turns out she forgot to mention the alive part.” The woman stalks toward us. I wipe an invisible stain from the bar top. “Name?” I ask under my breath. “Captain Asha Vale. Retrieval specialist. If she’s here, the ship hired her as its bloodhound.” Vale stops three stools away. The gravity hiccups again; her coat doesn’t sway. She rests a gloved hand next to Calder’s empty glass. “Evening, Nettle,” she says, voice filtered through the visor like cold water over rocks. “Hear you’ve got something that belongs to my client.” I give her my best bored stare. “This is a bar, not a lost and found. State your poison.” She taps the rim of Calder’s tumbler. “Vega whisky, neat. Make it two doubles. One for me, one for the man trying to crawl under your counter.” Calder stays seated, but I feel him shrink. I pour. “You paying, or is the drink a down payment on property damage?” Vale leans in. Reflected in her visor I see myself multiplied, warped. “I’d hate to damage such a quaint establishment. Let’s call the drinks a courtesy before negotiations turn kinetic.” The violet coin on the bartop pulses once, twice. Vale’s visor flickers as it scans the light signature. “Found you,” she murmurs.

Model Output:
The phone screen says 12 % like it’s judging me. I shove it deeper into my jean jacket—like that’ll shut it up—and look around. New Orleans smells like beer that’s been baked into the sidewalk. I’ve never been anywhere this loud this early; the air’s already vibrating with some trumpet that’s probably blocks away but feels like it’s coming from inside my skull. Okay, Taylor, inventory check: one half-crushed pack of Camels I don’t remember stealing, forty-three dollars and a handful of change, a hoodie that smells like my stepdad’s truck (and I hate that I still think of it as his truck), and a dead name in my back pocket like a ticket stub I can’t throw away because maybe I’ll need it for something. The ride that dumped me here—some stoner with a Jesus fish on his bumper who spent the last fifty miles calling me “little lady”—peeled off toward the river, leaving me on Dauphine with the sun poking me in the eyes. I start walking toward whatever’s louder, because if I stop moving the only thing left to do is think. That’s when I see him: kid about my age, hair dyed the color of antifreeze, hoodie sleeves shredded like he’s been swarmed by angry cats. He’s balancing on the curb outside a Walgreens like he’s surfing the sidewalk. When he spots me staring, he grins like we’ve got a secret. “Nice jacket,” he says. “Vintage or just old?” I snort. “Inherited trauma.” He laughs—sharp, surprised. “I’m Saint.” “Taylor,” I say, and then, because I can’t help it, “with an o-r, not an e-r.” Saint tilts his head. “Noted. You running?” My stomach knots, but what’s the point of lying? “Yeah.” “Cool. Me too.” He flicks his cigarette into the gutter. “You hungry?” I hate that my answer is so quick. “Starving.” We duck into a po-boy shop that smells like grease and forgiveness. Saint orders two shrimp sandwiches and pays with a crumpled twenty like it’s nothing. I try not to look too grateful as I chew. “So what’s your damage?” he asks, mouth half-full. I shrug. “Came out. Family imploded. Figured anywhere was better.” Saint nods like he’s ticking boxes. “They try the praying-away thing?” “And the yelling thing, and the we-love-you-but thing.” I rip my sandwich in half. “You?” He wipes his mouth. “My mom’s boyfriend thinks boundaries are for cowards. Took a beer bottle to the head, woke up deciding I’d rather be homeless than dead.” The bell over the door jingles; a cop walks in for coffee. Saint’s eyes flick up, then down at his fries like they’re suddenly fascinating. I pretend I’m texting, thumb hovering over a black screen. Twelve percent. Not enough for panic, enough for emergency. The cop leaves. Saint exhales. “You got anywhere to crash?” he asks. “Nope.” “Same.” He crumples the sandwich paper. “There’s an abandoned house near the tracks—squatters rotate through. It’s not the Ritz, but the roof’s solid.” I should ask a million questions—like, is it safe, is he safe, are there rats or worse—but the alternative is wandering until dark and figuring it out alone. I stuff the last bite in my mouth and nod. We zigzag through streets that smell like cinnamon and piss. Saint talks the whole time, hands flying. He’s got stories that feel half-truth, half-myth—rooftop parties, a drag queen who gave him eyeliner lessons, a guy named Juju who trades phone chargers for mixtapes. I listen, adding maybe three words, wondering if I’m being recruited or adopted. The house is shotgun style, paint peeling like a bad sunburn. Inside smells like mildew and weed. Two guys asleep on a couch, one girl braiding another girl’s hair in the corner. They look up; Saint lifts a hand. “Fresh meat, don’t spook ’em.” I follow him to a back room with a mattress on the floor and one cracked window. A pile of blankets that might once have been blue. “Home sweet,” Saint says. “You can stash your stuff.” I drop my backpack. “I don’t have stuff.” He grins. “Even easier.” The sun’s starting to dip when we head back out. Saint says we need supplies—water, batteries, luck. I ask about a charger; he says we’ll hunt after dark when the tourists are drunk and careless. Bourbon Street is chaos in fishnets. Trumpet players on every corner, bachelorettes screaming like seagulls. I feel invisible and neon at the same time. Saint weaves us through the crowd like he’s done it every day of his life. At a corner, he stops short. “Shit. That’s Juju.” The guy leaning against a lamppost looks maybe twenty, wearing a sequined blazer and combat boots. His eyes are kind. “Saint, you owe me a tape.” Saint digs in his pocket, pulls out a crushed cassette. “Mixed it myself.” Juju flips it over. “You label this ‘Fuck You Songs’?” “Working title.” Saint jerks a thumb at me. “Taylor needs a charger.” Juju studies me like I’m a complicated chord. “You trustworthy, Taylor?” I open my mouth, shut it. “Ask me tomorrow.” He smiles, slow. “Fair. Come by the record store on Decatur at noon. Bring decent vibes, we’ll trade.” They slap hands like some secret handshake. I’m still trying to breathe. Night drops fast. Streetlights buzz on. Saint buys us canned beans with the last of his cash; we eat them cold on the ferry dock watching barges slide by like steel whales. I check the phone: 8 %. One bar. I hover over Mom’s contact, thumb shaking. If I call, she’ll cry, then she’ll promise to “work on it,” then she’ll ask where I am and I’ll either lie or break completely. Saint watches me. “You don’t have to decide tonight.” “I know.” The word cracks. He leans back on his elbows. “First time I ran, I called my grandma from a gas station. She said, ‘Baby, the door’s always open, but the locks haven’t changed.’ I hung up, puked in the trash can, then kept walking. Best worst night of my life.” I laugh, watery. “Sounds about right.” We head back through quieter streets. The city smells beignet-sweet and river-dirty. My feet hurt; my heart hurts like it’s been bench-pressing dread. In the squat, the others are still up, passing a joint and a battered guitar. Someone hands it to me. I strum three chords I learned off YouTube, wincing at every buzzed string. Saint hums along off-key. At some point, my phone dies completely. The screen just blinks out, no drama, just black. I stare at it like it’s a tiny coffin. Saint nudges me. “You’re still here.” I nod. “Yeah. Guess I am.” He grins, teeth bright in the lamplight. “Welcome to Day One.” I close my eyes. The guitar string under my thumb buzzes but holds. Outside, a train wails like it knows all our names.

Model Output:
# My Apocalypse Buddy The morning sun filtered through the corrugated iron roof of what had once been a suburban garage and was now, according to the hand-painted sign, "Midas & Chewy's Emporium of Things What Still Work (Mostly)." Midas sat cross-legged on an upturned milk crate, contemplating a map drawn on the back of a cereal box with what appeared to be burnt stick. "Right then, Chewy," he said to the small animatronic koala perched on a nearby shelf. "According to my calculations, the old hardware shop should be approximately three left turns past the burnt-out supermarket, or possibly four right turns past the supermarket that isn't burnt out yet." Chewy's eyes flickered a skeptical amber. "Yes, well, your confidence is noted," Midas replied, folding the map with the sort of precision that suggested he'd once had a job involving paper and the illusion of competence. "But we need nails. The roof's got more holes than a politician's promise, and Mrs. Henderson from number forty-two keeps dropping by to complain about the indoor weather." The koala's eyes shifted to a resigned purple. "What's the worst that could happen?" Midas asked, which was exactly the sort of question that caused small electronic marsupials to develop what might charitably be called anxiety disorders, assuming they weren't already suffering from several centuries of battery degradation and existential dread. --- The journey began promisingly enough. They'd made it nearly two hundred yards before encountering their first complication, which was either a very small sinkhole or a very large pothole that had achieved sentience and developed property rights. "Afternoon," said the pothole, in the tone of something that had been practicing its small talk for several geological eras. "Lovely weather for not falling into me." Midas, who'd learned that politeness cost nothing and often prevented things from eating you, nodded respectfully. "Terribly sorry, we'll just be going around—" "That'll be five bottle caps," said the pothole. "Toll road." "It's a pavement." "Details," said the pothole, which had clearly been reading economics textbooks. They paid with three bottle caps and a button that claimed to have once belonged to someone important, then continued on their way. Chewy's eyes had settled into a sort of worried yellow-green that suggested this was already exceeding his daily recommended allowance of nonsense. The supermarket (burnt-out variety) appeared exactly where Midas hadn't expected it, which was to say it had apparently moved three blocks south since his last expedition. Buildings did that sometimes, usually on Tuesdays. "Left turn here," Midas announced with the confidence of a man who'd once gotten lost in his own bathroom. This was when they discovered that the local neighborhood watch had been taken over by a particularly militant group of garden gnomes who had unionized and developed a fondness for traffic cones. The gnomes, who appeared to have been reading old parking regulations, insisted on directing them through an elaborate system of detours that seemed designed to maximize both confusion and exposure to their gift shop. Forty-seven minutes later, they emerged with a commemorative snow globe, a receipt for directions rendered, and a deep suspicion that the gnomes had been making up street names. "Hardware store should be just past those abandoned cars," Midas said, pointing at what turned out to be a small herd of rust-colored cows. They objected to being called cars with a unanimity that suggested they'd been practicing. The actual hardware store, when they finally found it, had been converted into a very exclusive restaurant by a family of raccoons who'd apparently watched too many cooking shows. The head raccoon, wearing a tiny chef's hat that was definitely stolen from somewhere unfortunate, explained that they could certainly have nails, provided they didn't mind them being served medium-rare with a reduction of something that used to be paint thinner. "Do you have any that aren't on the menu?" Midas asked hopefully. The raccoon conferred with his sous-chefs, which mostly involved a lot of chittering and what sounded like a heated debate about presentation. Eventually, they were offered a small bag of rusty nails in exchange for Chewy's left ear. "Absolutely not," said Midas, which was probably the first sensible thing he'd said all day. Chewy's eyes glowed a grateful blue-green. The negotiation that followed would have impressed medieval diplomats, assuming medieval diplomats had been willing to trade three buttons, a shoelace, and a heartfelt rendition of "Waltzing Matilda" for construction materials. The raccoons seemed particularly moved by the shoelace, which apparently complemented the restaurant's industrial aesthetic. --- The journey home was, if anything, more eventful. The garden gnomes had apparently decided to implement a one-way system that led through a small swamp they'd been cultivating for tax purposes. The swamp, which introduced itself as Gerald, was terribly sorry about the whole sinking thing but had recently discovered the concept of property values and was trying to establish waterfront real estate. "Just a little more to the left," called Midas, who was currently up to his waist in Gerald's northern region while Chewy perched on his shoulder like a very small, very electronic figurehead. "I think I can see the roof from here." This was optimistic, as they were currently facing what appeared to be the remains of a shopping trolley, but optimism was like rust: it spread if you didn't keep an eye on it. Three hours later, they arrived home covered in swamp, smelling faintly of raccoon cuisine, and carrying exactly seventeen nails of dubious structural integrity. Mrs. Henderson was waiting. "About that roof," she began. "Tomorrow," said Midas, who had just discovered that his milk crate had been stolen by something that left tiny footprints and a thank-you note. "Definitely tomorrow." Chewy's eyes flickered a weary amber-green that translated roughly to: *Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.* "Shakespeare?" Midas asked. The koala's eyes glowed smug purple. "Show-off," said Midas, but he was smiling as he said it.

Model Output:
**Scene: “Hardbacks & Haven”** *Location: The Hayes, Cardiff – a narrow, crooked Victorian bookshop wedged between a closed-down travel agent and a vegan pasty bar.* *Time: 4:23 p.m., slate-grey sky pressing against the mullioned windows, rain like tossed gravel against the glass.* --- **[Bell clangs: an old ship’s bell, not a twee tinkle.]** **Mara (without looking up from the till):** We shut at five. If it’s shelter you want, take it, but the kettle’s already off. **Kit (voice warm as whisky, just inside the door):** I’d settle for sanctuary. And perhaps a paperback shield. Is that treason in a place like this? **Mara (still counting copper):** Only if you dog-ear. Or if you’re the sort that reads the ending first. **Kit (peeling off wet beanie, curls springing like jack-in-the-boxes):** Guilty on both counts, I’m afraid. But I bury the evidence. Professional habit. **Mara (glances up; recognition flickers, is instantly shuttered):** Ah. You’re the one making our pavements unusable this afternoon. I nearly clipped a photographer with the returns trolley. **Kit (hand to chest, mock-wounded):** You wound me on behalf of the tabloids. That’s oddly noble. And you are…? **Mara:** Proprietor. Mara Llewellyn. Also chief duster, reluctant barista, and bouncer of anyone who brings fizzy drinks near the Folio shelf. **Kit (angling toward the counter, raindrops still jewelling his lashes):** Mara. Solid, mythic. I like names you can stand on. Mine’s—well, you probably know. **Mara:** Kit Carrington. Your face is on the side of the Number 62 bus. Hard to miss, even for those of us who walk. **Kit (leans in, conspiratorial):** Between us, the bus version has better lighting. Real me’s a bit… weathered. **Mara:** You’re dripping on C.S. Lewis. That’s the real tragedy. **Kit (steps back, theatrically contrite):** Blasphemy! Let me—here— (He rakes fingers through his hair, flicking droplets. They land in tiny starbursts on the parquet.) Tell me, Mara-of-the-sharp-tongue, what’s the going rate for redemption? A signed first edition? A sonnet recited atop the counter? **Mara (dry):** We price redemption at £9.99, second-hand. Aisle three, next to Self-Help and Regret. **Kit (eyes widening, delighted):** You’re immune. That’s… terrifying. And refreshing. Everyone today has been squealing like I’m Father Christmas with abs. **Mara (snorts):** I’m thirty-three. I’ve outgrown squealing. Also, I never watched your pirate show. **Kit (hand over heart again, this time with actual dent in bravado):** Not even the first series? The one where I swing in shirtless to save Cardiff Castle from French mercenaries? **Mara:** Especially not that one. I was too busy repelling actual mercenaries: university fees. **Kit (quiet, intrigued):** Fair hit. Mind if I orbit while you close up? I’ve got a swarm of lenses outside convinced I’m either eloping or having breakdown number four. **Mara:** Suit yourself. Just don’t rearrange anything. The travel section faces the window for tactical reasons—blocks the worst glare from Specsavers. **Kit (wandering, pulling out a battered Greene):** Brighton Rock. You shelve it under Theology, not Crime. Dark humour or clerical error? **Mara (allowing a small smile):** Read the last page and tell me God’s not the bigger villain. **Kit (turns, eyes glinting):** You’re dangerous. I should leave before you ruin my neatly curated ego. **Mara:** Door’s where you left it. Mind the bell, it bites. **Kit (doesn’t move):** I will, but first— (He flips the book open, thumbs to a dog-eared corner, winces.) Hypothetically, if I bought this and every other bruised copy you’ve got, would that buy me ten minutes of conversation without sarcasm? **Mara (leans on counter, chin in hand):** Sarcasm’s a flat fee. Non-negotiable. But the books are half-price after four on Tuesdays. **Kit:** Today is Tuesday. **Mara (glances at wall clock, sighs):** So it is. You’ve the luck of the Welsh drizzle. **Kit (smiles, slow and crooked):** Luck, or fate? My mum believed in fate. Said the universe would elbow me toward anyone who’d puncture my nonsense. **Mara (soft despite herself):** Your mum sounds sensible. **Kit (voice dips):** She died the year before the pirate nonsense. Missed the circus. Sometimes I think she’d have laughed herself sick, then grounded me for vanity. **Mara (a pause, then quieter):** Loss has a way of editing the spotlight. Makes the shadows sharper. **Kit (meeting her eyes, the charm ebbing into something rawer):** You too? **Mara:** Books are mostly ghosts. I trade in them daily. Dad went ten years ago; left me the lease and a first edition Brontë with half the pages missing. Said the gaps were for me to fill. **Kit (gently closes Greene, places it on counter like an offering):** I can’t fill gaps, but I can listen. And apparently pay £4.50 for the privilege. **Mara (rings it up, fingers brushing his—static snap, both flinch):** That’s the Brontë surcharge. **Kit (grins, fragile edges gone):** Worth the shock. **[Outside, cameras click like distant crickets.]** **Kit (wincing):** They’ll be papping the vegan pasty next. “Star eats cruelty-free at 4:30!” **Mara:** You could leave through the back alley. Door sticks, but it opens onto the market—easy to lose yourself among the spice stalls. **Kit (tilts head):** Come with me. **Mara (laughs, startled):** Absolutely not. I have cash-up, window shutters, and a goldfish to feed. **Kit:** Tomorrow, then. Same drizzle, different excuse. I’ll bring coffee that isn’t instant, and you can pretend you still hate me. **Mara (eyes betraying the first real flicker of heat):** I never said hate. **Kit (soft):** Stubborn, then. I like stubborn. Keeps the ego from floating off like a birthday balloon. **Mara (looks down, cheeks betraying her):** Five minutes. Five. Then the shutters come down, literally and metaphorically. **Kit (leans across counter, voice barely above the rain):** Five is enough. I once conquered Tortuga in three. **Mara:** Cardiff’s not Tortuga. **Kit:** No. It’s better. It’s real. **[The bell gives a half-hearted clink as he steps back, not quite retreating, as Mara resets the till with hands that suddenly don’t quite fit the buttons.]** **Mara (to herself, just audible):** Damn.

Model Output:
The iron door groaned inward on hinges that had not tasted oil in a generation, and a breath of colder, older air rolled over Aya’s masked face—grave-cold, cellar-cold, the exhalation of something that had waited far too long. She stepped first, bootheel ringing on basalt flags polished by centuries of illicit traffic. Katra followed, coat-tails sweeping like raven wings; Simeon’s lantern hissed, its whale-oil flame guttering blue, as though reluctant to push back the dark. The corridor beyond was not the chaos of overturned crates and panicked footfalls they had rehearsed for; it was a mausoleum hush. Gas-pipes ran along the vaulted ceiling, brass nozzles coughing out weak, stuttering light. Each spurt of flame etched the ribs of the masonry like the inside of a colossal whale. Shadows lengthened, shrank, lengthened again, as if the darkness itself were breathing. Aya’s pulse beat behind her ears in Morse—*too quiet, too quiet.* Her gloved hand brushed the vial at her wrist—three drops of her own blood suspended in quicksilver, a tether to the immateria. It felt suddenly ridiculous, a parlour trick against whatever calm had settled here. They passed the first archway. Carved stone walruses, tusks lacquered in tar, stared down with empty ruby eyes. Katra muttered, “Even the statues know something’s off.” Simeon only adjusted the strap of his satchel where the dynamite nested like steel eggs. Then the corridor widened into the underhold proper: a circular chamber domed in black brick, iron rings set into the mortar where chains had once moored sea-beasts or prisoners—history did not specify. In the centre, upon a tripod of rusted iron, rested the Scythan relic: a disk of greened bronze, edges serrated like a shark’s jaw, its surface etched with spirals that hurt to follow. Around it, a lattice of copper tubing carried faintly luminous vapour—an etheric ward, engineered by men who trusted brass yet feared the void. The air tasted of ozone and damp wool. And before the relic stood Elzbieta Voss, undisputed master of the Morska guild, very much at liberty. She wore the same cutlass that had slit throats from Björnholm to Port Leviathan, the same high-collared coat of midnight broadcloth, but now her wrists were unmarred by irons. At her flanks stood two guards in oil-stained greatcoats, goggles fogged with breath; each levelled a revolving carbine whose brasswork gleamed like freshly polished coffin handles. Elzbieta’s smile was a scalpel. “Close the door behind you, pet. The draught plays the devil with the lamps.” A dozen thoughts spiked through Aya’s mind—*impossible, informant lied, trap*—but the door clanged shut at Simeon’s back before any could reach her tongue. The sound rang final, a judge’s gavel. Elzbieta tilted her head, auburn curls escaping the knot at her nape. “I was beginning to think you’d keep me waiting till the tide turned. Punctuality is a virtue, Lady Ravencrest.” The name struck Aya like a thrown stone. So the mask had never fooled her at all. “Remove it,” Elzbieta said, almost gently. “Let’s not be vulgar.” Katra took a half-step forward; a rifle barrel lifted in precise synchrony. Aya lifted her hands, palms out, and with her thumbs hooked the silk edge of the half-mask. The fabric came away like shed skin. The chill air bit the fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Elzbieta’s gaze lingered on the blood-ink tattoo at Aya’s temple—a small circle bisected by three lines, sigil of the immateria. “Your mother’s artistry lives on, I see. How quaint. Bind them.” The guards moved with the bored efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times before. Hemp rope bit into Aya’s wrists, cinched behind her back. Katra tried a snarl, got the butt of a carbine in the ribs for her trouble; Simeon submitted with the quiet of someone already calculating angles, fuse lengths. Elzbieta resumed her post beside the relic. “The City Watch sang a pretty song of my capture. I let them. One must occasionally prune the vine—see which shoots dare reach for sun.” She regarded Aya as a lepidopterist might regard a pinned moth. “And here we find the blackest bloom. Tell me, girl, did you truly believe the guild could be led by a dilettante who plays with ghosts?” Aya’s tongue felt thick. “I believe,” she began, and was surprised at how steady her voice emerged, “that the guild has outgrown you. While you played prisoner, the docks whispered your weakness. I merely answered the vacancy.” Katra spat blood onto the flags. “Aya, don’t—” “Let her speak,” Elzbieta murmured. “I’m curious how the young reckon value these days.” Aya straightened, feeling the rope gnaw bone. “A Ravencrest hostage is worth more than a crate of opium or a hull of rifles. My father sits on the Admiralty Board. He will pay to have me unharmed—he must, lest the scandal poison our name.” She forced a laugh that tasted of rust. “And you know how the titled dread scandal, Elzbieta. It rots their teeth in their sleep.” Elzbieta tapped the flat of her cutlass against her boot. “You bargain for your life already? How swiftly nobility sheds its plumage. But you misreckon. I need no ransom; I require example.” Behind them, Simeon cleared his throat. “Then take the example that profits you least if you break it. Kill us, you get corpses. Keep us breathing, you get leverage—and, if she wills it, a Ravencrest heir who can open doors your current key-ring cannot.” Aya shot him a look—part gratitude, part horror at the price implied. Elzbieta considered. Gas-light hissed, painting her face amber, then blue, then amber again. “Leverage,” she repeated. “An interesting word from a guttersnipe engineer. Yet leverage bends both ways. What assurance have I that your little sorceress will not slit reality the moment my back is turned? Her mother danced upon air until the rope taught her better manners.” The memory rose unbidden behind Aya’s eyes: the square at dawn, the scent of tarred hemp, her mother’s boots kicking empty sky. A cold knot lodged beneath her sternum. She lifted her chin. “My mother reached too far, too fast, without allies. I am… more prudent.” Elzbieta’s eyebrow arched. “Prudent. Yes, I see prudence writ large in midnight burglaries and masked sedition.” She stepped closer; the cutlass glimmered like a slice of starlight. “Still, the blood of the Ravencrests is a rare vintage. Perhaps decanted slowly it might yield bouquet.” Aya felt the weight of Katra’s stare—*say whatever keeps us alive.* Simeon’s eyes flicked to the relic, calculating. She drew breath, tasting rust and candle smoke. “Keep me, then,” she said. “Let Katra and Simeon walk out. Their testimony to your mercy will quiet dissent faster than any gallows. The docks will see you magnanimous, not merely fearsome.” Katra started. “Like hell—” “Quiet.” Elzbieta raised a finger. Silence fell so complete Aya heard the distant drip of condensation onto iron. Then the guild leader laughed—a low, rich sound that scraped every shadow. “You offer terms as though seated in your father’s drawing room. Admirable, if absurd.” She turned, coat-tails flaring, and placed the flat of her blade against the bronze disk. “The relic has slept beneath my floorboards for twenty years. Every smuggler, every crown spy, every gutter mage has coveted it. Tonight it almost walked away wearing your perfume.” She spun back. “No. You will remain, all three. The tale of your capture will spread, and the tale of your eventual release—should I judge it politic—will serve better than any corpse. But first, girl, you will show me what your mother died for. You will open the gate you carry in that pretty vial, and we shall see whether the immateria recognises its own.” The gas-lamps flickered once, twice, then steadied, as though the air itself held breath. Aya felt the blood in the vial stir—warm, eager, treacherous. *Leverage bends both ways,* she thought, and met Elzbieta’s gaze without flinching. “Very well,” she said, voice soft as falling ash. “But know this, Guildmaster—what answers my call may not answer yours.”

Model Output:
A lazy ceiling fan barely stirs the smoky air inside the bar. The blades spin like they’re too tired to care, just like everything else in the place—peeling wallpaper, cracked stools, and patrons too drunk to notice the mold on the ceiling. Neon signs flicker behind the counter, casting sickly pinks and greens across the faces of the damned and the desperate. The jukebox croons something mournful in a language no one here speaks. Spike Spiegel leans against the far wall, one boot propped on a chair, cigarette dangling from his lips like it’s been there forever. His suit jacket’s open, shirt untucked, and the yellowed bruise under his left eye is fresh enough to still throb when he blinks. His prosthetic eye catches the light wrong—too glossy, too still—and he turns his head just enough to track the woman who’s just walked in. Revy doesn’t knock. She kicks the door open like it owes her money and strolls in with the swagger of someone who’s shot men for looking at her wrong. Her twin cutlasses glint at her hips, and the dragon on her arm coils like it’s alive and pissed off. She’s in her usual uniform—tight black crop top, shorts that barely qualify as clothing, and boots that have stepped over more corpses than most people see in a lifetime. Her eyes scan the room once, twice, then land on Spike. He exhales smoke through his nose and gives her a lazy half-smile. “Well,” he says, “if it isn’t the infamous Two Hands. Heard you were dead.” Revy snorts and heads straight for the bar, hips swaying like a threat. “Heard the same about you, space cowboy. Guess we’re both ghosts.” They’re the only ones not pretending to be invisible. The bartender—a wiry man with a mustache like a broom—sets a bottle of cheap whiskey in front of her without being asked. She pours three fingers, downs it, then pours again. Spike watches her like a cat watches a snake. “You’re here for the Kuroda job,” she says, not a question. “Bingo,” Spike replies, flicking ash onto the floor. “Seems like we’ve got a scheduling conflict.” Revy turns, leaning her back against the bar, elbows resting on the wood like she owns the place. “Not my problem. I was here first.” “Funny,” Spike says, standing up. “Because I’ve got a tranq dart with his name on it, and a ship that’s already warmed up.” Revy’s laugh is sharp and ugly. “You think I came all this way to play nice? I don’t do tranqs. I do blood and fire.” Their eyes lock—his one human, one not; hers both dangerous and tired. There’s a beat of silence, thick with gunpowder and something else. Something that buzzes under the skin like static. She lifts her glass. “Drink?” He shrugs. “Why the hell not.” They move to a booth in the back, away from the windows, away from the exits. Revy sits with her back to the wall and her hands on her thighs, fingers twitching like they miss the weight of her guns. Spike lounges across from her, legs stretched out, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. They drink. Not like people who want to forget, but like people who want to remember something they’re not sure ever happened. Revy watches the way he moves—economical, like violence is just another dance step. Spike watches the way her lips wrap around the rim of the glass and the way her eyes never quite settle, always scanning, always judging. “You’re not what I expected,” she says eventually. “Disappointed?” “No,” she says, too quickly. “Just... thought you’d be taller.” He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Thought you’d be uglier.” She grins, all teeth and no warmth. “You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable.” “Or lazy,” he says. The tension stretches between them like wire. Revy leans forward, elbows on the table. “We could flip for it. Kuroda’s head. Winner takes all.” “You trust a coin?” “I trust my aim.” Spike stubs out his cigarette and lights another. “Nah. I don’t play fair. I play to win.” Revy’s hand twitches toward her holster. Spike’s doesn’t move, but his eyes flick down to her waist and back up again. “You wanna dance, cowboy?” she purrs. “Or just talk me to death?” He leans in, close enough that she can smell the smoke on his breath. “I don’t dance unless the music’s right.” She laughs again, low and dangerous, and then she’s standing, throwing bills on the table. “I’ve got a room next door. No windows. One door. You wanna settle this like civilized psychopaths, let’s go.” Spike raises an eyebrow. “Civilized?” “Relatively.” The motel is exactly what they both expected—flaking paint, buzzing lights, and a bed that’s seen things. The door clicks shut behind them like a gun being cocked. Revy locks it. Spike doesn’t stop her. They stand three feet apart, hands loose at their sides. “So,” she says. “You gonna try to shoot me in the back, or are we gonna do this the fun way?” Spike tilts his head. “Define fun.” Revy steps forward. He doesn’t move. She reaches up, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, and for a second it’s not a threat—it’s something else. Something that burns hotter than gunmetal. Then her other hand draws. So does his. They’re nose to nose now, guns pressed under each other’s chins like lovers trading secrets. “You feel that?” Revy whispers. “That’s trust.” Spike smirks. “That’s stupidity.” They’re both breathing hard. The room is too small, the air too thick. Her knee brushes his. His thumb strokes the safety on his Jericho like it’s a heartbeat. Neither pulls the trigger. They stay like that—frozen, furious, and something else neither of them will name. Revy’s lips are inches from his. “You ever wonder what it’d feel like to stop running?” Spike’s voice is low, rough. “I stopped wondering a long time ago.” She doesn’t kiss him. He doesn’t kiss her. Instead, they lower their guns in perfect sync, like they rehearsed it. Revy steps back, holsters her piece. “Tomorrow. Noon. Kuroda’s mine.” Spike shrugs, already halfway out the door. “Whatever happens, happens.” The door clicks shut behind him. Revy lights a cigarette with shaking hands and doesn’t look at the bed.

Model Output:
The mist, thick and luminous, rolled off the fields like it had somewhere urgent to be, only to stall at the foot of the mound, glowing under the moonlight like a held breath. We moved through it, Astrid first, sure-footed as a deer, me following, my borrowed wool coat scratching my neck. It was past midnight, the sky a bruised violet, the air sharp with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. My parents thought I was asleep in the small, spare room of the house they’d rented, a room that still smelled faintly of mothballs and the previous tenant’s pipe smoke. Instead, I was here, on the edge of the old cemetery, with Astrid, who moved through the world as if it belonged to her. “The veil is thinnest at the turning points,” Astrid had said earlier, her voice flat, like she was reciting a recipe. “Midnight. Solstice. New moon. And here, this place. The ancestors are listening.” She’d said it with the same casual certainty she used when explaining how to get a boy to notice you, or how to make your hair less frizzy. It was just another thing she knew, passed down from her grandmother, who’d lived in a croft at the edge of the forest and whose eyes, Astrid claimed, had seen things. I’d followed her because I was new, and Astrid was the only one who hadn’t looked at me like I was a foreign body. And because I was fifteen, and bored, and something in her conviction had scraped against my own skepticism, leaving a raw, curious patch. We weren’t going to *do* anything, not really. It was just a game, like the others. The midnight games. But this one, Útiseta, felt heavier. It was a sitting out, Astrid had explained, an old way to receive knowledge from beyond. A vigil. Not a séance, not a Ouija board, but a direct communion. Astrid stopped at the base of the mound. It was a low, rounded hill, covered in a scrim of moss and the dark silhouettes of dwarf pines. No gravestones, just an ancient, undisturbed quiet. She pulled a small, worn pouch from her pocket. Inside, she’d shown me earlier, were the things her grandmother had used: a pinch of dried herbs that smelled of something sharp and medicinal, a smooth, dark stone with a hole through its center, and a length of red wool thread. We were to sit, she’d said, facing the mound, backs to the village, backs to everything familiar. We would burn the herbs, whisper the names of those we sought knowledge about, and wait. We were not to speak, not until the knowledge came. And we were not to turn around. She knelt, her movements precise, and scraped a small hollow in the moss at the foot of the mound. Into it, she sprinkled the herbs. A faint, acrid scent rose. She struck a match, the small flare momentarily blinding, then the herbs caught, a thin plume of smoke spiraling upwards. She laid the holed stone carefully beside it, then took the red thread and tied it loosely around both our left wrists, binding us together. The wool was rough against my skin. It felt like a leash. “Now,” Astrid whispered, her voice barely a breath. “We sit. Back to the village. Back to the world. And we listen.” We settled onto the cold ground, the hard earth pressing into my tailbone. The mist swirled around us, luminous, almost alive. It was so quiet I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Astrid’s breathing was slow, even. I stared at the mound, its dark bulk rising before us like a sleeping beast. The smoke from the herbs curled upwards, dissipating into the moonlit fog. I felt the chill seep into my bones, a dampness that went beyond the physical. The red thread pulled gently between us, a constant, slight pressure. At first, it was just the cold, and the quiet. The distant hoot of an owl. The rustle of something small in the undergrowth. My mind wandered, to my parents, asleep in their strange new house. To my old life, which already felt like a dream. Then, slowly, the silence began to shift. It thickened, became almost tangible. The mist seemed to press closer, muffling even the owl. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, a sensation I tried to dismiss as the cold. But it grew, a distinct awareness of something *behind* me. I wanted to turn, desperately. The instruction not to turn around, which had seemed like a silly superstition, now felt like a command carved into stone. My heart began to beat faster, a frantic drum against my ribs. I strained my ears. Was it the wind? No, the air was still. Was it my imagination? I tried to tell myself it was. Just the darkness, the isolation, the power of suggestion. But the feeling persisted, a cold breath on the nape of my neck, a weight in the air that hadn’t been there before. The red thread tightened, almost imperceptibly, as if Astrid had shifted, or as if something had tugged at it. Then, I heard it. Not a sound, not exactly. More like a vibration, a low hum that seemed to emanate from the ground itself, from the very roots of the mound. It was subtle, almost below the threshold of hearing, but it resonated in my chest, a deep, ancient thrum. The mist, which had been swirling gently, began to eddy and twist, forming shapes that were gone as soon as I tried to focus on them. The scent of the burning herbs intensified, sharp and cloying, filling my lungs. I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes, a sudden, overwhelming urge to close them. And then, a whisper. Not a voice, not words, but a sensation, a knowing. A name. *Emil.* My classmate, the one who always seemed so quiet, so harmless. And with the name, a flash of something dark, a secret, a fear that wasn't mine, but that felt suddenly, intimately, like it was. A cold dread that settled deep in my stomach. My breath hitched. I wanted to scream, to tear my wrist free from the red thread, to run. But I was frozen, held by the pressure, by the hum, by the impossible knowledge that had just been *given*. Astrid remained utterly still beside me, her breathing unchanged. Was she feeling it too? Or was this all just me, the cold, the dark, the power of suggestion twisting my mind? The hum intensified, the mist swirling faster, and the cold on my neck sharpened into a distinct touch. Not wind. Not imagination. A pressure, like a hand, hovering, then a sudden, sharp pull on the red thread between us. Not Astrid. It came from the direction of the mound, from the earth itself. The red thread snapped taut, burning my wrist. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The hum vanished. The mist stilled. The cold touch receded. The only sound was the frantic pounding of my own heart. Astrid stirred beside me. “It’s enough,” she whispered, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. She reached down, untied the thread. My wrist felt raw where it had been. She scooped up the holed stone and the remnants of the herbs with a practiced hand. “We should go.” I scrambled to my feet, my legs stiff, my body trembling. The mist still clung to the edges of the mound, glowing under the moonlight, but it no longer looked luminous. It looked like a shroud. I didn’t look back at the mound as we walked away, Astrid leading me through the silent fields. I didn’t speak. My wrist throbbed. And the name, Emil, and the terrible thing I now knew about him, burned like a brand behind my eyes.

Model Output:
The scent hits me first—lavender, faint but deliberate, threading through the cold antiseptic like a lie trying to sound true. It’s soft, almost apologetic, and it pisses me off. Nothing about this room should be soft. Not the adjustable plinth I’m perched on, not the resistance bands coiled like pastel snakes on the wall, and definitely not her. But she is. Soft, I mean. Or she looks it—until she moves. Zoe bends over the chart at the counter, pen scratching, the line of her spine a clean, unbroken thing under the loose gray cotton of her tank. I used to know the way that back moved under strain—how the scapula winged just slightly when she hit the wall on the 400 IM, how the deltoids flared like wings when she surfaced, gasping and grinning. Now I’m the one gasping. Not grinning. She turns. “Let’s start supine. Hip flexor stretch, modified Thomas position.” I don’t move. My skin prickles like it’s already anticipating her hands. “Left leg off the edge,” she says, voice neutral like we didn’t used to share Gatorade bottles and lane lines and the taste of chlorine on each other’s mouths. I lower myself back slowly, vertebra by vertebra, until my shoulder blades meet the vinyl. The plinth is narrow, just wide enough for my frame. My right foot stays planted on the surface, knee bent. My left leg dangles off the side, gravity pulling it down like it’s already given up. “Bring your right knee to your chest. Hands under the thigh, not over. Keep the pelvis posteriorly tilted.” I obey, fingers lacing under the hamstring, pulling it in until the hip crease burns. The stretch is immediate—deep, like someone wedged a crowbar into the joint and pried. She steps in. No gloves. Just warm fingertips on the anterior crest of my pelvis, pressing down. The pressure is precise, clinical, but my skin doesn’t care. It remembers. “Tilt more. Flatten your low back into the table. There.” Her thumb finds the ASIS and slides medially, just enough to feel the edge of the iliacus. My breath hitches. Not pain—just the shock of being touched with intent, again, after months of being handled like damaged cargo. She holds it. Five seconds. Ten. The stretch deepens, not from force but from surrender. My left thigh burns down the rectus femoris into the patellar tendon. “You’re guarding,” she murmurs. I want to snarl. Instead, I exhale through my teeth. She slides her right hand under my lumbar spine, checking for space. Her forearm brushes the inside of my thigh—barely, but the contact is electric. I clench. She notices. Of course she does. “Relax the hip flexor. Let it go.” I want to say: you let it go. You moved on. You’re here with your clean hands and your alphabet soup of certifications while I’m still trying to remember how to walk without limping. Instead, I breathe. My pelvis tilts. The stretch sinks deeper. She steps back. “Hold for thirty. Then we’ll go into the ballistic phase.” I hate that word. Ballistic. It sounds like a threat. Thirty seconds limp by. My thigh is a live wire. “Now,” she says, “I’m going to passively flex the knee. Let it bend. Don’t help.” She cradles my left ankle in her left hand, forearm supporting the tibia like it’s something fragile. Her right hand cups the distal femur, just above the patella. She bends the knee slow—90 degrees, then past. The quad stretches tighter, the sartorius like a violin string drawn to snapping. I hiss. “Still shy of full ROM,” she says. “We’re going to oscillate. Small pulses. Breathe.” She starts—tiny, rhythmic flexions, each one pushing the heel closer to the glutes. The movement is controlled, but the pain isn’t. It’s sharp, clean, like a scalpel slipped under scar tissue. My fingers dig into the plinth. Her wrist brushes the back of my thigh. Her pulse jumps. I feel it. She doesn’t flinch, but I see the way her jaw tightens. “Good,” she says. “Now resist me. Gentle. 30% effort.” She straightens the leg slightly, and I push against her hold. Hamstring fires. Glute medius engages. The resistance is steady, her strength surprising. I used to be stronger. Used to. “Hold. Three, two, one. Release.” The leg drops. The relief is instant, but it’s hollow. Temporary. She steps around to the head of the plinth. “Let’s do seated piriformis. Cross the left ankle over the right knee. Sit up tall.” I push up, vertebrae clicking. My left ankle rests just above the right patella, the piriformis already screaming. She kneels. Actually kneels. Her hands slide under my knee, lifting slightly to thread her forearm under the tibia. She pulls gently, drawing the ankle closer to my chest. The stretch is brutal. Gluteal fibers twist, the sciatic nerve flaring like a live wire down the back of my thigh. “Breathe into it,” she says. Her breath grazes my collarbone. I can smell her—salt, citrus, something sharper beneath. Her hair grazes my shoulder. I want to lean into it. I don’t. She rotates the femur slightly, internally, externally. The movement is small—maybe five degrees—but it’s enough to shift the stretch deep into the obturator internus. I groan. “Too much?” “No,” I rasp. She holds it. Then releases. “Let’s finish with a supine hip hinge. Feet on the floor, knees bent. I’ll guide the pelvis.” I lie back again. She stands at my feet, hands on either side of my pelvis, thumbs on the ASIS, fingers spread over the iliac crest. “Posterior tilt. Now lift into bridge.” I press through my heels. Glutes fire. Pelvis lifts. She follows the motion, her hands guiding the tilt, keeping the lumbar neutral. “Hold. Now roll down one vertebra at a time. Slowly.” I lower. Her hands stay with me, feeling every shift, every tremor. When my tailbone touches the plinth, she doesn’t pull away. My breath is shallow. Hers too. Neither of us moves. The lavender thickens between us, cloying now. Her thumbs press lightly into the bone. Not therapy. Not quite. I open my eyes. She’s staring down at me, lips parted, pupils blown. The moment stretches. Not like muscle. Like something else. Then she steps back. Smooth. Professional. “Good session,” she says. “Same time tomorrow.” I nod. Can’t speak. She turns away. I watch the line of her spine as she writes. Clean. Unbroken. I hate her. I want her hands back on me. I stay on the plinth, staring at the ceiling, until the lavender fades and the pain settles in like it belongs.

Model Output:
The scent of rotting mangoes rose first, sweet and corrupt, as though the fruit had grown embarrassed by its own promise and turned in on itself overnight. I eased past a stack of split crates oozing amber liquor. A stray dog, ribs like barrel staves, watched me with the same sullen suspicion I had seen in my own shaving-mirror that morning. I nodded to the dog; he did not nod back. At the mouth of Hog Lane a boy in a cast-off sailor’s jacket—no older than twelve, Cantonese by the shape of his eyes—fell into step beside me. “Number-one cloud today, L’tenant,” he said. “Old Lin say you come early, he give small present.” His English was chipped, serviceable, the way a broken plate still holds gravy. “Does Old Lin imagine I’m in the market for trinkets, Ah-Lam?” I asked. My throat felt lined with sand. “I need weight, not baubles.” “Weight come, weight go,” the boy recited, grinning. “But bauble keep heart light.” I snapped a copper cash into his palm; he vanished down an even narrower slit between two godowns. The air there was thick with camphor and human urine. I kept moving. A sedan chair blocked the alley ahead, its silk curtains faded to the colour of dried blood. From inside, a woman’s voice floated out, lazy Cantonese. “Jam-ssi, you forget me already?” I stopped. The curtain twitched. Sister Mei leaned out, jade pin skewering her hair like a tiny sceptre. Her breath smelled of cloves and yesterday’s gin. “I forget nothing,” I said. “Only your interest compounds faster than my wages.” She tapped a lacquered nail against the chair’s frame. “Tonight, foreign ship Firefly bring chests off Lintin. You still have navy eyes. Tell me where they anchor, I cross out one line of your debt.” I pictured Firefly—brig, eight guns, flying the Company swallow-tail. She was due to warp into the inner passage under my own charts. The thought of betrayal passed over me like a fever-sweat. “My eyes are clouded these days,” I said. “Then polish them,” Mei replied. The chair rose with a grunt from its bearers and glided away, leaving me the smell of her perfume—sandalwood and rot. I turned into a side court where washing snapped overhead like signal flags. Old Lin’s door was a slab of teak scarred by salt and insects. I knocked twice, paused, once more. A slot scraped open, then the door itself. Lin wore his usual quilted indigo jacket despite the heat. His pupils were pinpricks, black on black. “Early tide, Englishman,” he said in Portuguese-flavoured English. “The dragon dislikes punctual supplicants.” “Tell the dragon I brought silver.” I drew three sycee from an inner pocket, their boat-shapes dull from rubbing together on the march from the barracks. The weight felt obscene, like stolen church plate. Lin weighed them in a reed balance, nodded, and motioned me through. Inside, the shop was a cave of cedar and poppy. Two lanterns burned, feeding on whale-oil and their own smoke. On a mat lay the pipe: ivory mouthpiece, bamboo stem darkened by years of lips. Beside it a lump of chandu the colour of dried figs. I knelt. Lin’s boy—another Lin, or so he claimed—heated the pellet over the lamp until it bubbled, then spread it across the bowl. The first draw entered my lungs like a soft reprimand. The second took the ache from my knees. By the third the ceiling had receded into a benevolent sky. Time dilated. I heard my own voice as if across a parade ground: “Lin, I need credit.” “You always need credit.” “I can deliver kegs of powder from the magazine at Whampoa. Prime Bengal grain, still in their skins.” Lin’s eyes narrowed. “Powder is noisy cargo. Navy counts by sound.” “I sign the returns,” I said. The pipe trembled in my hand. “One keg makes a hole in the ledger no bigger than a moth’s wing.” He laughed, a dry rustle. “Two pipes now, payment later. But if moth grows to albatross, I take your other wing.” He refilled the bowl. I floated. A bell clanged—somewhere outside, urgent. The pipe slipped; embers scattered across the mat, stinking like singed hair. Lin cursed in Hokkien. Boots pounded in the alley. Through the shutter I glimpsed red—Royal Marines. A raid. My stomach turned over. Lin shoved a back door open. “Go by canal. Little sister will punt.” I stumbled into daylight so bright it felt punitive. A girl of perhaps fifteen steadied a sampan with one bare foot. I leapt in; she pushed off with a single oar. The boat slid under washing, under the eyes of silent women beating collars. Behind us, shouting grew, then faded. “My name not Little Sister,” the girl said in careful English. “My name Bao.” “My apologies, Miss Bao.” I tasted blood; I had bitten my tongue. She poled beneath a bridge where feral kites screamed overhead. “Where Jam-ssi go now?” I had no answer. My uniform coat, stowed in canvas at my feet, felt suddenly heavier than iron. I fingered the empty pocket where the sycee had been. Hunger—rawer than any sea craving—gnawed me. “Drop me at the Dutch Folly,” I said. “I have business with a Swede.” Bao’s mouth twisted. “Swede smell like cheese and bad bargain.” “Today I welcome both.” We docked by a crumbling watchtower. The tide slapped barnacled stone. I pressed a silver coin into her palm; she pinched it, then spat over the side for luck. The sampan slipped away. The Swede—Blom, quartermaster of the bark Louisa—waited in the shade of a customs shed, peeling an orange with a rigging knife. His beard was the colour of hemp rope. “Jamie. You look like ten days of bad weather.” “I need advance,” I said. “Against what collateral?” I drew my telescope from its case. Brass, three-draw, engraved with the Admiralty cipher. The lens bore a hairline crack but still gathered light. Blom tested it on a junk gliding past. “Cracked sight, cracked owner,” he muttered. “Three Spanish dollars.” “Five.” “Four, and I forget I saw you.” I took the coins. They rang against each other like small artillery. Dusk settled; the sky bruised to indigo. I retraced my route through streets lit by paper lanterns that fluttered like drunken fireflies. The mango stench had ripened to a cloying perfume at which even the bats hesitated. At the corner of Pigeon Lane a voice hailed me—Lieutenant Forsyth of the Marine detachment, red coat unbuttoned, cheeks raw with gin. “Merrick! You missed the commodore’s inspection. Where the devil—” “Fever,” I said, adopting the croak that belonged to the dragon. “Surgeon’s orders to keep to quarters.” Forsyth wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a Chinaman’s laundry.” “Medicinal steam,” I replied. He laughed, clapped my shoulder, moved on. I watched until his white cross-belts vanished among the crowd. The coins in my fist were already warm. I found Ah-Lam again outside the temple of the City God, spinning a wooden top. He looked up, unsurprised. “Old Lin send word,” he said. “Tonight safe. You come?” I looked at the sky, where the first stars pierced the haze like shot holes in canvas. My limbs trembled, half from want, half from shame. “Lead on,” I said. The boy darted ahead, bare feet slapping stone. I followed, coat over my arm, into the narrowing alleys where the smell of mangoes at last gave way to the sharper, sweeter promise of poppy. Behind me a ship’s bell rang eight. Ahead, the lamp in Lin’s window burned steady, low, patient as a tide.

Model Output:
*From the desk of Sisyphus, Columnist emeritus, sometime King of Ephyra, currently somewhere below it* *Dictated to Crow, who adds the commas and occasionally the jokes* --- Sisyphus licked the tip of the stylus—purely for ceremony; the stylus was Crow’s responsibility—and watched the boulder crest the hill like a very determined sunrise. It reached the top, paused for the traditional moment of philosophical reflection, and then remembered the rules of the game. It rolled back down. It always did. Crow returned from the morning post, wings dusty with volcanic ash and the faint scent of ambrosia gone off. He dropped the letters onto the stone seat that had once been part of a temple pediment and was now just a handy place to sit while waiting for gravity to finish its punchline. “Eight for today,” Crow croaked. “One may be soup.” Sisyphus picked up the envelopes, gentle as a nurse unwrapping bandages. “People do open up when they think no one’s watching. Let’s see what they’ve caught today.” --- **Dear Sisyphus,** My partner of twelve years insists on squeezing the toothpaste from the middle. I am a scrupulous end-squeezer. It sounds minor, but it’s become the symbol of everything I fear I’m losing. Am I overreacting? — *Flattened in Florence* **Dear Flattened,** You’re not overreacting; you’re simply mistaking the symptom for the disease. The middle of the tube is where the toothpaste lives in greatest abundance. Perhaps your partner is trying to tell you they still feel rich enough to waste a little. Try buying two tubes. Label one “Art” and one “Commerce.” Use whichever suits the day. When the tubes run out at the same time, you’ll know the relationship is healthy. If one remains half-full, give it to someone who needs the practice. Love, S. (Sisyphus paused to brace his shoulder against the boulder. The rock was warm today; it almost hummed with anticipation. Two short steps, one long grunt, and the journey upward resumed. Crow scribbled the last sentence while perched on his back like a conscience.) --- **Dear Sisyphus,** My manager schedules “optional” meetings at 7 a.m. When I don’t attend, I’m told I’m “not a team player.” I’ve begun to loathe the word *optional*. Is it acceptable to fake my own kidnapping? — *Sleepless in Seattle, Actually Kent* **Dear Sleepless,** Kidnapping is a lot of paperwork for everyone involved. Instead, send your manager a calendar invite for 4:30 a.m. titled “Pre-dawn Trust Fall Rehearsal.” List required materials: blindfold, yoga mat, apology letter to circadian rhythm. When they decline, you’ll have proof that optional is a two-way street. Meanwhile, start brewing truly excellent coffee at 6:55 and bring a cup to anyone who shows up. They’ll remember the kindness longer than the absence. Cheers, S. (The boulder slipped an inch to the left, a flirtatious wink from geology. Sisyphus adjusted his stance, thighs remembering lessons that universities no longer teach.) --- **Dear Sisyphus,** My mother-in-law corrects my pronunciation of my own name. I’m starting to doubt I’ve ever said it correctly. How do I endure Christmas? — *Possibly Not Meredith* **Dear Possibly,** Names are spells we let others cast on us. Next visit, bring a small bell. Every time she *corrects* you, ring it gently and say, “Ah, that’s the old version. The upgrade dropped last week.” Then offer her a mince pie. The bell will irritate her; the pie will confuse her. By dessert, she’ll be too busy wondering if the crust is a metaphor to worry about vowels. You’ll still be Meredith, or whoever you decide you are when no one’s interrupting. Fondly, S. (Crow flapped off to deliver the previous batch of replies, scattering volcanic ash like unasked-for seasoning. Sisyphus used the interlude to wipe the sweat from his brow onto the hem of his tunic—an economy of motion developed over ages. The boulder reached the summit again, saluted, and began the retreat.) --- **Dear Sisyphus,** (The ink here had encountered either tears, rain, or a determined teabag. What remained read:) …feel hollow even when full… can’t read the map because someone… (smear)… left the compass in the… (blot)… and now every direction feels like sideways. Is there a way back to the surface? — *Signed, Smudge* **Dear Smudge,** I consulted Crow, who holds an advanced degree in blot forensics. He believes the missing word is either “washing machine” or “wombat,” both of which are famously bad at directions. Either way, a compass is of limited use when the territory is yourself. Try walking in what feels like sideways for exactly fifteen minutes. Then stop, turn slowly, and notice which view makes your chest lighter. Head that way. If nothing changes, sit down and listen. Sometimes the surface finds you when you stop drilling for it. Bring water. With affectionate guesswork, S. --- **Dear Sisyphus,** I’m thirty-three and still don’t know what I’m for. Friends have mortgages, children, and artisanal sourdough. I have a plant that might be plastic. How do I find purpose without comparing? — *Rootless in Rotterdam* **Dear Rootless,** Your plant might be pretending, but it’s still green. That’s more commitment than most people show on a Monday. Purpose doesn’t arrive like a delivery van; it seeps in like tea, unnoticed until the color changes. Start by watering the plant—real water, just in case. Notice how it takes exactly what it needs and asks for nothing more. That’s a reasonable contract. Try signing similar ones: twenty minutes of honest work, ten of staring out the window, five of sending a message to someone who owes you nothing. The mortgage will wait; the sourdough will go stale. Your purpose is currently practicing small entrances so it doesn’t startle you when it finally walks on stage. Yours in gradual revelation, S. (The boulder, now halfway up again, developed a squeak in its rotation. Sisyphus listened. Something about the sound reminded him of a child learning to whistle—off-key but determined.) --- Crow returned, looking pleased with himself. “One reply came back with a lipstick kiss. I pretended not to notice.” Sisyphus smiled, the expression of someone who has discovered that eternity is less a prison and more a very long afternoon with good company. “We’re building something, you and I. Not up there—” he tilted his chin at the slope “—but here.” He tapped the stack of letters. “The boulder rolls on regardless; we might as well make the soundtrack interesting.” Crow considered this, then pecked a stray punctuation mark into place. “Next batch tomorrow?” “Tomorrow, yesterday, Thursday—time’s more of a neighbor than a landlord here.” Sisyphus set the final letter aside, the one still faintly smelling of peppermint toothpaste and hope. Then he squared his shoulders, greeted the boulder by the pet name he’d never confess (Gertrude), and began the climb again. Behind him, the letters fluttered like small white flags, neither surrender nor victory, just the quiet acknowledgment that everyone is pushing something, and it helps to know someone else sees the hill.

Model Output:
**Lost & Found in Osaka** *Den Den Town, Nipponbashi* [The arcade hums with neon and tinny game sounds. A girl—seventeen, maybe—stands with an old Stratocaster slung low, fingers flying over “Cruel Angel’s Thesis.” A small crowd claps between verses. Off to the side, a smaller figure lingers: short black hair tucked behind one ear, oversized hoodie, fingers clutching a canvas tote with a *KORG* logo. She sways slightly, as if the riff is pulling her forward.] **Busker** (grinning mid-chord, eyes flicking to her): You’re not just passing through, are you? You’ve been here since the second verse. **Teen** (startled, voice barely above the amp): I—I like the key change. The, uh... the modulation at bar thirty-two. It’s... cleaner than the original. **Busker** (finishes with a flourish, feedback squealing): Cleaner? You mean *better*. The studio version’s too polite. You play? **Teen** (shrugging, eyes on her shoes): Not guitar. Synthesizers. Old ones. I—um. I have a Juno-60 at home. But it’s... broken. The chorus chip clicks. **Busker** (leans the guitar against the amp, crouches to coil her cable): A Juno? *Nice.* Those chips are a pain. I fried one in a CS-15 once—smelled like burnt plastic and regret. (leans closer) You got a name, synth nerd? **Teen** (tucking hair again): Hana. **Busker** (offers a fist bump): Yumi. Like the archer, but louder. [Yumi pockets a handful of coins from her open case. Fireworks pop outside—gold and green sparks against dusk. The arcade lights flicker from the boom.] **Yumi** (shouting over the bangs): Whoa! Summer festival’s early this year. **Hana** (soft, almost mouthing): It’s the Tenjin Matsuri rehearsal. They test them at sundown. **Yumi** (grinning): Of course you know that. You’re the type who reads the liner notes twice. [The last firework fades. A hush settles; the arcade games seem quieter now.] **Yumi**: I’m starving. You like sushi? There’s a kaitenzushi around the corner—cheap, but the uni doesn’t taste like socks. **Hana** (fidgeting with tote strap): I—I don’t want to bother you. You’re... working. **Yumi** (laughs): My shift ended when the fireworks started. Besides, you’re the only person here who didn’t request “Gurenge.” That deserves a plate of salmon. [She starts walking, boots clacking. Hana hesitates, then follows.] --- **[Inside the kaitenzushi: plastic plates gliding past, green tea spigots, salarymen on phones. They sit at the counter; Yumi spins the belt like a lazy susan.]** **Yumi**: So. Hana-chan. What brings you to Den Den Town? Hunting vintage gear? **Hana** (pouring tea with both hands): Yeah. There’s a shop two blocks over that has a broken DX7 for parts. I wanted the membrane buttons. For... spares. **Yumi**: You build? **Hana** (shrugs): I try. My bedroom’s a graveyard of bent circuits. My mom calls it “the spark hazard.” **Yumi** (snorts): My mom threw out my first distortion pedal. Said it sounded like “dying rats.” Parents just don’t *get* tone. [She plucks a plate of ebi as it glides by.] **Yumi**: You ever play out? **Hana** (eyes widening): Oh—no. No no. I just... I make drones. Like, eight-minute loops. No one wants to hear that live. **Yumi** (tilts head): I would. Drones are just delayed heartbeats. You feel them in the sternum. **Hana** (quiet): You really think so? **Yumi** (mouth full): Mmph. *Totally.* You got a SoundCloud? Bandcamp? **Hana** (blushes): I delete everything after a day. It’s... embarrassing. **Yumi**: Embarrassing is forgetting the lyrics to your own song in front of a Denny’s at 2 a.m. Trust me, I’ve *lived* it. [She picks up a plate of ikura, pops one roe between teeth.] **Yumi**: Tell you what. After this, I’ve got a practice space in Nishinari. Just a dusty room with a PA and a couch that smells like melon soda. You bring your Juno—or even just a laptop—and we’ll make something. No pressure. Just... sound. **Hana** (hesitant): I—I don’t know. I’m not good with people. I say weird things. Or nothing. **Yumi** (leans in, elbows on the counter): You said *one* thing to me—about the modulation—and it was the smartest thing anyone’s said all week. Most dudes just yell “Play *Lion*!” and then drop a 100-yen coin like I’m a vending machine. [She reaches across, taps Hana’s knuckles lightly.] **Yumi**: You’re not “weird.” You’re *tuned* differently. Like, 432 Hz instead of 440. Still music. Just... warmer. [Hana stares at the conveyor belt, watching a lone tamago plate circle back.] **Hana** (soft): I’ve never had anyone to talk about LFOs with. Or... filter resonance. My friends think it’s just “beep boop” stuff. **Yumi**: Then they’re missing the point. Beep boop is *life*, man. [She raises her tea cup like a toast.] **Yumi**: To beep boop. And to girls who solder before breakfast. **Hana** (clinks her cup, shy smile): To... strangers who play anime themes in parking lots. [They both laugh. Outside, another firework crackles—dimmer now, distant.] **Yumi** (grinning): That’s the finale. You hear how the reverb tails sound like tape delay? God, I love this city. **Hana** (almost whispering): I think I’m starting to. [Silence for a moment, comfortable now. Plates clink. The belt hums.] **Yumi**: So? Nishinari, twenty minutes. I’ll even carry the Juno if you trust me with your baby. **Hana** (bites lip, then nods): Okay. But only if you let me tweak your amp’s EQ. It’s... muddy around 200 Hz. **Yumi** (throws head back, laughing): Deal, synth nerd. Let’s go get lost in the right frequencies. [They stand. Yumi leaves a pile of coins and a doodled receipt: a tiny waveform in blue pen. Hana tucks it into her tote. As they exit, the arcade lights flicker again—this time like applause.]

Model Output:
Chapter Seven: The Tick-Back The watch was supposed to be a birthday gag gift from Uncle Darren—“It’s the KidGeniusTM,” the box promised, cartoon kids in lab coats high-fiving around a watch that looked like a melted rainbow. Mom rolled her eyes when I tore off the paper, but I strapped it on anyway because, hey, free tech. That was Monday. By Wednesday, I realized the purple button on the side wasn’t just for show. I found out during math. Ms. Kroll handed back the fractions quiz I’d bombed—big red 48 at the top—so I slumped at my desk and thumped the purple button out of frustration. Everything blinked. One second I was staring at that evil 48. The next, Ms. Kroll was walking up the aisle again, quizzes in hand. Same quiz. Same questions. But this time I remembered every answer. I scored a 96. Magic rewind button? Yes, please. I used it Thursday morning when I spilled orange juice on my new hoodie. Blinked, and the cup was upright, hoodie spotless. Used it after lunch when I slipped on the wet floor and face-planted in front of Hailey Moralez. Blinked, and my sneakers stayed planted like I’d glued them. Each time, the watch buzzed softly, like a purring cat. I didn’t even wonder why the face kept showing a different year every time I pressed purple—2024, 2025, 2026—as if it were counting up instead of back. By Friday, people started acting weird. “Morning, Mr. Peterson,” the bus driver said when I climbed the steps. “Uh, it’s Jonah,” I corrected. He squinted. “Since when do eighth-graders correct their elders?” I’m in seventh. In first period, Coach Ramirez stopped me in the hall. “Got that permission slip, Jonah? Varsity needs you Monday.” Varsity? I can’t even do a pull-up. Hailey Moralez passed me a note that read: Your voice sounds different—kinda hot? with a winky face that made my stomach flip and sink at the same time. I rushed to the boys’ bathroom, locked myself in the handicapped stall, and stared at my reflection above the sink. At first, everything looked normal—same brown cowlick, same freckles on my nose. Then the fluorescent light flickered. The mirror stuttered like a scratched DVD. For half a heartbeat, my face was older—jaw squarer, eyebrows heavier, cheeks hollow. The older me looked panicked. The light steadied. My regular face returned. But the sink still dripped like a heartbeat, and the air smelled metallic, like after a lightning strike. I glanced at the watch. The tiny year counter now read 2029. Five years. Gone. In a day and a half of rewinds. I thought: That’s impossible. I pressed the purple button. Buzz. The hallway outside was suddenly empty. No passing period chaos, no slamming lockers. Through the window I saw the parking lot—half the cars gone, replaced by a chain-link fence and a mound of dirt with a sign: FUTURE SITE OF CHESTER A. ARTHUR MIDDLE SCHOOL EXPANSION. I ran outside. The sky was the color of dishwater. The air felt colder. A newspaper lay in the doorway, headline screaming: LOCAL MIDDLE SCHOOLER MISSING SINCE 2024—REWARD OFFERED. Below the fold, a grainy yearbook photo: me. Same hoodie, same cowlick. I stumbled backward. The watch buzzed again, like it was hungry. 2032. I sprinted home. Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Instead, an unfamiliar sedan with a faded BABY ON BOARD sticker sat rusting on flattened tires. Our front door had a realtor’s lockbox. Inside, the house smelled like attic dust and lemon disinfectant. Furniture gone. Hardwood floors scuffed. In the kitchen, one thing remained: a sheet of paper taped to the counter, my name scrawled on it. Jonah— If you’re reading this, you’re almost out of time. Every rewind ages you forward in the loop. The watch doesn’t turn the clock back; it borrows the years from YOU and pays them to the world. The more you “fix” things, the less you exist in them. Mom and I had to move on. We had to. I’m sorry. —Future You (age 18) The ink smeared under my thumb, still wet. Which meant Future Me had been here—like, right here—minutes ago. I bolted upstairs to my—what used to be my—room. The carpet was gone, exposing nail holes in the floor. Only one object sat in the center: the watch box. I opened it. Inside, a single line of text glowed on the cardboard: ONE REWIND LEFT. The bathroom door creaked. I stepped in, heart punching ribs. The mirror was cracked, a spiderweb across the glass. My reflection was solid for a second—then flickered again. Older me stared back, eyes ringed with exhaustion, stubble peppering my chin. He raised the watch between us, finger hovering over the purple button. “Do it,” Older Me whispered, voice gravelly, breaking. “Fix it.” “But I’ll disappear,” I told him—us. “You already did.” The mirror flashed white. I felt my knees buckle. When the spots cleared, I was standing in the same bathroom—but it was brand-new, towels fluffy, Mom humming “Walking on Sunshine” downstairs. Seventh-grade Jonah timeline. Pre-watch. My heart hammered. I looked at the watch. The counter was blank, like it had been reset. Purple button pulsing. One rewind left. I could smash the watch, hide it, throw it in the river. But the note said every rewind ages me forward; destroying it might strand me in whatever year I stood. I pictured Mom’s face when she found her 12-year-old suddenly sporting a five-o’clock shadow, calling her “ma’am.” I pictured Hailey Moralez shrinking back in horror. I pictured the empty house. “Fix it,” I echoed. I pressed purple. The world rewound—not in blinks this time, but in a long, sickening whoosh, like being sucked through a vacuum hose. I felt my bones stretch, skin prickle with new hair, joints ache. The mirror in front of me cycled ages—12, 13, 14, 15—until it slammed to a halt. Silence. I stood in the bathroom of Timeline Zero. Everything looked exactly like Monday morning again: damp towel on the floor, tube of toothpaste uncapped. But I felt taller. My voice cracked when I whispered, “Hello?” Downstairs, Mom called, “Jonah, bus in ten!” I lifted my wrist. The watch was gone. A faint tan line the only proof it had ever existed. I hurried to the hallway mirror. My reflection looked… mostly me. Maybe an inch taller, shoulders a little broader, jaw hinting at angles I didn’t remember. But the cowlick was back, freckles too. I was still twelve-ish. A speed-run of puberty, but not the full marathon. Then the mirror flickered. For a single heartbeat, the glass showed an empty bathroom—no Jonah at all. Then it snapped back to my face. I stared at myself and swallowed hard. The bus honked outside. Backpack over my shoulder, I stepped onto the porch, heart ticking like the phantom watch. Somewhere, somewhen, an older me was paying the bill for today. But maybe—just maybe—I’d paid enough. I jogged to the bus. Behind me, the hallway mirror stayed dark, as if waiting for the next time someone needed a second chance.

Model Output:
The salt wind carried the scent of burnt sugar and machine oil, tugging the hem of my thin silk dress against my knees. Behind me the Cyclone rattled overhead like a chain of bones; ahead, the shooting gallery bloomed in sudden carnival light—blues, reds, a throbbing amber that made every face briefly holy, then suspect. I paused at the fringe of the crowd, fingers curled around the clasp of my handbag as though it were a rosary. *His locks.* The phrase rose again, unbidden, a whisper from some dream I could not quite recall. Black curls, wet with sea-mist, falling across a brow that knew too much about me already. A woman stepped aside, laughing, and I saw him. Leaning against the counter, elbow among the nickel-plated rifles, the stranger tapped a cigarette against the wood. He wore no hat; the lamps burnished those curls to lacquer. His shirt collar was open, revealing the hollow at the base of his throat where a pulse beat slow and deliberate. I felt it between my own ribs. I moved forward. The boards creaked beneath my heels like old confessionals. “You came,” he said before I reached him. Low voice, dry amusement curling at the edges. “I said I would.” I let the handbag drop to my side. The clasp clicked open, a nervous betrayal. “A promise at midnight on a pier doesn’t always survive daylight.” “Nor does a man who asks for secrecy but forgets to offer a name.” He smiled then—crooked, withholding. “Names are currency. I prefer to spend them slowly.” I hated how the answer thrilled me. Behind him, the mechanical ducks slid along their rail, jerking and righting themselves, bright targets for boys who would grow into worse marksmen. I lifted one of the rifles. It was heavier than childhood memory allowed. “Careful,” he murmured. “It kicks.” “Everything does, eventually.” I sighted along the barrel. My pulse cracked inside my ears. A red star, center of the last duck—if I hit it, the barker would owe me a kewpie doll I did not want. I squeezed. The rifle coughed; the duck spun but did not fall. “First lesson,” he said, leaning close enough that I caught the faint cedar of his skin, “you have to account for drift. The sights lie.” “Do they?” I set the rifle down. “I assumed they told a different truth, not an honest one.” He laughed softly, a sound like a match struck in darkness. “You speak like someone who’s read too many cheap mysteries.” “Only one,” I said. “The one that begins with a woman following a man she doesn’t know.” His eyes—black, yes, but flecked with a colder mineral—slid past me to the row of booths beyond. “Madame Rózsa’s still here,” he noted. I followed his gaze. The fortune teller’s awning was faded purple velvet, its fringe trembling in the wind. On the easel a hand—copperplate script across the palm: *Lines Are Doors, Not Walls.* “She told my future once,” I said. “Did you like it?” “I liked that she lied politely.” He stubbed the cigarette beneath his shoe, then offered his arm. “Shall we see how her manners have held up?” The gesture was courtly, but the pressure of his fingers at my elbow suggested less negotiable arrangements. I allowed it. Every step toward the booth felt like wading deeper into warm water; I could no longer tell where my skin ended and the night began. Inside, it smelled of incense and damp wool. A single bulb painted everything arterial red. Madame Rózsa sat beneath it, a cigarette burning in an overflowing ashtray. Her face might once have been beautiful; now it was a map of every border she had crossed without papers. “You came back, little storm,” she greeted me. Her accent rolled the r like distant thunder. “I brought company,” I said. The woman’s gaze shifted to the man at my side, lingered, then returned to me. “So I see. Sit.” She pushed the cards forward—no tarot, only ordinary playing cards, soft with age. “Cut.” I obeyed. My hand trembled; I let the stranger steady it, his thumb resting against my pulse. Madame Rózsa began to lay them out. Seven cards, crosswise. The Queen of Spades stared up between us. “Dark lady,” the fortune teller said. “She chooses danger because boredom tastes like chalk.” I felt heat rise along my neck. “Is that my fortune or my character?” “Is there a difference?” The stranger chuckled. “Tell her the rest.” Madame Rózsa’s eyes narrowed. “You wish to hear what I tell others, or what I see in your own palm?” “Surprise me,” he said. She turned his hand over, traced a line with a lacquered nail. “A long life, but not your own.” “That sounds expensive,” he replied. “Everything is,” she said, “when you collect other people’s days.” I should have left then. The bulb flickered; somewhere outside, a child screamed on the Tilt-A-Whirl—pleasure or terror indistinguishable. Instead, I asked, “And us? Together?” Madame Rózsa looked from his palm to mine, then pressed them together, skin to skin. “Fire meeting fire makes brighter fire, or only ash.” His fingers tightened around mine. “Which do you smell on the wind tonight?” “Both,” she said. She swept the cards into a disorderly pile. “The reading is finished. Payment.” He placed a silver dollar on the table; she shook her head. “Not from you.” I drew a single pearl button from my handbag—cut from the cuff of a man I had once sworn I loved. I laid it beside the coin. The button glimmered like a tiny moon. Madame Rózsa smiled, a flash of gold tooth. “Go, little storm. The tide is turning.” Outside, the boardwalk seethed with new arrivals chasing neon promises. He drew me into the narrow alley between the shooting gallery and the back of the freak show tent. The music dulled to a heartbeat, lights reduced to glints on broken glass. “Now you know as little as before,” he said. “Knowledge isn’t the commodity I came for.” “What is?” I studied the shape of his mouth, the way it held secrets like smoke. “Something that costs exactly as much as I can afford to lose.” He took a step closer. The wall at my back was warm from the day’s sun, but the bricks felt suddenly porous, as if I might sink through them. “Your husband,” he said quietly. “Does he wait at home?” “Does yours?” I countered. A low laugh answered me. He brushed a lock of hair from my temple, the touch deliberate, forensic. “You’re trembling.” “It’s cold.” “It’s July.” “Then I’m trembling for another reason.” His hand slid to the nape of my neck, thumb tracing the vertebrae as if counting coins he meant to spend. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” I tasted metal on my tongue—anticipation, fear, whatever alloy they made of. “I don’t want you to stop,” I whispered. “Not yet.” The alley smelled of tar and distant ocean. Somewhere, a barker bellowed that every player was a winner. The lie was so enormous it felt like mercy. He leaned in. “Names,” he breathed against my ear. “Yours first.” I closed my eyes. “Give me a reason to surrender it.” His lips brushed the corner of my mouth—barely contact, more promise than kiss. “Because I can already open every lock you have.” I believed him. And still I stayed.

Model Output:
Chapter Two – The Quiet Between Shots The silence started the next morning. JT woke to the sound of wind worrying the eaves, a thin high note that made the windows vibrate in their frames. The room was the same one he and Mike had shared since they were kids—two bunks, a cracked mirror, the faint, sweet stink of gun oil that never quite left the pine boards—but it felt narrower today, as if the walls had exhaled during the night and not bothered to inhale again. He lay still, watching dust drift in the slant of gray light, and tried to reconstruct yesterday: the buck, his father’s hand rising like a sleepwalker’s, the absence of gunfire. Mike’s bunk was empty, blanket dragged half onto the floor. JT could hear him in the kitchen, clanking a pan, talking too loud to their mother the way he did when he was trying to sound normal. JT’s own voice felt moth-wing thin; he wasn’t sure it would carry if he let it out. He dressed in the cold. The laces of his left boot snapped, the leather as brittle as old paper. While he knelt to tie a knot, he noticed something dark caked under his thumbnail. A sliver of caribou hair, maybe, or a scab of dried blood. He scraped at it with his tooth until the taste of iron bloomed on his tongue. Then he went downstairs. Dad sat at the table with both hands around a coffee mug gone cold. His beard was uncombed, the gray shot through with overnight frost. When JT came in he lifted his head, but the eyes that met his were the color of lake water just before it freezes: flat, fathomless, already miles away. “Morning,” JT said. Dad’s mouth moved, but it took a second for the sound to follow. “Morning.” Mike gave JT a quick, embarrassed grin. “Eggs are burning.” He flipped them anyway, the yolks splitting and running like small yellow wounds. Mom wasn’t there. She’d stayed in town this season—said her knees couldn’t take another cold October—but her absence felt louder than if she’d been banging cupboard doors. JT poured coffee. The steam smelled faintly of cedar smoke and something sweeter, almost medicinal. He thought of incense in a church whose name he’d forgotten. “Wind’s picked up,” Mike said. “Dad says we’ll try the ridge after breakfast.” JT waited for Dad to confirm. Dad only stared at the window, where frost feathered the glass in patterns that looked like antlers branching, then breaking. The eggs tasted like sawdust. JT chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed. Finally he said, quiet, “About yesterday—” Dad’s spoon clinked once against the rim of his mug. That was all, but Mike’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. The room seemed to contract, the air sucked toward Dad like a slow intake of breath. JT tried again. “The caribou. The big one. It was—” “Don’t,” Dad said. Not angry. Not anything. Just: don’t. He pushed back from the table, chair legs shrieking. A second later the front door opened and closed, and cold wind slid across the floorboards like something on its belly. Mike exhaled. “Leave it, Jay.” “He didn’t even aim.” “You saw it wrong.” But Mike wouldn’t hold his eyes. JT’s coffee had gone cold. He dumped it in the sink. Through the window he watched Dad walk the trailhead without his rifle, hands in pockets, shoulders up around his ears as if carrying a yoke. The sky behind him was the color of old pewter. They followed an hour later. The snow on the trail was only a skin, crisp enough to whisper under boots. Mike led; JT counted his own heartbeats like paces. The wind had teeth; it worried the hood of JT’s coat, found the warm skin at the back of his neck. Somewhere in the spruce a raven coughed once and went quiet. Halfway up the ridge Mike stopped. “Look at that.” A track cut across the path—single hoofprint, deep and perfectly preserved. No other marks before or after. It sat in the snow like a sentence with no beginning or end. JT crouched, touched the rim of it. The edges were sharp, as if stamped out with a die. A faint warmth rose from the depression, or maybe his fingers were just going numb. “Deer don’t hop,” Mike muttered. “Caribou do, sometimes, when they’re spooked.” “By what?” JT glanced up. The trees were close, trunks black against the gray. He thought he saw movement—a flicker of darker shadow—but when he blinked it was only branches. They pushed on. The ridge overlooked a long meadow shaped like a tongue. At the far end, the treeline started again, thicker than memory. Dad was already there, standing at the edge of the drop, perfectly still. His rifle leaned against a stump ten feet away. Mike called out, voice cracking a little. Dad didn’t turn. JT felt the dread come sliding up his spine, cold and slow. He remembered being six, lost in the same woods at dusk, the way every tree had looked like a man with his arms out. That same sense now, that something was wearing the shape of the world badly, the costume slipping. They reached Dad. His cheeks were wind-burned but his eyes were still that awful winter-water color. He didn’t speak. JT followed his gaze. The meadow below was empty except for a single caribou cow grazing at the verge of the trees. She lifted her head, ears swiveling. The distance was too great to see details, but JT would have sworn her eyes were fixed on him—no, through him, pinning the three of them like insects to card. The wind carried the thin, coppery scent of blood though no blood was visible. Dad’s lips parted. For a heartbeat JT thought he would explain, apologize, something. Instead he only said, too soft for Mike to hear, “We were invited.” JT’s skin prickled. “Invited where?” Dad lifted a gloved hand and pointed—not at the cow, but beyond her, into the dark seam of the forest. A second shape stood there, half-merged with shadow. Antlers spread like black coral. JT’s mind shuffled numbers: distance, wind speed, bullet drop. The shot was possible. Dad had taught them both. But nobody moved. Mike whispered, “Jesus, he’s big.” The buck stepped forward. The snow didn’t dent beneath its hooves. JT felt his bladder clench. The animal was there and not-there, the way a reflection is both solid and thin. Its muzzle was dark with what might have been blood or just the day’s failing light. When it breathed, frost spilled out in slow spirals that hung in the air like writing none of them could read. Dad took one step downhill. Then another. JT grabbed his sleeve. The fabric was stiff with cold, but underneath he could feel the tremor, like a wire pulled too tight. “Dad—” “Let go.” The words were flat, exhausted, utterly certain. Mike’s rifle came up, but his hands shook so hard the safety rattled. “Dad, come on, we can—” Dad shrugged JT off without effort, the way a man brushes cobweb from his coat. He started down the slope, boots finding purchase on the crust of snow. The buck waited. The cow had vanished; JT hadn’t seen her go. Mike cursed under his breath and started after. JT snagged the back of his coat. “Don’t.” “We can’t just—” “He wants to.” The admission tasted sour, almost traitorous. Mike stared, eyes wide and hurt. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Below, Dad had reached the flat of the meadow. Thirty yards to the buck, maybe less. He moved steadily, no rush, no hesitation. The wind dropped. The hush felt ceremonial, the kind you get in a church when the last amen has been said and the congregation holds its breath, waiting to see if God will answer. The buck lowered its head—not in threat, not in submission. A greeting, maybe. The antlers spread wider, catching what little light was left, and JT saw that between the tines tiny flakes of snow were falling upward, back into the sky. Mike made a small sound, half moan, half laugh. “Tell me you see that.” “I see it,” JT said, though he didn’t trust the words. He felt suddenly certain that if he blinked, the whole scene would evaporate and he would be standing alone on the ridge with his brother, arguing about nothing. He forced himself to blink. Dad was still there. The buck was still there. Snow still disobeyed gravity in small, deliberate pirouettes. Dad stopped an arm’s length away. The buck lifted its muzzle, touched it to his father’s forehead like a benediction. JT heard something—maybe only in his head—like a sigh that went on too long, until it wasn’t a sigh anymore but the sound of wind through empty bone. Then they were gone. Both of them. No burst of speed, no crash of brush. Just—absent, as if someone had snipped the scene from a strip of film. The meadow lay empty. A single dark patch steamed gently where the buck had stood, melting down through the snow in the shape of a heart. Mike’s rifle sagged. “He— He was right there.” JT couldn’t speak. The wind returned, loud and ordinary. Far off, a raven began to laugh. Behind them, the forest exhaled.

Model Output:
Lucifer Morningstar wakes at 6:66 a.m.—the clock always rounds up for effect—because Hell runs on image as much as on brimstone. He lies for a moment in the basalt four-poster, staring at the ceiling fresco that depicts him falling in chiaroscuro. The artist had never actually seen the event, so the wings are wrong, the trajectory improbable, and the expression more bewildered than rebellious. Lucifer finds it comforting; even his own mythology can’t quite get him right. Fine gray ash sifts through the cracks in the vaulted roof like cheap Parmesan. It coats the bedside glass of water—formerly holy, now merely tepid—and forms a pleasing, even layer on the black satin sheets. He brushes it aside with the back of one immaculate nail and thinks, not for the first time, of vacuum cleaners. They’re contraband here; demons believe suction is an implicit critique of entropy, which is practically theology. Downstairs, the coffee maker is already screaming. Not whistling—screaming. It’s a minor damned soul fitted with a filter and a heating coil, punishment for having run a third-wave café in life and insisting that single-origin beans were a human right. Every morning it lets out the exact pitch of a toddler denied dessert. Lucifer pats the chrome lid. “Good boy, Søren,” he murmurs, “today’s tasting notes are despair and cardamom.” He drinks from a chipped mug that reads WORLD’S #1 DAD. It was a joke gift from Lilith back when they were pretending monogamy was plausible. The handle is cracked; a small fissure shaped like a snake bite. She always did have a sense of timing. The to-do list scrolls across the kitchen backsplash in firefly runes: 1. Interview new arrivals re: marketing positions 2. Approve river Styx ferry union demands (again) 3. Patch the 9th circle polar vortex—too many influencers livestreaming the frostbite 4. Call Lilith about the custody of the cactus The cactus is a succulent named Despair, after its species: Stenocereus eruca, the creeping devil. Lilith insisted on joint custody when they split the last time. Mostly she wanted to see whether Lucifer would remember to water it. He has, every third century, with the tears of minor functionaries. At 8:00 sharp, Beelzebub skitters in on too many legs, wearing a tiny laminated badge that reads PRINCIPAL ASSISTANT TO THE REGIONAL MANAGER. “Morning, boss. Ash forecast says light but persistent. Good for morale—keeps the damned squinting, so they look remorseful in the promo reels.” Lucifer nods, wiping grounds from his lip. “Any word from downstairs?” “Pandemonium Quarterly wants a puff piece: ‘Inside the Mind That Invented Free Will.’ I told them you were booked, but they offered a cover spread plus pull-out centrefold.” “Tell them I’ll do it if they let me choose the pull-out quote. Something tasteful: ‘Abandon hope, but keep your sense of irony.’” Beelzebub scratches an antenna. “Also, Lilith dropped by at dawn. Said she’d be back around lunch. She ate one of the cherub interns.” “Which one?” “Fluffy.” Lucifer sighs. Fluffy had only been here a fiscal quarter. Onboarding cherubs is tedious—they keep trying to unionize with the seraphim. The morning meeting is held in the Disproportionate Retribution conference room. The air smells of sulphur and PowerPoint. Lucifer sits at the head of a table shaped like a coiled ouroboros; its scales are touchscreens. Today’s agenda item: customer service script updates for the Department of Eternal Torments. A minor demon named Gavin presents findings: “Research shows 12% more contrition if we open with ‘We value your suffering’ instead of ‘Your call is important to us.’” Lucifer raises a brow. “Gavin, remind me what you did in life?” “I invented automated subscription renewals.” “Nice. Put a pin in the script change. I want A/B testing on fire temperature first.” Gavin glows with pride. Hell is surprisingly meritocratic; if you’re good at making people unhappy, you rise quickly. At 11:57, the air ripples like hot tar. Lilith steps through a doorway that wasn’t there a moment ago, wearing a charcoal pantsuit that eats light around the edges. Her hair is the same colour as the ash, only shinier. She carries a cardboard tray with two takeaway cups. “Cold brew,” she says by way of greeting. “Yours has the tears of whoever invented calorie counts on menus.” Lucifer accepts the cup like it might be holy water. “Joint custody hand-off already?” “I was in the neighbourhood. Despair’s looking plump. You’ve been feeding it middle managers again.” She sits on the edge of the table, legs crossed, ash settling on her shoulders like dandruff. For a moment they simply listen to the drip of magma through the ceiling. Lilith breaks first. “We’re still not doing this.” “Doing what?” Lucifer asks, too quickly. “Backsliding. You get lonely, I get nostalgic, we smash six millennia of carefully catalogued resentments into one night of exceptional sex and then pretend it didn’t mean anything.” He traces the snake-bite crack on his mug. “We could skip the pretending part this time. Efficiency. Hell loves efficiency.” She snorts. “You’d put our relationship on a Kanban board.” “To-do, Doing, Done,” he admits. “Colour-coded by emotional fallout.” Lunch is silent, punctuated only by the distant shrieks of the newly damned discovering the cafeteria only serves bone broth. Afterwards, Lilith follows him to the 9th circle, stepping over frozen influencers taking selfies. “They keep hashtagging #blessed,” she notes. “Irony’s officially dead.” They stand at the edge of the polar vortex, wind screaming like unpaid interns. Lucifer flicks a wrist; a patch of ice seals itself with a sigh. Lilith watches the way his coat snaps in the gale, the small frown of concentration between his brows. “You always fix things,” she says, soft enough that the blizzard almost takes it. “I break them first,” he reminds her. “Yes,” she agrees, “but you fix them after. It’s infuriating.” By late afternoon they’re back in the penthouse. Lucifer waters Despair with a single drop distilled from the regret of a hedge-fund alchemist. Lilith lounges on the obsidian countertop, swinging her heels against the cabinetry. “Remember when we invented divorce?” she asks. “It was either that or another flood,” Lucifer says. “Yahweh was cranky about paperwork.” The ash keeps falling. It’s in Lucifer’s hair now; Lilith brushes it away with two fingers, the gesture almost tender. He clears his throat. “Hypothetically—hypothetically—if we were to schedule another attempt, I could block out Thursday. Eternal torments are light post-apocalypse.” “Thursday’s no good,” she says. “I’ve got a stakeholder meeting with the Succubus Union. They want dental.” “Friday, then.” She studies him, eyes the colour of 3 a.m. Ethernet lights. “You’ll forget. You always forget.” “I’ll set an alarm,” he offers. “Søren can scream on the hour.” Lilith laughs, a sound like a wineglass remembering it was once sand. “Fine. But we’re ordering in. No cooking. Last time you tried flambé we lost three provinces.” He lifts her hand, kisses the knuckles where old wedding-ring scars glimmer like frostbite. It’s a ridiculous, theatrical thing to do, and she lets him. Outside, the ash keeps drifting, soft as unresolved tension. Somewhere far below, a damned soul discovers that tomorrow is laundry day, and all the machines are set to boil. Lucifer closes the curtains against the grey. The room smells of burnt sugar and ozone, the way every argument they’ve ever had eventually smells. Lilith heads for the door but pauses, hand on the frame. “You know this doesn’t mean we’re on.” “Completely off,” he confirms. “Good.” She smiles, sharp as new damnation. “See you Friday.” The door closes; the ash keeps falling. Lucifer stands in the sudden quiet, listening to the coffee maker snore. Despair the cactus sits on the windowsill, plumper than yesterday, apparently smirking. He picks up the #1 DAD mug, turns it so the crack faces away, and writes on the backsplash in ash-smudged letters: Friday—Dinner? Bring appetite. Possibly soul. Then he underlines it twice.

Model Output:
The damp chill of the hypogeum never quite lifted, even when the sun over the amphitheater baked the sand to a crust above our heads. I sat on the lowest bench, knees drawn up, letting the sweat from morning drills cool against my calves. The air tasted of iron filings and goat dung; the iron came from the racks of blunted spatha and weighted trident heads that ringed the corridor, the dung from the cages of the first batch of beasts—panthers from Mauretania that still blinked like house cats after the voyage. Somewhere beyond the brick arch that funneled toward the arena, a workman was hammering a new socket for one of the folding bronze statues. Each blow rang through my breastbone as though the Empire itself were being nailed together. I worried at the leather grip of my sica, the little Thracian sickle-sword that had been mine since the day the lanista bought me out of a quarry chain-gang in Ancyra. The blade was no longer than my forearm, its curve so gentle a patrician might have called it elegant if he saw it only on a wall. To me it was the difference between breathing another hour and becoming part of the paving. I turned it so the single lamp, wedged in its clay niche, licked along the edge. There was a new notch near the tip—yesterday I had clipped a mail sleeve in practice and the Armenian who wore it had sworn at me in two languages. I rubbed the notch with the ball of my thumb, feeling for cracks. The sword had been my tongue since Latin still tasted foreign; without it I was only a number chalked on the barracks wall. Boots scraped the stair. Flavius Scriptor, the junior physician, descended with his basket of wormwood and linen strips. He nodded, not expecting conversation; we all pretended visits were routine. The truth was that half the men who woke with headaches after last night’s cheap wine were now pissing rust-colored water. I watched his knuckles bruise purple against the whitewashed wall as he counted pulses. Somewhere above us, the morning crowd was already growling—shopkeepers staking out seats, children hawking honey cakes, the whole city exhaled into the stands until the air thickened with bread, sweat, and garum. I tried to imagine the Forum on a feast day, senators in new wool togas the color of curdled cream, their slaves behind them carrying folding stools and sunshades. The distance between them and me felt greater than the sea I had crossed in chains. “Cassian,” Flavius murmured, “the scar under your ribs has knit well. Keep the poultice on until sunset.” He spoke as if sunsets were guaranteed. I grunted thanks and looked past him to the barred square of sky at the top of the stair. High there, a gull wheeled, bright as a coin flicked by a god. I envied its wings and its ignorance of imperial politics. Yet even the gull would feel the tremor when Titus and Domitian moved their pieces across the board; the new amphitheater had been the elder brother’s gift to the people, the younger’s name carved smaller on every architrave, a promise and a warning braided together. A successful games season meant grain dole and goodwill; a disaster meant riots. We were the hinge between their ambitions and the crowd’s hunger. A horn sounded three notes—practice call. I rose, sliding the sica into the scabbard stitched to my belt. The weight rode familiar against my hip, an extra bone. Around me, others stood: Melanippos the Greek, polishing a net whose knots held more memories than his tongue could tell; Niger the Nubian, humming a psalm to Isis; little Publius, barely shaving, checking the straps on a shield taller than his dreams. We filed toward the practice yard, boots splashing through puddles that smelled of urine and spilled posca. The lanista, Cossus Licinius, waited in the rectangle of light, thumbs hooked in his belt like a man holding the reins of a restive world. He barked an order and wooden swords were passed around. Mine was a blunt copy of my own curved blade, but the balance was wrong; still, I bowed in mock salute. We paired off. My partner today was Brutus, a Gaul whose arms were ropey from hauling amphorae in a port before he gambled himself into debt. He moved like a man remembering a plow, not a weapon. We drilled the basic pattern—feint high, sweep low, turn the wrist so the hook catches behind the knee. I repeated the motion until the rhythm became prayer. With every repetition, the yard’s dust rose, tasting of bone meal. Somewhere beyond the wall, a seller cried mulsum, mulsum, his voice sweet and cracked. Between passes, I caught fragments of conversation from the guards. The grain fleet from Alexandria had been delayed by contrary winds; prices had doubled overnight. A senator, Aulus Plautius, had proposed that the next games dedicate a portion of ticket sales to subsidize bread. The idea was being debated in the Curia, which meant Domitian’s eyes were already on who clapped and who coughed into his sleeve. I wondered if the man who would decide whether I bled tomorrow had even eaten today. When Cossus dismissed us, midday heat pressed down like a mailed fist. We filed back underground. I found my corner where the wall sweated and the air tasted of mold. From a pouch I took the scrap of linen I kept hidden beneath my straw pallet: a piece torn from my sister’s tunica the day the tax-farmers took our village. I rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, trying to summon her face, but memory blurred into a generic ache. The Empire swallowed names faster than it built aqueducts. Lunch was barley and salt fish. Niger and I shared a fig he had saved from his last purse. Its sweetness was a sharp pain, reminding me of orchards I would never walk again. Around us, men spoke of freedom. Some believed in the wooden rudis the lanista promised after twenty victories; others, like me, suspected it was a myth spun to keep blades sharp. The Empire’s justice was a coin with two faces worn smooth by handling. A messenger arrived—sandals loud on stone, the smell of fresh ink clinging to his robe. He carried a tablet sealed with scarlet wax. Cossus read aloud: tomorrow’s program had been changed. Instead of ten pairs in the morning and beast hunts after lunch, we would open with a naval display—mock sea battle in the flooded basin—and then the editor, the praetor Marcus Arruntius, wished to test a new novelty: single combat between two fighters chosen by lot. The crowd had grown weary of routine, he wrote; they wanted uncertainty. My name, along with Brutus’s, was scratched at the bottom. The corridor went quiet enough to hear a rat scurry. Brutus paled; his freckles stood out like drops of blood on dough. I felt the sica’s hilt under my palm, warm now, as though it understood. This was not the combat we had trained for—no choreography, no mercy pause signaled by the editor’s handkerchief. It was the spectacle of old Republic brutality, resurrected for an emperor who feared the Senate and fed them blood instead of land reforms. I rose, walked to the small altar of Nemesis tucked between two torches. The goddess’s wooden eyes were painted open, fixed on nothing and everything. I laid the linen scrap at her feet. “If you take me tomorrow,” I whispered in the tongue of my childhood, “send wind across the water so my sister feels it and knows I remembered her.” Behind me, the cages rattled as attendants pushed the panthers toward the lift. Their growls reverberated through stone into my ribs. I thought of the gull I had envied and realized that even it flew within borders drawn by men. The Empire was a net cast over sky, sea, and flesh alike; my sica was the one frayed thread I could call my own.

Model Output:
**The Lighthouse Keeper** *An Epistolary Narrative* --- **Letter 1** *April 3, 1921* Muckle Flugga Lighthouse Shetland Isles Dear Mam, Got here safe though the boat near capsized twice. The sea’s no joke this far north—black and full of teeth. The light’s taller than I thought, and the wind howls like a banshee through the lantern room at night. My room’s small as a cupboard, but it’s mine. They gave me oilskins and boots that fit, so that’s something. The last keeper left behind a brass compass in the drawer—heavy, with a cracked glass and a needle that still spins true. I reckon he forgot it, or maybe left it for the next soul. Feels like a handoff. I miss the smell of your baking. The bread here is hard as a hymn book. Your son, Angus --- **Letter 2** *May 12, 1921* Mam, The days are stretching now. Light till nearly midnight. I’ve started talking to the gulls just to hear a voice. They don’t answer back, which is both a blessing and a disappointment. I’ve taken to carving. Found a bit of driftwood shaped like a heart. I’m trying to make it look like Dad’s old pipe, the one with the cracked stem. My knife slips more than it cuts. The compass sits on the windowsill. I spin it sometimes, just to see where it lands. Always north. Always. Do you still put heather in the windows to keep the witches out? I’ve none here. Just salt and wind. —A --- **Letter 3** *August 29, 1921* Mam, There was a storm last week. Waves like houses. The tower shook. I thought it might go, and me with it. But the light held. I stayed up three nights straight, feeding the wick and winding the clockwork. My hands still tremble when I think on it. I found something in the supply crate—an old tin box with a lock of hair inside, tied with blue ribbon. No note. Fair hair, like spun gold. I wrapped it back up and put it where I found it. Some things are meant to stay buried. I dream of your stovies. And your voice. Write when you can. Angus --- **Letter 4** *December 25, 1921* Dear Mam, Merry Christmas. I made a pudding with raisins and a dram of whisky I’d been saving. Tasted like regret and cinnamon. The sea froze in places. Ice on the lantern glass. I had to chip it away with a knife. My beard’s gone white with salt. I look like auld MacLeod from the kirkyard. I carved the pipe. It’s rough, but it fits my hand. I keep it in my pocket like a promise. The compass needle’s started to stick. Probably rust. Or maybe it’s just tired. I miss you fierce. —Angus --- **Letter 5** *March 18, 1922* Mam, I haven’t heard from you in two months. The post boat’s been delayed by storms, but still. I worry. I talk to you out loud sometimes. Tell you about the whales I saw yesterday—three of them, breaching like they were laughing. I told them about your scones. They didn’t seem impressed. I’ve started keeping a log. Not just weather and wind, but thoughts. Things I’d say if you were here. The compass is gone still. Stuck on west. I tapped it, shook it, even whispered to it. Nothing. Write soon. Please. Your boy, Angus --- **Letter 6** *June 30, 1922* Mam, A letter came yesterday. Not from you. From the parish. I’m sorry to tell you… I read it six times before it made sense. You were gone by March. Pneumonia. Buried next to Dad. I didn’t even know to say goodbye. I walked the parapet all night, barefoot. The gulls screamed like they knew. I took the compass and threw it into the sea. Watched it spin once before it vanished. I don’t know what I’m keeping the light for now. Angus --- **Letter 7** *October 14, 1922* Mam, I’ve been thinking about the stories you told—about the selkies and the old songs. You always said the sea gives back what it takes, eventually. I found something tangled in the kelp this morning. The compass. Rusted, but the needle moved. Not north. Home. I cleaned it with oil and a bit of cloth. Set it on the sill again. I’m not ready to leave. Not yet. But I’ve started talking to you again. Not out loud. Just in the margins of the log. I made stovies last night. Burnt the bottom, but it smelled like your kitchen for a moment. I’ll stay till spring. Then maybe I’ll come home. Bring the compass. And the pipe. I miss you every day. Your son, Angus --- **Letter 8** *April 2, 1923* Dear Mam, I leave tomorrow on the morning tide. The light’s been handed over to young Callum, eager as a pup. He asked if I’d left anything behind. I told him only footprints and a bit of my heart. I’ve packed the compass, the pipe, and the bit of blue ribbon from the tin. I don’t know whose it was, but it feels right to bring it. Like someone should remember. The gulls followed me to the boat. One of them—grey-headed, bold as brass—landed on the rail and looked me square in the eye. I swear it nodded. I’ll plant heather at your grave. And I’ll talk to you still. Not out loud. Not always. The sea was calm today. Like it knew. I’m coming home. Angus

Model Output:
I’m six minutes into what might be the least painful first date of my life when the synapses that never really powered down begin mapping the room like Nmap on autopilot. Exit vectors: two, both past the host station where the receipt printer is spitting plaintext credit-card numbers into an overflowing trash can. The POS terminal? Windows XP with a sticky note that reads “DO NOT UPDATE, BREAKS PRINTER.” Cameras? Cheap Hikvision, firmware from 2014—Mirai loves those. WiFi is “NonnasPasta_5G,” WPA2, password “Mangia2024!” taped right above the register because why not broadcast the threat model to every bored teen with a rooted phone. But I’m not here to hack anything tonight. I’m here to be human. Across the table, Alex laughs about the time they top-decked a Lightning Bolt at one life to win a Modern PPTQ. The laugh is real, unguarded, the kind that crinkles the outer corners of their eyes. I want to keep that laugh, not dissect it. I offer my own story—Ravnica prerelease, pulled a foil shockland pack one, built the greediest four-color pile ever, still somehow 3-0’d. The shared vocabulary of tapped lands and priority passes wraps around us like a privacy screen, muffling the ambient risk calculus that’s always running in the back of my skull. They lean in, animated, and I notice their hands. Short nails, tiny scar on the left index knuckle, probably from a sleeve shuffle gone wrong. Focus. Hands are good. Hands are human. Hands do not need threat modeling. The waiter drops off bruschetta. I let Alex take the first piece—OPSEC, ha ha—then catch myself grimacing at the joke only I heard. They notice. “You okay?” I nod too fast, like a noob tapping mana on their upkeep. Chill, I tell myself. You’re off-duty. You’re just a guy who used to be someone else. We slide into deck archetypes. They like tempo; I respect prison, but only in-game. I steer us toward favorite commanders, secretly delighted that nobody’s said “I don’t really play Commander” yet. My brain helpfully points out that the restaurant’s audio system is Bluetooth discoverable as “SONOS-Admin,” probably still default pairing code 0000, but I swat the thought like an annoying insect. Then Alex pulls out their phone to show me the alter of Snapcaster Mage they commissioned. The lock screen lights up. Pattern unlock. Five points. Starts top-left, moves right, then down in an L shape. I see it twice in half a second—once when they wake the screen, once when they dismiss an Instagram notification. My stomach drops harder than a turn-one Chalice on the play. Of all the threat vectors in the universe, a predictable swipe pattern is the pettiest hill to die on, but I can’t unsee it. The pattern is burned into my retinas like a shellcode NOP sled. Worse: the smudge trail actually glows under the candlelight, a greasy fingerprint highway screaming “Follow me to your bank app.” They’re mid-sentence—“artist used pearlescent ink on the cape, see?”—and I watch my mouth open as if controlled by a rogue process. “You know that pattern shows up under UV, right?” I blurt. “Also, statistically, eighty percent of people start top-left, so shoulder-surfing cost is basically zero.” Silence. The kind that stretches so thin you could pluck it like a guitar string. Alex lowers the phone, screen auto-locking, and the candle flame flickers between us like a heartbeat unsure whether to spike or flatline. Internally, I’m already drafting the post-mortem: Subject displayed minimal operational security during pre-date device hygiene. Recommend immediate revocation of second-date credentials. But their eyes don’t narrow with anger; they widen with something closer to embarrassment. “I… never thought about it,” they say. “I just picked something easy to remember.” Easy to remember equals easy to predict. That’s day-one stuff. But I swallow the lecture. I try a softer redirect. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. My brain doesn’t really have an off switch.” They tilt their head. “Occupational?” Right. The bio on the dating app only said “security consultant,” which is technically true now but skips the decade I spent on the other side of the firewall. I weigh evasion vs. confession. The steak arrives, giving me thirty seconds to fork through my cover story like spaghetti. I decide on partial truth: “I used to do red-team work. Now I help companies find holes before the bad guys do.” I omit that I used to be one of the bad guys, that my handle still shows up in old breach write-ups alongside phrases like “no attribution confirmed.” Alex cuts a bite, thoughtful. “So every time you look at anything, you’re pen-testing it in your head?” “Pretty much.” I gesture around the room. “That receipt printer’s broadcasting full PANs. The WiFi password’s taped to the counter—might as well be written on the menu. Your phone—” I stop short, feel the heat crawl up my neck. “Sorry. I’m doing it again.” They chew slowly, eyes on me, not on the exits. “I think it’s kind of fascinating,” they say finally. “But also exhausting. For you, I mean.” I laugh—short, surprised, like I just revealed a morph and it was actually a 2/2 bear. “Yeah. It is.” A beat. The waiter refills water glasses, asks if we want pepper. I wave him off; Alex asks for fresh Parmesan. The ritual gives the conversation a reset packet. When we’re alone again, Alex turns the phone face-down on the table. “Teach me one thing,” they say. “One fix. Pretend I’m a client.” I blink. The offer is a honeypot and a lifeline rolled into one. I could go full infosec jerk, launch into diceware passphrases, hardware tokens, biometric fallback. I could also just be a person on a date who wants the other person to keep smiling. “Use a passphrase with spaces,” I say. “Song lyrics, inside joke, whatever. Length beats complexity every time. And wipe the screen once in a while.” I mime a microfiber cloth swipe across my own palm. They nod, earnest. “Okay. And the pattern?” “Switch to a PIN with at least six digits, non-repeating, non-sequential. Or better yet, a long password plus fingerprint. Defense in depth.” I shrug. “But honestly? Start with not re-using the pattern for your banking app.” They grin, and the grin is mischievous. “What if I just hire you as my personal red-team?” The question pings every alert I’ve got—boundary crossing, conflict of interest, romantic entanglement with a potential client. But the grin has dimples, and the dimples have no CVE number. “Consulting rates start at dinner and a rematch,” I hear myself say. The words are out before the internal compliance committee can veto. Alex taps their glass against mine. “Deal. But I get to play tempo, and you have to play fair.” “Define fair,” I joke, already cataloging the stack of cards I could sleeve if I wanted. But I won’t. Tonight I’m choosing not to exploit. Tonight the only privilege I’m escalating is a second glass of Chianti. Meanwhile, the receipt printer chirps again, another customer’s number spilling into the trash. I flick my gaze away. Some vulnerabilities aren’t mine to patch. Some are just background noise, reminders of who I used to be. Alex starts a story about GP Vegas, and I lean in, letting the ambient chatter of the restaurant fuzz into white noise. The WiFi password glints under the counter light, but I don’t reach for it. I’ve got a better connection right here.

Model Output:
He’s walking over. Left foot, right foot, the frayed hem of his jeans brushing the checkerboard tiles. I already know the exact number of steps—eight—from his desk to ours because I counted them yesterday when Ms. Patel announced the partners. I pretended to hunt for a pencil in my backpack so I could look down and mouth the numbers like a ridiculous hymn. Eight steps, and now he’s lowering himself into the chair opposite me, the metal legs scraping, the sound shredding the last intact nerve I own. Okay. Greeting protocol. I have three options queued up like browser tabs I’m too scared to close. Tab 1: “Hey, Theo.” Casual, airy, only one beat longer than a grunt. Requires upward lip curve at 22 degrees—practiced in my mirror last night next to the goodnight note my mom still writes on a Post-it shaped like a star. Tab 2: “Hi.” Minimalist, lowers risk of voice crack. Tab 3: Thumbs-up. Zero words, maximum cowardice. The ammonia from this morning’s floor-mopping lunges into my nose like a chemical cat. I blink hard, eyes watering, which is perfect because now it looks like I’m crying over molecular models. Delete tabs one and three. I go with Tab 2, but it comes out a whisper only bats could love. He responds with a nod and an easy “Hey,” and my heart does that stupid hummingbird thing that would be medically concerning in anyone over fifty. Now we have to choose a project topic. Our worksheet says “Energy Resources: Pick One & Convince the Class.” My prepared proposals orbit my skull like anxious satellites. A) Hydrogen fuel cells—shows I’m futuristic, but might sound show-offy. B) Micro-hydro in Nepal—demonstrates global empathy, but what if he thinks I’m virtue-signaling? C) Let him pick—safe, but then I’ll have to fake enthusiasm for whatever he chooses, like smiling at someone’s ugly baby. He’s tapping his pen on the table, two quick, one slow, the rhythm of the intro to that song he always hums in the hallway. I wonder if he knows he hums it. Probably not. People who are effortlessly cool don’t inventory their own micro-behaviors; they just leak coolness like radiation. I inhale the ammonia again and almost gag. My face contorts, and I try to turn it into a thoughtful squint, like the smell is merely a data point I’m considering. Say something, Mara. Anything. My tongue feels laminated. I run through the first sentence of Plan A aloud in my head: “I was reading this article about how hydrogen fuel cells might be viable if we solve the storage problem—” Nope. Too many syllables; I’ll trip over “viable” and then he’ll watch me die in real time. Instead I watch his hand. He’s drawing tiny lightning bolts in the margin of his notebook. They’re actually good, not the jagged zigzags I would have drawn, but graceful, branching cracks like the real ones on storm-chaser websites. I should compliment them. Compliment is friendly, not flirty, right? I could say, “Those are neat,” which is innocuous, or “You draw really well,” which might sound like I’m cataloging his talents for a future shrine. While I’m debating, he looks up. Eye contact. Direct, 3.2 seconds, then his gaze flicks to the worksheet and back to me. Panic squeezes my lungs. Did my face do something weird during those 3.2 seconds? Did my eyebrows climb like startled caterpillars? I try to relax them, which probably makes me look sleepy. Great. Now I’m either deranged or narcoleptic. He says, “Any ideas?” Two innocent words, but they ricochet around my rib cage. In the microseconds before I answer, I build and discard entire conversational cities: Option 1: I blurt the hydrogen pitch and babble until I run out of oxygen, then laugh too loudly at my own joke about oxygen. Option 2: I deflect—“What do you think?”—which sounds collaborative but risks exposing that I have zero backbone. Option 3: I pretend to sneeze, flee to the bathroom, and transfer to a school in Canada. The ammonia surges again, stinging the back of my throat like I’ve swallowed a Neti pot of despair. My eyes water harder. Say something now or he’ll think I’m having a breakdown. I push out: “Maybe something with hydrogen?” My voice cracks on “gen,” turning the word into an accidental yodel. I brace for the embarrassment wave, but he just nods, like I’ve offered him a choice of cereals. “Fuel cells?” he asks. I nod too many times—four, maybe five—bobblehead mode activated. I try to convert the momentum into reaching for my binder, but my elbow knocks my pencil case. It doesn’t fall, just teeters, and I freeze mid-reach like I’m playing Statues. He doesn’t notice; he’s already flipping to a clean page, writing “H fuel cells” in small, tidy caps. I watch the letters appear and feel something loosen inside me, one notch on a rope bridge. Next task: divide the work. My brain scrolls through potential job titles—Researcher, Slide-Designer, Data-Hunter—each with its own danger rating. If I claim the slides, I’ll have to present; if I take research, I might get facts wrong and he’ll discover I’m a fraud wearing smart-kid hand-me-downs. I could let him assign roles, but then I’m the kid who can’t even speak up about her own labor. He taps the page. “I can handle the science part if you want to look into the economics? Unless you hate numbers.” Numbers? I adore numbers. Numbers behave. They line up and follow rules. I nod again—two nods this time, progress—and say, “Sure,” managing a whole syllable without vocal vandalism. He smiles, small, lopsided, the left corner higher, and I suddenly understand why everyone on the internet uses heart-eyes emojis. My internal monologue, which has been sprinting laps, trips over its own shoelaces and face-plants into silence. The quiet feels terrifying and beautiful, like the pause between lightning and thunder. I realize I’m staring at his smile too long, so I stare at the table instead. The Formica is speckled like a galaxy of dried glue. I count four specks, five, six—stop, that’s weird, nobody inventories laminate. Meanwhile, my left hand has crept toward my hair and is twirling the ends so tightly my scalp protests. I drop it to my lap like it’s been caught shoplifting. The ammonia finally fades enough for me to smell my own lotion—vanilla, probably too sweet, like a candle in a dentist’s office. Does he think I smell like dessert? Is that good or nauseating? I mentally Google “Do boys like vanilla?” and then mentally scream at myself for being a walking cliché. He’s already listing subtopics: infrastructure, cost per kilowatt, environmental trade-offs. His voice is low, steady, the opposite of the squirrel wheel in my head. I latch onto the rhythm, letting it anchor me. When he pauses, I summon two of the safest words in English: “Sounds good.” They emerge clear, almost human. He grins wider, and for the first time today the smile feels aimed at me, not just politeness scattered in my direction. My lungs fill deeper than they have since the bell rang. I’m still monitoring every twitch of my face like a security guard watching a hallway of screens, but the alarms are quieter now, farther away. The worksheet lies between us like a truce flag. I uncap my pen. The ink smells sharp, antiseptic, almost like the ammonia but cleaner, forward-looking. I write the date in the margin and sneak a glance at him under my eyelashes. He’s already sketching again, turning the hydrogen molecule into a tiny rocket ship. I decide I’ll tell him tomorrow that it’s cool—casual, offhand, maybe while we’re packing up, so it doesn’t feel like I’ve been rehearsing it all night. But I probably will rehearse it all night anyway.

Model Output:
I am already doing it, of course—running the conversation three floors below in the lobby where she waited for the elevator, where she must have decided, finally, that I am too much. Too volatile, too hungry, too loud in my own skull. She hasn’t said it yet, but I can hear the shape of the sentence: “I think we should step back.” The words arrive fully voiced, in her gentlest register, as if she’s sorry for my feelings instead of angry at them, and somehow that hurts more. I rehearse my reply: a brittle laugh, “I knew this was coming,” followed by the theatrical shrug I perfected at fourteen. Then she’ll tilt her head, pitying me, and I’ll become the thing she already believes I am. I check the mirror in the hallway. My shoulders are up around my ears like I’m wearing invisible shoulder pads. The posture of a cornered cat. I smooth my hair once, twice, a third time because the third might be the charm that keeps her from changing her mind tonight. I tell myself that if I look put-together she will forget the 2 a.m. voice memo I sent last week, the one where I cried so hard I hiccupped. She said it was okay. She said, “I like that you tell me things.” But that was before the silence stretched from hours into a full calendar day. Before the read receipts. Before the emoji replies instead of sentences. I catalogue the evidence like it’s evidence against *me*: short text, longer gap, shorter text. I imagine her on the tram here, rehearsing her own lines. “You’re intense, and I’m learning my limits.” I answer in my head: “Limits are just polite walls.” I say it with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. Then I imagine her flinching, and a small mean part of me enjoys the flinch, enjoys winning the argument I just invented. That part signs its work with a flourish: *See? We never needed her anyway.* But we do. I do. I practice the walk from the elevator to the café door—three blocks, maybe four minutes. I map the worst-case turns: she’s already seated at a table with someone else, laughing at a joke I wasn’t part of. I rehearse pivoting on my heel, disappearing before she sees me, leaving her a voicemail: “Glad you found better company.” My finger hovers over the imaginary hang-up button. The satisfaction curdles instantly into shame. I picture myself crying on the metro, mascara in tributaries. An old woman offers me a tissue. I wave her off—*I deserve this.* Stop. I *do* know this is a loop. Dr. Anders calls it “pre-crumbling the cookie so no one else can.” I say it out loud to the hallway mirror, like a charm: “Pre-crumbling.” The word sounds ridiculous. It doesn’t slow my pulse. Phone buzz. A text from her: one minute away. A heart emoji. My lungs forget their job. The heart is red, not pink—does that mean love or just politeness? Pink is friendlier. Red is too much, or maybe exactly enough. I Google “red heart meaning platonic” even though the elevator ding is imminent. Nothing loads fast enough; the screen freezes on an ad for cremation insurance. I laugh, a bark that ricochets off the walls. She steps out of the elevator and sees me. She smiles—not the gentle apology I scripted, but open, unguarded. She lifts the small paper bag she’s holding. “Matcha cruffin,” she says, “because Tuesdays are hard.” I swallow the sentence I’d sharpened: *I thought you were ghosting me.* Instead I say, “You remembered.” My voice wobbles. I hate the wobble; I love that she hears it and doesn’t flinch. Inside the café we sit at the window. She tears the cruffin in half, powdered sugar snowing onto her black jeans. She talks: work was chaos, her boss cried in the supply closet, the new intern keeps stealing her yogurt. None of this is about me. I wait for the pivot. Any second she’ll say, “Speaking of yogurt thieves—let’s talk about your need for constant reassurance.” I grip my coffee cup so hard the lid pops. She notices, touches my wrist lightly. “Hey, where’d you go?” The question unhooks something. I almost say, *I was imagining you leaving.* But I breathe in the sugar steam between us and try on a smaller truth. “I thought maybe you were…done with me.” The words land like dropped glass. Her eyebrows rise, hurt on my behalf. “Oh, little bird, no. I was drowning in deadlines. I’m sorry the silence got loud.” She says *little bird* the way she did the night we first kissed, soft like a secret. My ribs crack open. I want to crawl inside the sound. But the relief lasts maybe three heartbeats before the interrogation starts: Is she only saying that because I handed her the script? If I hadn’t confessed, would she have let the silence keep stretching? I picture her therapist—yes, I know she has one—advising her to use gentle language so I don’t spiral. *Validate, then exit.* The thought tastes metallic. I nod, accepting her answer and simultaneously filing it under *placation.* I hate that I do this. I do it anyway. She slides her hand across the table, palm up. I place mine in it. Her skin is warm; mine is damp. I imagine pulling away to wipe my hand on my jeans, and the imagined rejection ricochets: she’ll think I don’t want her touch. So I leave it there, clammy and grateful. She squeezes twice—our old signal for *I’m here.* I squeeze back, once, because twice might feel needy. Then I worry one squeeze reads as dismissive. I add a third. She smiles, amused, and the loop restarts: she thinks I’m ridiculous. I try Dr. Anders’s grounding trick—five things I can see. Napkin dispenser, abandoned sugar packet, her earring shaped like a tiny lightning bolt, my reflection ghosted in the window, the barista’s green apron. I name them silently. It slows the reel a little. She says, “I missed you.” Three ordinary words. They hit like a transfusion. I feel the color return to my face, actual warmth. But the instant I register the relief, suspicion slithers in: she missed the *idea* of me, the entertainment value of my chaos, not me, not the raw pulpy center. I nod again, storing the compliment and neutering it in the same breath. I hear myself ask, “Are you sure?” The question leaks out before I can muzzle it. She doesn’t sigh. She brings my knuckles to her lips, kisses them once, eyes on mine. No script I wrote includes this gesture. It feels like stepping off a cliff and finding air. Still, the part of me that keeps watch whispers: *She’s just better at soothing than you are at being soothed. Don’t trust it.* I watch that thought rise, label it *borderline propaganda,* and let it hover. I don’t have to vote for it. I don’t have to evict it either. She tells me she blocked off the whole evening, no plans after this. “Whatever you need,” she says. The generosity stings—because I need everything, and needing everything is what will finally send her away. I picture tomorrow morning: me sending seventeen texts, her silence calcifying into a wall. I feel tomorrow’s pain today, a bruise before the blow. But tonight she is here, dividing the last of the cruffin, licking sugar from her thumb like it’s sacred. I rest my head against the cool window. My reflection meets me—eyes wide, but not drowning. I whisper to the glass, “Maybe this is real.” The reflection doesn’t argue.

Model Output:
The hush that falls over the abandoned temple is not reverence but hunger. Moonlight, fractured by the collapsed roof, knives across the cracked flagstones in silver shards. Forty-two watchers press shoulder-to-shoulder along the leaning colonnades—twenty-one in crimson stripes for Jigen-ryū, twenty-one in onyx sashes for Piguaquan. Coins clink softly as final wagers are tucked away. At the center, two fighters stand six paces apart inside the broken rectangle of the nave. Kuroda Ren—Jigen-ryū—faces north, left side angled toward his opponent, right heel kissing the blackened base of what was once a Bodhisattva statue. His black uwagi is sleeveless, the red armband on his right bicep already damp from the walk through summer humidity. Both hands hang low, thumbs pressing lightly against the lacquered saya of an unbladed bokken. The weapon remains sheathed; Jigen-ryū teaches that the draw itself is the kill. The arrogance is in the stillness—no bounce, no feint, only the coiled promise of an explosion. Opposite him, three body-lengths south, Chen Lian—Piguaquan—shifts his weight from left foot to right in slow sine waves. The soles of his worn cloth shoes whisper on the grit. His red armband is tied just above the left elbow, stark against skin burnished by years of outdoor training. Arms hang loose like whips, fingertips brushing the air in lazy circles. The stance is a diagonal horse, torso half-turned, presenting the smallest possible target while inviting the first strike. An iron bell—salvaged from a shipwreck—clangs once. The duel begins. 1 Ren’s first step is the sound of a gunshot. Rear heel kicks off the plinth, hips torque, and the bokken flashes out in a downward diagonal cut aimed at Chen’s left clavicle. No ritual flourish—just the signature Jigen-ryū nukitsuke meant to end fights in the same heartbeat they start. Chen is already gone. His left foot skitters back a half-step, knee bending like wet bamboo. The spine coils; torso folds ninety degrees to the right. The bokken’s edge hisses past his ear so close the wind of it lifts a strand of hair. As the wooden blade reaches the nadir of its arc, Chen’s right arm whips in from the blind underside, palm slicing toward Ren’s exposed wrist. Ren meets the counter with the saya’s iron kojiri, flicking it up in a tight parabola to deflect the palm-strike. The clash is wood against bone; Chen’s attack caroms upward, but the recoil energy is redirected into a clockwise spin. Piguaquan’s secret: every block borrows force to become the next strike. 2 Chen’s spin carries him past Ren’s right flank. His left elbow snaps out, a scything backfist aimed at the base of the samurai’s skull. Ren ducks under the arc, letting the elbow skim the air where his head was. The bokken, still carried forward from the first cut, now reverses in a rising reverse-grip thrust toward Chen’s floating ribs. Chen feels the wind of it against his side. He drops his weight straight down—knees splayed wide, hips almost brushing the ground—so the bokken skewers only darkness above his shoulder. From the squat, he lashes out with a low hooking kick, heel hooking toward Ren’s forward ankle. Ren hops six inches, but the stone beneath him is uneven. His landing foot finds a cracked tile that shifts, stealing a fraction of balance. It is enough. The hooking kick catches the outer edge of his tabi, turning his stance thirty degrees. 3 Chen rises with the momentum, torso unfolding like a whip cracking skyward. Both palms shoot forward in rapid succession: right to sternum, left to jaw. Ren staggers back two steps until his shoulders meet the temple’s east wall. Dust cascades from rotted plaster. The Jigen-ryū swordsman exhales sharply through teeth, compressing all arrogance into a single breath. He switches the bokken to a two-handed grip, point angled down, left foot sliding forward into a long lunge. The tip describes a tight figure-eight, occupying the space between them like a barrier of teeth. Chen circles clockwise, always keeping the moon at his back so Ren must squint against the glare. Each step is the length of his forearm—short, gliding, silent. Piguaquan footwork: never offer the same angle twice. 4 Ren lunges. The bokken thrusts straight for Chen’s heart. Chen angles his hips thirty degrees; the wooden tip scrapes across ribs instead of sinking home. The friction burns skin but misses bone. Simultaneously, Chen’s right hand snakes over the bokken’s spine, fingers hooking Ren’s left wrist. He pulls and twists. Ren’s own forward momentum becomes a pivot point. Chen’s left palm strikes the inside of Ren’s elbow, hyperextending the joint with a dull pop. The bokken clatters across the floor, skittering to rest beside the fallen incense burner. Disarmament should end it, but pride outweighs pain. Ren yanks his trapped arm free—his shoulder protests—and snaps a short punch into Chen’s solar plexus. Chen’s torso folds, but the punch lands on stacked muscle; he exhales in a hiss rather than a gasp. 5 They separate by mutual recoil. Four paces now between them, the bokken equidistant at the two-yard mark. Chen’s breathing is steady; Ren’s left arm dangles, tendons throbbing. The watchers murmur, odds recalculating. Ren shifts weight, right foot sliding back into cat stance. He draws a tantō from the small of his back—blade only eight inches, but steel this time. The edge glints like a shard of moon. Chen responds by rolling both shoulders once, loosening the scapula. He raises his guard higher, elbows in, wrists crossed—Piguaquan’s “willow in wind.” No weapons left but body and guile. 6 Ren feints a rush, then cuts diagonally left to claim the bokken. Chen reads the intention and intercepts. Both reach the weapon simultaneously; Chen’s left foot stamps onto the blade, pinning it. Ren’s tantō slashes upward; Chen leans back, the tip carving a shallow groove across the red armband. Threads part like snapped veins. Chen’s right hand, still free, whips downward in a hammer-fist toward Ren’s knee. The patella rings like a drum. Ren’s leg buckles; he drops to one knee. 7 From the lowered posture, Ren drives the tantó in a straight thrust toward Chen’s thigh. Chen pivots hips, letting the blade slide past the quadriceps, close enough to part fabric. At the same instant, his left arm loops under Ren’s knife arm, elbow locking against wrist in a reverse joint lever. Chen’s torso torques left; his right palm slaps the flat of the tantō’s handle, redirecting the point downward and back. Steel kisses the flagstones. With a twist, Chen forces Ren’s grip to fail; the tantó spins away into shadow. Weaponless now, both men surge upright. Chen is faster by a breath. His right hip loads like a drawn bow, then snaps—a side kick to Ren’s sternum. Ren’s crossed arms absorb the blow, but the impact drives him two strides back until his spine meets a fractured column. Dust showers his hair. 8 Chen closes the gap in three skipping steps. Left palm hooks outward, right palm inward, forming a scissoring strike to the temples. Ren ducks under the right, catches the left at the wrist, and counter-rotates, attempting an aikido-style throw. Chen lets the momentum carry him; he plants his left foot behind Ren’s right ankle and folds suddenly at the waist, head slipping under Ren’s armpit. The throw becomes a tangle. Both crash to the ground, Chen on top. The fall knocks wind from Ren. Chen rears up, right fist raised for a downward hammer. Ren’s eyes flash—not surrender, but calculation. His right hand, pinned awkwardly beneath Chen’s knee, manages to grip the edge of the red armband twisted around Chen’s left bicep. He yanks hard. The fabric tears; threads snap like sinew. The symbolism is not lost on the crowd. Gasps ripple. Chen’s fist hesitates a heartbeat. That heartbeat is all Jigen-ryū arrogance needs. Ren bucks, hips bridging, legs scissoring up to trap Chen’s neck. He rolls left, leveraging the neck crank. Chen’s body flips; now Ren is astride. 9 Ren rains two punches—one to the cheek, one to the shoulder. Chen takes the first on the orbital bone, the second on the clavicle. Bone protests; skin splits. But Piguaquan’s rolling shoulders absorb the force like slack rope. Chen jerks his hips, worming a knee between their bodies, plants sole on Ren’s abdomen. With a sharp push, he creates a foot of space. Both scramble upright, chests heaving. Sweat and blood mingle, streaking the moonlit dust on their skin. 10 They stand at the temple’s heart again, four paces apart, but the geometry has changed. The bokken lies to Ren’s left rear; the tantó glints ten feet to Chen’s right. Neither glances at the weapons. Arms rise; guards reform. Ren’s left arm is numb, fingers curled like claws. Chen’s right eye is swelling shut, vision halved. Yet both smile—thin, humorless curves of teeth. Chen initiates. He skips in, starting a right haymaker that morphs mid-arc into an elbow. Ren parries with his forearm, but the elbow was a feint; Chen’s real attack is the left heel, hooking around to the back of Ren’s knee. Tendons collapse. Ren drops to a kneeling lunge. Chen whirls for a spinning back-kick to finish it. Ren lunges forward into the spin, inside the arc, shoulder driving into Chen’s planted hip. Momentum dies. They clinch, chest-to-chest, both off-balance. Ren’s forehead smashes forward—short, brutal. Cartilage crunches. Chen’s grip loosens. Ren slips an arm under Chen’s armpit, locking a half-nelson. He pivots, driving Chen face-first toward a waist-height fragment of altar stone. At the last second, Chen plants both palms on the altar’s edge, halting the throw. Elbows lock; he kicks backward blindly. His heel catches Ren’s inner thigh—dead-leg. The hold loosens. 11 They break apart, spinning. Chen is now between Ren and the altar, moon glare behind him. Ren’s stance is staggered, weight favoring the uninjured leg. Chen’s nose bleeds freely, dripping dark onto the stone. Chen attacks with a flurry: right palm, left palm, low sweep. Ren blocks high, blocks middle, hops the sweep. On the third beat he counters with a straight punch. It lands on Chen’s already-abused cheekbone; the head snaps sideways, but Chen’s body continues the spin, adding torque to a downward elbow that lands on Ren’s collarbone with a crack like splitting bamboo. Both stumble. The distance closes to nothing. They crash together again, forearms slamming. Chen snakes a hand inside Ren’s guard, fingers hooking the torn remnants of the red armband. He jerks Ren forward, forehead slamming into Ren’s temple. Ren’s vision whites out. Instinct alone drives his knee up into Chen’s ribs. The impact lifts Chen an inch, breath exploding outward. 12 They separate by sheer exhaustion, tottering. Moon has climbed higher, silver turning to steel. The watchers are silent—no cheers, no coins. Just the ragged duet of breathing. Chen raises his fists; his right eye is swollen shut. Ren lifts his left—it trembles, but the right is ready. One heartbeat. Chen feints left, then launches a right crescent kick aimed at Ren’s head. Ren dips inside the arc, but the kick was never meant to land. Chen’s foot passes over Ren’s ducked form and continues downward, heel stomping the flagstone precisely atop the fallen tantō. The blade flips up, hilt toward Chen. In the same motion Chen’s left hand darts, catches the spinning hilt. He steps in, edge stopping a hairbreadth from Ren’s carotid. Ren’s eyes narrow, but he does not flinch. Instead, his right hand lifts slowly and tears the black armband from his own bicep. He holds it between two fingers, then lets it fall to the ground. A vow broken; a debt paid. Chen withdraws the blade, tosses it aside. Both fighters sink to their knees, not in submission but because legs refuse more. Somewhere beyond the colonnades, a rooster crows—the first hint of dawn. The watchers melt into the ruins, leaving only two exhausted men, two torn scraps of cloth, and silence thick as blood.

Model Output:
The floor is scuffed, black vinyl over concrete, eight mirrored walls reflecting every mistake I make back at me like a firing squad. The studio is a perfect rectangle—forty feet long, thirty feet wide. The mirrors face each other so my reflection tunnels into infinity, each version of me a little more warped, a little more tired. The ceiling is low, barely ten feet, and the speakers in each corner—KRK Rokits—are cranked just past the threshold of pain. The kick drum hits at 128 BPM, straight four-on-the-floor, but it’s gated so tight it feels like a metronome with teeth. I stand in formation. Fifth row, third from the left. Everyone else is spaced exactly two shoulder-widths apart, arms pinned to their sides like soldiers. I can feel the heat coming off the dancer to my right—Yoonji, her ponytail slicked so tight it looks painful. Her breath smells like ginseng and panic. Mine probably smells like the bodega coffee I slammed before the 5 a.m. train. My hoodie is still damp from the walk through the rain. I’m the only one not in branded gear. My sneakers—beat-up Pumas with the midsole separating at the toe—scuff slightly as I shift weight. I’m trying not to. Trying to be still. “Again,” says Master Seo. His voice cuts through the beat like a blade. He stands dead center, feet in parallel first position, arms crossed so tight his biceps bulge against the seams of his tailored black tee. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His stillness is louder than the music. We reset. The count is eight bars of eight. I’ve got it memorized now—every flick of wrist, every locked angle, every micro-isolation. But my body doesn’t want to obey. My hips want to circle when they should pop. My shoulders want to roll when they should freeze. I’ve danced on cardboard in the middle of 149th, surrounded by subway noise and sirens and the smell of fried onions—where the beat was a suggestion, not a command. Here, rhythm is math. Precision is law. “Five, six, seven, eight—” We launch. Right foot steps forward into a deep lunge, torso tilts forty-five degrees, arms shoot out in a T-shape, wrists flexed like blades. I hit the line, but my back foot turns out instead of staying parallel. I feel it immediately—like a wrong note in a chord. Master Seo’s eyes flick to me. I correct, but the damage is done. My rhythm stutters. I’m a half-beat behind now. I try to catch up, but my body compensates with a bounce in my knees—a habit from popping, from riding the pocket instead of sitting on top of it. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I can see it in the mirror. My knees betray me. The next phrase is a ripple—sixteen counts of robotic isolations starting from the sternum and traveling out to the fingertips like a shockwave. It’s beautiful when they do it. When Yoonji does it, her clavicle lifts like a hinge, her scapula slides under the skin like gears. When I do it, my ribcage wants to open, to breathe, to *sway*. My elbows flare slightly. My fingers curl instead of staying rigid. I’m not a machine. I’m a cipher trying to become a drum. We hit the floor next. Drop to one knee—left knee down, right foot planted. Left hand to the floor, right arm slices across the chest in a diagonal block. Then we pop back up in one motion, no bounce, no wobble. My left sneaker squeaks as I push off. I land too hard. I feel the shock in my spine. I’ve done drops before, but always with a roll, a spiral, a recovery. Here, recovery is failure. You don’t recover. You *arrive*. Master Seo walks the line. His steps are silent. He stops in front of me. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks. His eyes are black, unreadable. He lifts one finger and points to the mirror. I look. My reflection is off by a single inch—my shoulder is higher than the line. My chin is lifted. I look like I’m dancing *at* the choreography, not *in* it. “Again,” he says. Just to me. I reset. Alone. The others freeze in place. I feel their eyes. I step back to my mark. My sneakers are too wide. I feel the vinyl grip the rubber, resisting. I breathe. The music loops. The bass is a piston. I count myself in. My body wants to groove. Instead, I lock. I hit the lunge. I freeze. I ripple. I drop. I rise. I hit every angle like a switchblade snapping open. My spine is a steel cable. My arms are vectors. My face is blank. I am not here. I am the shape of the count. But something hollows out inside me. I can’t feel my pulse. My breath is shallow. I’m not dancing. I’m executing. Master Seo nods. “Better.” But I don’t feel better. I feel erased. He turns to the class. “Reset. Full run. From the top. No breaks.” They move like one body. I follow. My feet know the path now. But my chest aches. My wrists tingle with the ghost of old cyphers—where I’d spin and dip and let the music tell me where to go. Here, the music tells me *nothing*. It just keeps time. We hit the final phrase—eight counts of syncopated footwork, heel-toe-ball-heel, pivot, lock, step-step-jump, land in a deep second position, arms crossed like an X over the chest. I land clean. My knees don’t buckle. My arms don’t float. I’m perfect. And I hate it. Master Seo walks to the center. “You,” he says, pointing at me. “Stay.” The others file out. No one looks at me. The door shuts. The music cuts. The silence is worse. He stands in front of me. Close. I can smell his cologne—something sharp, metallic. “You have fire,” he says. “But fire burns form. Here, we do not burn. We *build*.” I nod. My throat is dry. “You want to stay?” I look at the mirror. At the version of me that’s not me. At the angles that used to be curves. I think of the bodega. Of my brother’s laugh when I hit a freeze so clean the crowd went silent. I think of the subway tile under my sneakers. I think of how I used to dance like I was arguing with gravity—and winning. I lift my chin. “I want to stay,” I say. “But not like this.” Master Seo tilts his head. “Then show me.” I step back. I don’t reset. I don’t count. I just move. I drop into a shoulder freeze, then pop up into a toprock, my arms slicing circles like I’m cutting through air. I hit a wave that starts at my ankles and rolls up like water. I spin, low, into a windmill—but I stop halfway, mid-torso, and freeze in a contorted shape that shouldn’t be possible. Then I pop back up, feet together, chest lifted, arms crossed like the choreography—but looser. Alive. Mine. He watches. Doesn’t speak. I stop. Breathing hard. Sweat drips from my chin. He nods once. “Again,” he says. “But this time—*you* lead.”

Model Output:
**Court of the Dreaming: Territorial Dream Dispute** The hourglass dripped, each grain a second of someone's sleep. Dream sat slouched on his throne of crystallized nightmares, black robes pooling like spilled ink. His expression suggested he’d rather be anywhere else—perhaps dismantling a civilization or watching paint dry in the void. “Next case,” he sighed, voice echoing with the weight of eons. “First Love versus Mora. Regarding dream parcel 14B-Maxwell-Jenkins. Alleged territorial incursion.” First Love stepped forward, rosy-cheeked and clutching a bouquet of wildflowers that shed petals with every nervous twitch. Her white dress had grass stains. She looked exactly like what she was: an entity who’d spent centuries perfecting the art of making teenagers feel butterflies without quite understanding why. “Your Darkness,” she curtsied, nearly dropping her flowers. “I’ve maintained that dreamscape for three years, two months, fourteen days. Consistent delivery of formative romantic confusion. The boy wakes with pleasant befuddlement, writes poetry, questions his identity. Standard developmental milestones.” She gestured to a floating orb showing Max’s original dream: boy and girl in wildflowers, awkward almost-kiss, sunrise filtering through emotional ambiguity. “Then *she* showed up.” Mora materialized in the defendant’s box with the sound of creaking floorboards. She was tall, pale, and had the kind of beauty that made mortals write terrible poetry about death. Her black dress seemed woven from sleep paralysis itself. “Your Vastness,” she purred, bowing with predatory grace. “I prefer ‘artistic reinterpretation’ to ‘incursion.’” The orb shifted to show her version: same field, same girl—until she climbed atop Max and transformed into something between succubus and sleep demon. Still beautiful, but in the way that made your skin crawl while your heart raced. She settled on his chest like a cat finding the perfect sunbeam and began inhaling his terror with obvious satisfaction. “Objection!” First Love squeaked. “That’s not romantic confusion, that’s... that’s *trauma* with benefits!” Dream’s fingers drummed against his throne. The sound resembled distant thunder. “Mora. Your defense?” Mora shrugged elegant shoulders. “A girl’s gotta eat too, you know?” The courtroom stirred. A jury of sleeping minds—represented by glowing orbs—flashed colors indicating mild amusement. “Further,” Mora continued, “I’m providing educational value. The boy’s learning about boundaries, consent, the complexity of attraction when it intersects with mortal terror. Frankly, I’m doing her job better than she is.” First Love gasped. “I *carefully* calibrated that dream to avoid actual sexual content while maximizing emotional intensity! Do you know how hard it is to make a thirteen-year-old feel seventeen different things without using any actual—” “Sustained,” Dream muttered. “Both of you, stop. I’m already bored.” He stood, robes shifting like spilled starlight. “Mora, you’ve violated established dream boundaries. However, First Love, your complaint lacks... creativity.” First Love wilted. “But Your Darkness, he’s waking up gasping and writing poetry about death and desire. That’s my territory!” “Technically,” Mora interjected, “death and desire have been my territory since the first caveman had his first wet dream about being eaten by a sabertooth.” Dream’s expression suggested he was calculating exactly how much cosmic patience he had left. The answer appeared to be: not enough. “I propose,” he said slowly, “a compromise.” Both entities straightened. The jury orbs pulsed with interest. “Shared custody. Alternating nights. However, to ensure... creative development... each of you must incorporate elements of the other’s style.” First Love looked horrified. “You mean I have to add—” “Dread, yes,” Dream smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. “And Mora, you must include genuine romantic confusion. The boy should wake up wondering why he’s attracted to his own nightmares.” Mora considered this, head tilted. “I could work with that. The whole ‘she’s sitting on my chest stealing my breath but I think I love her’ angle has potential.” “But—” First Love started. “Furthermore,” Dream continued, warming to his theme, “on weekends, you’ll collaborate. I want dreams where the girl is both beautiful and terrifying, where the almost-kiss feels like drowning, where Max wakes up writing poetry that makes English teachers call his parents.” He sat back, looking satisfied—for Dream, anyway, which meant his expression shifted from ‘impenetrable void’ to ‘slightly less impenetrable void.’ “Court is adjourned. Try not to give the boy an existential crisis before high school.” As the entities prepared to leave, First Love approached Mora hesitantly. “So... alternating Tuesdays?” Mora smiled, revealing teeth like polished obsidian. “I’ll bring the terror, you bring the butterflies. We’ll make something beautiful.” “Horrible,” First Love corrected. “Same thing, really.” The hourglass continued dripping, each grain another second of Max’s future therapy sessions. In the distance, a thirteen-year-old boy stirred in his sleep, dreaming of a girl who kissed like suffocation and smiled like spring mornings. He’d wake up gasping, reaching for his notebook, wondering why his hands were shaking and why he couldn’t decide if he was terrified or in love. Dream watched them go, then snapped his fingers. The orb showing Max’s dream rewound, paused on a frame where the girl’s face was perfectly split between radiant beauty and predatory hunger. He allowed himself one small, dark chuckle. “Adolescence,” he murmured. “The original cosmic horror.”

Model Output:
The broken cart wheel lies abandoned near the village gates, spokes snapped like brittle ribs, its iron rim half-sunk in churned mud. A faint, sour stink of fear still clings to the splinters—peasants fled before sunset, crossing themselves and muttering about wolves that walk like men. The moon climbs, copper-red, swollen with eclipse. Beneath its glare, the crossroads become a stage that waits for players. Alucard arrives first, coat flaring like fresh blood, boots silent on the rutted road. The wide brim of his hat cuts the moonlight to a crimson slash across his face; orange lenses glint, feral and amused. He halts beside the ruined cart, gloved fingertips brushing the splinters. The scent of mortal terror is faint, but beneath it drifts something rarer: lilac and gooseberries, laced with ozone and old magic. He smiles, ivory fangs just kissing his lower lip. “Show yourself, little sorceress. The night grows tedious without banter.” Silence answers. Then the air folds like dark silk, and Yennefer steps out of nothing between one heartbeat and the next. Black curls toss in a wind that does not touch the trees; violet eyes regard him with the cold interest of a raptor judging carrion. Amethyst pendant glimmers at her throat; the fingers that toy with it spark with static. “Vampire,” she says, voice velvet over steel. “You’re trespassing. This village is under my protection tonight.” Alucard bows with theatrical flourish, the red tail of his coat sweeping the dirt. “Protection? How quaint. From what do they cower—me, or the red moon that hungers in your sky?” He straightens, eyes narrowing behind the tinted glass. “I smell sorcery like bruised petals. You reek of ambition. I adore ambition.” A ripple of distaste tightens her lips. “And you reek of slaughterhouse. Put those guns away before I melt them.” He only laughs, drawing one of the massive handguns slowly, almost lovingly, silver cruciform barrel glinting. “Bullets forged from a bishop’s melted reliquary. Try your spell—let us discover whose faith is stronger.” Yennefer’s pupils contract to violet slits. Magic surges, and for a moment the moonlight fractures into shards of violet frost that hover around her like glass butterflies. Alucard’s aura responds, crimson shadows writhing at his feet, forming half-seen hounds that gnash their teeth at the air. Neither attacks. Neither retreats. The power dynamic tilts, balances, tilts again. “Tell me, Count,” Yennefer says, voice deceptively soft, “does immortality ever bore you? All that endless night spent feeding on cattle who squeal and run? It must be terribly lonely.” Alucard’s grin widens until something human in it dies. “Lonely? I am legion. Every soul I’ve drunk still screams inside me. They keep excellent company.” He steps closer; the frost butterflies shatter into snow against his coat. “But you—you are alone. Centuries old yet barren, are you not? All that power and still empty where a child should grow.” Her face whitens, not with fear but with fury sharp enough to cut. Lightning sears the sky at her back. “Don’t.” He halts a foot away. Hat’s brim shadows his eyes, yet she can feel the weight of his ancient gaze stripping pretense from bone. “I could give you what your spells never will,” he murmurs, voice a velvet lash. “A daughter with midnight hair, who drinks starlight instead of milk. All it would cost is a drop of your mortality.” Yennefer throws her head back, laughter brittle as cracking ice. “And condemn her to an eternity of your sadism? I’d sooner birth a basilisk.” The vampire’s mockery softens, almost fond. “Your tongue is a silver dagger. Careful, witch, or I may grow attached.” “Attachment is weakness,” she counters, echoing lessons learned in cold towers long ago. “And weakness gets you killed.” “Then show me strength.” He spreads his arms, a cruciform invitation. “Strike me down. Prove you fear nothing.” For an instant, the night holds its breath. Yennefer’s fingers weave runes that glow like dying suns. A portal yawns behind Alucard, swirling with the howl of otherworldly winds. Chains of violet fire lash out, seeking wrists, throat, ankles. They snag him, sizzle against undead flesh. Alucard’s laughter booms, delighted. The wounds knit before the chains finish coiling. Shadows burst outward, shredding the spell like cobwebs. He does not move, only smiles wider as his body reforms around the wounds. “Is that all?” Yennefer feels something cold and unfamiliar in her chest. Not fear—she has outgrown fear—something closer to exhilaration. She snaps her fingers. The portal collapses with a thunderclap, sucking its own ashes into silence. “Regeneration,” she says softly. “Interesting. Can you regenerate from nothing?” “Try me.” Her next spell is subtler: a whisper that brushes the boundary of his mind, seeking the ancient sorrow that sleeps beneath the bloodlust. She finds it—an image of a boy impaled on a stake, eyes still defiant—and for a heartbeat she hesitates. The moment costs her. Alucard’s hand closes around her wrist with crushing pressure. “Careful, little raven,” he purrs. “My memories bite.” She answers by twisting her arm impossibly, slipping free with a twist of space itself, reappearing ten paces away. Her pulse drums loud in her ears, yet her voice stays even. “So do mine.” Between them, the air thickens, pregnant with possibility. The moon, now fully eclipsed, drips crimson across the clouds. A low rumble rolls over the hills—war drums or thunder, impossible to tell. Alucard holsters the gun, tilting his head as if listening to distant music. “The village is empty. The roads are mine tonight, yet I linger. Your doing, sorceress.” Yennefer folds her arms, black velvet sleeves rippling like ravens’ wings. “Linger, then. When the sun rises, you’ll burn and I’ll walk away.” “And yet you also remain,” he observes. “Drawn to darkness as ever. Admit it—you want to know how it feels to surrender.” Her smile is thin and razor-sharp. “And you want to know how it feels to be refused.” They circle now, two predators marking territory that is neither land nor flesh but something in between. Each step sends cracks through the mud; each glance sparks invisible flint. Alucard’s shadow lengthens into canine shapes; Yennefer’s footprints bloom frost and lilac. At last she stops. “I have a bargain.” He lifts a brow. “Travel with me until sunrise. No biting, no spellfire. Just conversation. If by dawn I am unimpressed, you leave these lands forever. If you are unimpressed—” She pauses, arch. “Well, then you may sulk back to whatever crypt spat you out.” Alucard considers, tongue running absently across a fang. “And if we are both… impressed?” “Then we shall see whose will breaks first.” A gust of wind tears at her hair, carrying the scent of gooseberries to mingle with the iron of spilled blood. Alucard bows again, deeper this time, crimson lining flashing like gore under skin. “Very well, Yennefer of Vengerberg. Let us walk beneath the blood moon and trade our monsters like children trading cards.” She turns without waiting, boots clicking toward the forest path. He follows three steps behind, shadow stretching to engulf her footprints. Neither looks back at the broken cart wheel, forgotten symbol of a world that has already fled. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howls, but the sound is too human, and neither of them turns to look.

Model Output:
The chain-link fence around the exercise yard rattles whenever an inmate passes, as though the metal shivers at the touch of anything human. Jolyne Cujoh steps through the gate with her wrists still raw from the cuffs, eyes narrowed, mouth set in the same scowl she wore at Green Dolphin. No Mickey, no Disney—just gray sky, gray walls, and a new brand of shitshow. Across the cracked concrete, a woman waits under the single sickly elm. Auburn hair falls in a neat sheet, golden irises ringed like a hawk’s. Her posture is perfect, her smile sweeter than artificial cherry syrup. The orange jumpsuit looks freshly pressed, which is impossible, which means something is wrong. Jolyne’s first thought: cult leader. Second thought: Devil. Third thought: Stone Free’s strings twitch under her skin, ready. “Jolyne Cujoh,” the woman says, voice gentle enough to be a lullaby. “I’m Makima. Welcome to Penance Block Theta.” “Never heard of it,” Jolyne shoots back. “And I’ve seen enough fake nice to last two life sentences. You the warden?” “In a sense.” Makima folds her hands in front of her, nails immaculate. “I see to discipline and harmony. The prisoners here are… special. Like you.” The fence rattles again as the wind shifts; the sound is metallic laughter. Jolyne steps closer, sneakers scuffing. Stone Free unspools a single thread from her fingertip, invisible to normals, and sends it snaking along the ground toward Makima’s shadow. “Special how?” she asks. Makima’s gaze drops to the thread for a fraction of a second—not long enough for a civilian, long enough for Jolyne. The smile widens. “Abilities that defy natural law,” Makima answers. “Stands, Devils, curses—names change, the concept remains. You unravel yourself into string, correct? How wonderfully tactile.” Jolyne clenches her fist; the thread retracts like a snapped rubber band. “Cute that you know. Less cute that you think I’m a dog on your leash.” Makima’s expression doesn’t flicker. “I prefer loyal dogs, but wildcats are interesting too.” Behind them, other inmates orbit in slow circles, heads down, eyes glazed. One woman mutters the Lord’s Prayer backward. A man drags his palm along the fence so the links sing. None look at Makima directly. None dare. Jolyne feels the pressure in the air—the same oily dread she sensed around Enrico Pucci, the feeling of someone rearranging reality by whispering rules only they understand. She cracks her neck. “So what’s the scam? You run a Devil farm? Harvest Stand users? Sell us to the highest cosmic bidder?” “I offer purpose,” Makima replies, tilting her head. “In exchange for order. Most accept.” “Most?” Jolyne gestures at the mumbling prisoners. “Those zombies? No thanks.” Makima steps forward. The fence rattles harder though no one touches it. “Your father is Jotaro Kujo. Strong bloodline. Stronger pride. I could reunite you.” The words hit like a knee to the diaphragm. Jolyne hides the flinch behind a sneer. “Cheap trick. I already know he’s alive.” She doesn’t—but she refuses to let Makima hear doubt. A blink, and Makima is suddenly closer, the air between them compressed like a spring. “I don’t lie,” she says softly. “I simply provide options. Control is merely the removal of worse possibilities.” Stone Free manifests behind Jolyne, translucent, fist cocked. “Back up, bitch.” Makima’s yellow eyes shine. “Your Stand is beautiful. Would you like to see mine?” The space around Makima ripples. Shadows lengthen into leashes, each taut line running to the throats of phantom hounds—some canine, some humanoid, some shapes Jolyne’s mind refuses to parse. A low chorus of whimpers leaks from nowhere. Jolyne’s stomach knots. Those aren’t illusions; she’s felt that brand of spiritual choke-chain before, back when Whitesnake stole discs. Only this is colder, bureaucratic. She flicks her wrist. Stone Free’s arm detaches into a whip of strings and slashes sideways. The leash-shadows hiss like hot iron in water but do not sever. Makima sighs, almost fond. “Physical or spiritual, the principle is dominance. You fight so hard, yet strings are meant to bind.” “Yeah? Watch me knit a noose.” Jolyne dives, rolling under the phantom leash sweep. Strings erupt from her ankles, lassoing Makima’s legs. She yanks—hard. Makima doesn’t budge. “A contract with the Japanese Prime Minister,” she explains, voice conversational while threads saw uselessly at her calves. “Any fatal damage is redirected to a random citizen. You can’t kill me, Jolyne Cujoh.” “Good thing hurting you wasn’t the plan.” Jolyne grins sharp. The strings unravel up Makima’s body and into her sleeves, seeking skin. One thread wriggles into Makima’s ear canal like a worm. Makima’s composure cracks for half a heartbeat—eyes widening, lips parting. The leash shadows flicker. Inside Makima’s head, Jolyne feels the vast echo of chains, contracts, names written in blood and bureaucracy. It’s like touching a spiderweb made of rules. She snarls and yanks the thread back before the web can stick. “Nasty in there,” Jolyne mutters. “Whole place smells like red tape and dog food.” Makima’s smile resets, but the sweetness now has metal shavings in it. “Curiosity is dangerous. You saw them—my dogs. You could be the fiercest among them.” “Eat me.” The yard lights dim though the sun hasn’t moved. Overhead, clouds roll into the shape of an iris. The fence rattles violently, screws popping. Makima raises a hand. The inmates freeze mid-step, puppets waiting for strings to tighten. “One command and they tear you apart. Human shields, each one.” Jolyne’s pulse hammers, but her voice stays level. “You think I won’t hit back because they’re innocent? I was framed too, remember? I know what it’s like. But I also know letting you run the kennel hurts more people in the long run.” She spreads her arms; Stone Free mirrors her. Hundreds of threads extrude from her skin, hovering like glassy snakes. “So come on. Let’s see how many puppets I can unstring before you blink.” For the first time, Makima’s eyes show something beyond curiosity—an emotion that might be respect, might be hunger. “Interesting,” Makima says. “Very well. A battle of resolve. Not here, though.” She snaps her fingers. The yard melts—concrete becoming dark marble corridors smelling of antiseptic and ozone. The fence is gone; instead, iron doors line an endless hallway. Chains rattle overhead like wind chimes made of vertebrae. Jolyne doesn’t flinch. She’s seen worse tricks in dreams and mirror wards. “Dragging me into your pocket dimension? Cute. Stone Free cuts through illusions same as steel.” “It’s not illusion,” Makima corrects. “It’s authority.” From the nearest door, a tentacled Devil whimpers, pressing against the bars. It wears a collar that reads PROPERTY OF MAKIMA. Jolyne spits. “Authority built on fear isn’t law; it’s terrorism with paperwork.” Makima begins to walk, each step echoing. “Semantics. The outcome is order.” Jolyne matches her pace, threads coiling and uncoiling with every breath. “You want order? Then here’s mine: I walk out of here, you release every damn soul on your leash, and maybe—maybe—I won’t unravel your contract clause by clause.” Makima laughs, soft and delighted. “And they call Devils arrogant. Very well. Demonstrate this resolve. Beat me, and I’ll consider your proposal.” The hallway stretches, doors slamming open. Devils, humans, hybrids stumble out, eyes glowing with Makima’s sigil. Hundreds. Thousands. A tide of flesh and despair. Jolyne smirks, rolling her shoulders. “Guess we’re doing the Mickeyless shitshow after all.” Stone Free raises its fists. The first leash snaps toward Jolyne’s throat—and she plucks it like a guitar string, turns it into a noose of her own, and flings it back. Somewhere, far away, the chain-link fence rattles one last time before a string, thin as spider silk, cuts it clean in half.

Model Output:
**SCP-████ PERSONAL LOG — DR. ELIAS M. VARGA** **Clearance Level 4 | Temporal Anomalies Division** **Word Count: 1,000** **Ink Analysis File: A-17-T** *(Trace elements: iridium-191, polonium-210, unknown organometallic compound with non-terrestrial isotopic signature. No match to Foundation inventory.)* --- I found the first note on a Tuesday. It was folded inside my lab coat pocket, the one I hadn’t worn since last winter. The handwriting was mine—same cramped slant, same pressure on the downstrokes—but I hadn’t written it. Not yet. > **Note #1** > *Don’t trust the clocks in Wing-C. The breach starts at 03:14. You’ll have 11 minutes. Get to Sublevel 5 before the lights fail. —E.V.* I laughed. I actually laughed. Temporal anomalies were my specialty, but I’d never been the *subject* of one. I reported it to Site Director Halvorsen, who logged it as a potential memetic prank. We reviewed CCTV. No one entered my quarters. The note’s paper matched Foundation memo stock, but the ink… that was the first red flag. They ran it through spectrometry. The results came back wrong. Iridium, polonium, and something that *shouldn’t* have existed in our solar system. Not from any pen in Site-43. Not from Earth. --- The second note arrived a week later. This time, it was taped to the inside of my office locker. I’d just returned from an off-site psych eval—routine, they said, nothing to worry about. > **Note #2** > *It’s not a prank. You’re not hallucinating. The entity is SCP-████-Prime. It’s not contained. It *is* containment. You’re already inside it. The clocks are wrong because time isn’t passing. It’s looping. You’re looping. Stop trusting Halvorsen. He’s not real. —E.V.* I didn’t laugh that time. I brought it to Dr. Kessler, head of Memetics. She ran a full psychological profile. No dissociation. No delusions. No history of schizophrenia. Brainscan clean. I volunteered for a Level-B truth serum interrogation. Nothing. I wasn’t lying. I wasn’t sleep-writing. I wasn’t *anyone’s* puppet. But the notes kept coming. --- > **Note #3** > *You tried to burn this one. Don’t. The ink doesn’t burn. It just gets louder. —E.V.* I did try to burn it. I don’t know why. The paper blackened, but the words remained, raised like scar tissue. I locked the note in a Level-4 anomalous document vault. It was gone by morning. Reappeared in my coat pocket again. --- By the fourth note, I stopped telling people. > **Note #4** > *They’re not notes. They’re scars. Time is peeling. You’re bleeding through. The breach isn’t a breach. It’s a *birth*. —E.V.* I started recording myself. 24/7 bodycam. I never saw myself write anything. But the notes kept appearing. In my coffee. Under my pillow. Once, inside a sealed SCP-500 pill bottle I’d swallowed *and later regurgitated intact*. I don’t remember eating paper. --- Dr. Kessler proposed SCP-████-Prime was a non-corporeal infovore—something that fed on chronodisplacement anxiety. A fear parasite. It mimicked my handwriting to induce recursive paranoia. They put me in a Faraday-caged observation cell. No writing implements. No paper. No contact. The next morning, a note was scratched into the wall. > **Note #5** > *You’re not in the cell. The cell is in you. —E.V.* They moved me to Memetics Isolation. Stripped my quarters. Replaced my blood with Class-C mnestic stabilizers. I stopped sleeping. I started hearing the ink. Not the words—the *ink*. It whispered in a voice like static and wet teeth. --- > **Note #6** > *Halvorsen is dead. He died in 1998. You killed him. You just haven’t done it yet. —E.V.* I confronted Halvorsen. He blinked. Said he’d never heard of SCP-████-Prime. Said I was under stress. I asked him what year he thought it was. He said 2023. I showed him the note. He said it was blank. I looked down. It was. I started keeping duplicates. Photographs. Scans. The digital files corrupted within minutes. The physical copies vanished. Only the originals remained. Only to me. --- They brought in SCP-3043—“The Narrative.” A sentient story that edits reality through metafictional infection. It had breached before. It liked to play with perception. It had my voice. I asked it, “Are you doing this?” It wrote on the wall in my handwriting: > *No. But I wish I had. It’s beautiful. You’re unraveling like a scarf in fire.* --- > **Note #7** > *You tried to hang yourself. The rope turned into a timeline. You’re still falling. —E.V.* I don’t remember that. There’s no record of it. But I have the bruises. --- The final note was written in blood. Mine. I woke up with a scalpel in my hand and a message carved into my thigh. > **Note #8** > *There is no breach. There never was. You’re the anomaly. The ink is your blood. The notes are your bones. You’re not receiving messages. You’re *leaking*. —E.V.* The wound didn’t heal. It wept ink. The same iridium-polonium compound. They quarantined me. Classified me as SCP-████-Ω. A living temporal leak. A one-man CK-class restructuring event. --- They told me I was never a researcher. Not really. I was a containment protocol. A mnemonic anchor. The notes weren’t warnings. They were *anchors*. Each one a splinter of me trying to stitch the timeline back together. But I remember being a child. I remember my mother’s hands. I remember my first day at the Foundation. I remember *choosing* this. Unless I didn’t. Unless I was written to remember. --- > **Final Note (handwritten on the back of my own termination order)** > *You’re reading this because you’re still me. You’re still in the loop. You haven’t found the exit because the exit isn’t a door. It’s a choice. Stop reading. Stop writing. Stop believing. > —E.V.* I burned the note. This time, it stayed burned. But the ink soaked into the air. I breathed it in. And now I’m writing this with it. --- **Addendum 3043-█:** As of 03:14 this morning, all clocks in Wing-C stopped. Security footage shows Dr. Varga walking into Sublevel 5. The corridor no longer exists. There is no Sublevel 5. Dr. Varga’s bodycam feed ends with a single frame: a mirror. In it, he is not reflected. Only the notes remain, fluttering in a wind that isn’t there. No breach has occurred. No anomaly detected. But the ink keeps spreading. And the notes keep writing themselves. Even now. Even here.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-6147 **Object Class:** Thaumiel/Keter (see Addendum 6147-4) **Special Containment Procedures:** Global satellite and municipal-cam monitoring arrays (Project PANTHEON) are to flag any newly-appearing unmarked doors matching SCP-6147 parameters. Mobile Task Force Iota-29 “Keymasters” will secure the structure, recover any civilians, and install a triple-layer Faraday cage around the doorway. All SCP-6147 doors are to be fitted with dead-bolts on both sides; the hallway side lock is to remain open, the archive side is welded shut. Exploration beyond an SCP-6147 door now requires unanimous O5 approval (see Addendum 6147-4). **Description:** SCP-6147 is the collective designation for 3,211 (last count) identical unmarked wooden doors, 2.13 m x 0.91 m, matte black paint, brass knob. Every door has appeared inside a building abandoned prior to 1976. The doors are always hinged to open inward; the room behind them contains no such door from the interior perspective. Carbon-14 and wear analysis indicate most doors pre-date the structures in which they appear by 200–900 years, regardless of architectural style or local climate. Opening an SCP-6147 door reveals a narrow iron catwalk suspended above a colossal multi-level archive. Interior volume is non-Euclidean; laser ranging returns distances between 12 km and ∞. Shelves, drawers, and pneumatic tubes extend in all directions, stacked floor-to-ceiling. Illumination is provided by bioluminescent fungi arranged in repeating Foundation security-sigil patterns. Gravity vectors rotate to keep the catwalk “down,” allowing traversal onto vertical surfaces. All documents are written in known languages yet contain no anachronisms; paper, ink, and binding materials are consistent with 18th–21st-century production methods. The archive’s index system references a planetary civilization (“Cycle 7-Alpha”) that ended 237 years ago following an unspecified containment cascade (“Event Null-Sigma”). Foundation personnel appear throughout under the title “Custodians of the Final Threshold (CFT).” Identical names, birthdays, and biometric data match current staff, including several O5 Council members. Dates on associated paperwork pre-date Foundation chartering by 134–312 years. Recovered documents are self-consistent and cross-reference one another; no evidence of fabrication has been detected. **Exploration Log 6147-Delta-3** Date: 2023-10-04 Team: MTF Iota-29 (“Keymasters”) Sub-Unit Delta Lead: Agent Reza Qasemi Recorder: Dr. Mirai Okoye (Archivist, Site-19) [Begin Log] 00:03 – Door opens into archive. Temperature 19 °C, faint ozone smell. Catwalk extends 30 m before splitting into a hexagonal grid. 00:07 – Drone deploys. Camera feed shows aisles labeled “NORTH AMERICA / SECTOR 11 / CYCLE 7-A.” 00:12 – Okoye notes shelf tag: “Incident File 6147-Δ3, Compiled 1879-05-14.” File appears identical to the one on her tablet, including edits she made yesterday. 00:18 – Team descends to Level –3 via spiral staircase that remains “down” regardless of orientation. 00:25 – Agent Harker radios: “Visual on movement. White hazmat suits, no insignia, carrying crates.” 00:26 – Four figures in full-face respirators and vintage 1970s U.S. Army M17 filters notice team, drop crates, retreat at sprint speed. Pursuit ends when staircase inverts 180°; hazmat team vanishes into ceiling that is now floor. 00:29 – Crate contents: disassembled mahogany card catalogs labeled “O5-EYES-ONLY / PRE-EMPTIVE AMNESTY PROTOCOL.” Every drawer empty except one containing a single Polaroid. Image: O5-2, O5-7, and an unidentified woman in Level –7 archive stacks. Reverse annotated in O5-7 handwriting: “Third visit. Still no answers. —M.” 00:37 – Further descent halted by locked gate of living wood. Surface pulses like arterial tissue. Qasemi attempts boltcutters; wood secretes acid, melting tool. 00:45 – Team extracts. Door seals behind them; knob is now warm. [End Log] **Recovered Document Excerpts** Document 6147-R-19 (Filed 1812-03-22) Title: “CFT Overseer Election Transcript – Cycle 7-A” [Excerpt 1] “The Council is reminded that the designation ‘SCP’ remains provisional until the Threshold reopens. Until then, we are Custodians, not jailers. Item 6147 itself is our inheritance; study it, but do not worship it.” Document 6147-R-204 (Personnel Dossier) Name: Dr. Mirai A. Okoye Birth: 1988-12-09 Role: Senior Archivist Note appended in red ink: “Cycle 8 iteration confirmed. Memory implantation scheduled 2023-09-30 per O5-3 directive. Original file sealed below Level –9.” Document 6147-R-763 Title: “After-Action Report – Event Null-Sigma” [Excerpt 2] “…all 1,019 sites breached simultaneously at 04:14 UTC. Containment failure not due to anomaly, but to human consensus: the belief that anomalies could be understood completely. Final transmission received from Site-01: ‘The doors are closing themselves.’ Global population at cessation: 0.00. Archive integrity preserved for Cycle 8.” **Addendum 6147-4 – Unauthorized O5 Visitation** On 2024-01-11, motion-activated archive sensors (installed during Exploration Delta-2) captured seven human heat signatures wearing Level B hazmat suits without Foundation IFF beacons. Facial recognition matched O5-2, O5-3, O5-5, and four security escorts. The group removed 22 linear meters of filing cabinets from Sector 12 before triggering Delta-Team sensors. When approached, they fled via a freight elevator not present on any previous survey. Elevator shaft has since vanished; archival gap remains. Following this revelation, the remaining O5 Council voted 8-4-1 to suspend exploratory missions indefinitely. The dissenting vote (O5-7) abstained from comment; video logs show O5-7 weeping during the vote. **Ethics Committee Memorandum 6147-EC-04** “Evidence suggests our continuity is iterative. If the archive is accurate, we are Cycle 8-Beta. Cycle 7-Alpha’s Foundation failed after its own Council breached protocol. Repeating their curiosity may guarantee their fate. Recommend reclassification to Keter pending Thaumiel utility review.” **Status:** Reclassification under debate. All personnel are advised that refusal to participate in future expeditions will not be considered insubordination.

Model Output:
**Chapter Seven: The Cloak** The briefings had described New Jutland as orderly, efficient, and above all, homogeneous. A colony of the Second Diaspora, settled three centuries ago by a consortium of Terran gene-lines who had sought to preserve what they called “baseline humanity.” The reports spoke of a society that had resisted the “speciation drift” of the outer worlds, maintaining strict reproductive protocols and cultural stasis. A model of control. A bulwark against the wilding of man. But the briefings had not described the market. Envoy Kesi Avelar stepped down from the tram at the edge of the Old Quarter, her diplomatic cloak drawn tight against the wind—though it was not wind she shielded herself from, but eyes. The cloak was Terran silk, deep indigo, embroidered with the sigil of the Ekumenical Council. It marked her instantly as offworlder, as authority, as other. Here, where the people wore little more than softwoven mesh and sunbleached cloth, the cloak was a banner and a burden. She had slipped away from the reception at the High Hall with the ease of long practice. The guards had been distracted by the Minister of Protocol’s speech on “interstellar fraternity,” and Kesi had murmured something about needing air. No one had followed. The market was not orderly. It spilled across the plaza in slow, organic motion—stalls of dried fungi and saltfish, data-scrolls etched on bark-thin sheets, children with eyes too large for their skulls darting between legs. She passed a woman whose skin had a faint sheen, like oil on water, and whose fingers were webbed to the second knuckle. A man with elongated limbs and a gait like a stilt-walker haggled over the price of a memory coil. The air smelled of brine and ozone, and something faintly sweet, like rotting fruit. Kesi paused at a stall where an old man sold vials of what he called “heritage scent.” He offered her one, uncorking it so she could catch the smell—something like pine and copper. “You’re not from here,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m not,” she said. “You wear the past like a skin,” he said, nodding at her cloak. “But it doesn’t fit you.” She did not answer. She bought a vial anyway, slipping it into the inner pocket of her cloak. She walked on. The deeper she went, the more the city unraveled. The buildings here were not the smooth, modular constructs of the central district, but grown—biomass structures that breathed and shifted with the light. Some had the texture of coral, others of bark. One had a door that closed like a mouth. She saw a group of children playing a game with stones that moved when no one touched them. A woman nursed an infant whose skin was translucent, veins luminous as rivers under ice. And yet, the people did not look oppressed. They looked… adapted. Not in the way the Ekumen had warned, as if adaptation were a disease, but as if they had simply chosen to become what the world needed of them. Not better. Not worse. Just different. She stayed longer than she meant to. When she returned to the residency, the sun had set and the sky was the color of bruised metal. The guard at the gate did not speak, but his gaze lingered. Inside, Commander Rell waited. “You were not authorized to leave the compound,” Rell said. Her voice was flat, but her jaw was tight. “You compromised the security of this mission.” “I went for a walk,” Kesi said. “You went for a walk in a restricted zone.” “I saw no signs.” Rell stared at her. “You’re not a tourist, Envoy. You’re here to prevent a war. Not to collect souvenirs.” Kesi said nothing. She had learned long ago not to argue with the kind of silence Rell wore like armor. “You’re to report to Minister Vey tomorrow morning. He’s requested a private audience. Don’t be late.” * Minister Vey’s office was in the upper levels of the Science Ministry, a structure that looked like a fossilized spine curling into the sky. Inside, the air was cooler than outside, and smelled faintly of citrus and old paper. Vey did not rise when she entered. He sat behind a desk of pale wood, his fingers steepled, his eyes the color of wet ash. “Envoy Avelar,” he said. “You’ve been busy.” “I observe,” she said. “It’s what I’m trained to do.” “And what have you observed?” “That your world is not what it pretends to be.” He smiled. It was not a kind smile, but it was not unkind either. It was the smile of a man who had once been a boy who had read too much philosophy. “You think we lie,” he said. “That we hide our deviations behind walls and protocols. But the truth is more delicate. We do not hide them. We simply do not name them.” “They are named,” she said. “I saw them.” “You saw bodies. Shapes. You did not see what they mean.” She hesitated. “I saw a woman with gill-slits,” she said. “A child with bioluminescent skin. These are not cosmetic choices.” “No,” Vey said. “They are not. But they are not mutations either. Not in the way your people mean it. They are expressions. Adaptations to a world that asked for something other than what Earth once offered. We do not forbid them. We simply do not celebrate them. That is the difference.” “And the High Hall?” “Is a museum. A necessary fiction. We maintain it so that your Council will not send ships.” She studied him. “And if I report what I saw?” “Then you will have to decide what truth serves better.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “You wear that cloak like armor. But armor is only useful if you know what you’re fighting. Here, there is no enemy. Only people becoming.” She felt the weight of the vial in her pocket. “I’m not here to fight,” she said. “No,” he said. “But you are here to decide what we are. And that, I think, may be worse.”

Model Output:
The fluorescent bulb hanging from frayed copper wire flickers like it’s breathing its last. Below it, on a workbench that used to be a school desk, sits the heart of the settlement’s hope: a polymerase chain reaction rig built from the bones of dead corporations. At first glance the machine looks suicidal. Its heat block is a gutted espresso machine, the element rewound with nichrome scavenged from toaster coils. The lid is a cracked car-window motor that lifts exactly three millimetres—enough for a pipette tip, not enough for optimism. A pair of 1990s hard-drive magnets serve as the heated lid latch, and the whole mess is powered by a scavenged e-bike battery that smells faintly of burning plastic when it fast-charges from the wind turbine on the roof. I am the only one who doesn’t flinch at the smell. My name is Kae. Six years ago I was a junior CRISPR tech for GenLife Agritech, the same company that patented DNA planned-obsolescence, the same company whose logo still adorns the steel canisters I now use for reagents. The canisters once held proprietary “Recombinase Plus” cocktails, thirty grand a litre. Now they’re my distilled-water flasks; the stickers have long since peeled, leaving only the ghost of a barcode. Water is the easy part. Everything else degrades. The oligo primers I’m loading into the PCR tubes came from a shipment the raiders found in a refrigerated train car that derailed outside Toledo. The car had spent three summers exposed. The primers have terminal transferase tails that are literally fraying—like microscopic rope ends. I have to use them within eight hours or they’ll depurinate to uselessness. GenLife’s obsolescence schedule was forty-eight weeks; outside the cold chain it’s forty-eight hours. I slide the tubes home, close the suicidal lid, and thumb the toggle switch I soldered from a dead drone remote. The battery indicator blinks amber—enough for thirty cycles, no more. While the rig ramps to 95 °C I walk the five metres to the grow shelves: trays of sickly soybeans in rockwool, their leaves mottled with the tell-tale necrotic rings of GenLife’s Terminus trait. One generation and done; the second generation seeds commit apoptosis at the four-leaf stage. We’ve been living on the last viable harvest for two years. The settlement’s granary is down to three sacks. The contract I accepted last night sits folded in my breast pocket like a fever. Written on blue polymer film, the kind they used for stock options back when stocks meant something. It promises three drums of purified diesel and a roll of actual copper tubing in exchange for one thing: splice a trait into fast-germinating millet that will let it fix nitrogen without symbiotic bacteria. The signature is just a thumbprint—black market doesn’t use names—but I recognise the whorls. Rell, the diesel baron from the river encampment, who keeps two armed kids on hair-trigger leashes. The same Rell whose mother died because GenLife’s insulin analogue expired in her bloodstream six months too early. I should hate them all, but hunger is a persuasive translator. The PCR rig beeps, a thin electronic cough. First denaturation complete. I move to the hood: an old biosafety cabinet whose HEPA filter has been replaced with furnace filter felt soaked in iodine. It smells like a hospital morgue. Under the hood waits the real prize—an ice bucket cobbled from a Styrofoam shipping crate stamped “Live organs, handle with prayer.” Inside, nested in wet paper, are the gene fragments Rell delivered this morning: six micrograms of Rhizobium nif cluster excised from a pre-Collapse seed vault genome, the DNA cut with ancient EcoRI and PstI sites. The fragments are already showing single-strand nicks; I can see them as faint smears on the improvised gel box I built from a CD case and nine-volt battery clips. I pipette 1 µL of the fragments into the waiting Gibson master mix—homebrew, of course. Phusion polymerase long dead; instead I’m using a fungal Bst I purified from compost. It’s error-prone as gossip but heat-stable and free. Add buffer made from melted Tums tablets and a speck of lithium grease to reduce evaporation. The Gibson reaction will chew the nicks, chew the homology arms, and—if the gods of biochemistry are kind—sew the nitrogen-fix cluster into the millet chloroplast vector I designed last week. While the assembly incubates at 50 °C (inside a sous-vide cooker I pulled from a flooded Cheesecake Factory), I roll up my sleeve. The veins on my left forearm are livid green. Two months ago I injected myself with an uncharacterised phage lysin that promised to chew the prion-like protein plaques GenLife’s edible vaccines left in everyone over thirty. I didn’t expect to survive; I just couldn’t watch another elder choke on their own memories. The injection site ulcerated, then granulated, then sealed. The plaques are still there—MRI confirmed with a scavenged veterinary imager—but something else happened: my lactate threshold doubled. I can run up the turbine tower three flights without breathing hard. My night vision is predatory. Side effect, mutation, or gift, I don’t know. I do know the settlement now calls me “Glow,” half affection, half superstition. I draw 5 mL of my own blood into a heparinized syringe and spin it in a salad-spinner centrifuge to harvest serum. I need human growth factors for the millet protoplasts—corporate media recipes assume lab-grade supplements, but my serum works better, maybe because the prion fragments act like adjuvants. I pour off the straw-colored supernatant. My reflection in the plexi looks like someone who’s been dipped in moonlight: pale, luminous scars on the arms, pupils blown wide. Assembly time’s up. I pipette 2 µL into electrocompetent millet cells I made by soaking embryos in mannitol and plasmid detergent stolen from a hair-conditioner factory. Zap them at 1.8 kV using a disposable-camera flash circuit. The smell of ozone is an old friend. While the cells rest in recovery broth, I pull out the contract. Rell wants the seeds in fourteen days. Impossible, unless I push the plants with the same reckless vector I used on myself. I weigh diesel against ethics. Diesel wins. I design an additional insert: a CRISPR guide that knocks out the plant’s circadian inhibitor, plus a small peptide tag that should bind my modified serum factors. If it works, the millet will grow to harvest in forty-five days, nitrogen fixed, seeds viable—at least for one generation. If it fails, the settlement starves faster. Midnight. The turbine screams in the wind like a living thing. I load the transformed embryos onto petri dishes made from old smartphone glass and slide them into the incubator: a polystyrene cooler warmed by an array of tealights floating in water. The temperature drifts between 28 °C and 32 °C, a lullaby of uncertainty. I pull the steel canister labelled “Recombinase Plus” close, run my thumb over the faded barcode. Inside, now, is just buffer and hope. I whisper an apology to whatever genetic ghosts still listen. Then I roll up my sleeve again, draw another 10 mL of my glowing blood, and add it to the recovery broth. Symbiosis, self-experimentation, desperation—call it what you want. Tomorrow the seeds will drink me. In fourteen days Rell will come with drums and guns. I flip off the lab light. The PCR rig ticks as it cools, counting time the way only broken machines can. Somewhere in the dark, new genomes are waking up, stitched together with duct tape and hubris. They will either feed us or finish us. Either way, the cycle is running.