Sample Outputs: o3

Model Output:
The transfer vessel’s air‑filtration system hummed with a steady drone that reminded Arthur Neegan of the blowers in his own hab back in Ophir Vallis—except this note was sharper, almost anxious, as though the ship itself were aware of the trouble awaiting him at journey’s end. He sat strapped into a webbed acceleration couch, a single carry‑case at his feet, staring at the stylized double‑star insignia on the bulkhead opposite: Antares Diplomatic Corps. Diplomatic, he thought sourly, the way a vibro‑spanner was delicate. The hatch slid open. Two guards in graphite‑black pressure armor flanked a woman whose uniform tunic carried the same double‑star, edged in silver braid. “Mr. Neegan,” she said, voice precise. “Envoy Rojan is ready to receive you.” Arthur unfastened his webbing. “I’d ask where we’re going, but I suppose that’s classified?” “Ahead and above,” she replied, with the faintest smile. “That’s all the classification you need for the moment.” He followed her through a narrow companionway smell­ing of ozone and lubricant. Outside a viewport, Mars dwindled—rust‑red, cradle of his parents’ hopes, and suddenly very far away. Above it, the transfer ship’s primary sail array glimmered with captured sunlight, sluicing energy into compact drives that bore them toward an Antarean courier waiting farther out in parking orbit. Farther still blinked the beacons of other powers: a Coalition freighter, a Federation corvette, two free‑boot Syndicate haulers. All of them, Arthur realized, were here for the same prize lodged beneath his fifteen square kilometers of rock. In a squat conference cubicle the walls were paneled with imitation teak—old‑Earth luxury filtered through budget constraints. A tall man rose from behind a built‑in desk. He wore no uniform, only a charcoal suit with a silver tie clip depicting, yet again, the Antarean double‑star. “Arthur Neegan,” he said warmly. “Iskander Rojan. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” “Did I have a choice?” Rojan spread his hands. “Everyone always has choices. Some, alas, are more attractive than others.” He gestured. “Please, sit.” Arthur took the chair opposite. One guard remained just inside the hatch; the other stepped outside and sealed it. Rojan folded long fingers atop the desk. “You inherited your concession directly, I understand.” “My parents sank their entire advance into that plot. The charter grants descendants full mineral rights in perpetuity.” “Indeed.” Rojan tapped a holopad; it projected a rotating wireframe of Ophir Vallis Quadrant 7, Claim 14—Arthur’s claim—pulsing in blue. A shimmering red vein threaded through the model like a captured flame. “Azra. Preliminary assays from your automated cores suggest a ninety‑eight‑percent purity. Extraordinary. You comprehend what such a deposit means to…well, everyone.” “I comprehend that it means my workers haven’t been paid in two weeks because every logistics corridor in the sector’s been embargoed.” “An unfortunate side effect of jurisprudence in motion,” Rojan said. “Which brings us neatly to purpose. The Antares Concordat wishes to relieve you of your burden.” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Burden.” “Your Azra vein is worth—conservatively—four trillion InterSols at current exchange. But only if you can move it, refine it, protect it. You have twenty‑seven indenture contracts on site, yes? Spare parts older than you are. A single mis‑timed charge could flip decay rate in the surrounding regolith. You would have an open reactor where your home used to be.” “I ran those risk calcs myself,” Arthur said. “I know the geology.” “Then you know extraction must be done with cautious acceleration fields your outfit doesn’t possess.” Rojan flattened the holopad imagery; new figures scrolled: shipping lanes, defense overlays, corporate sigils. “The Concordat does. So here is our offer: “First, immediate purchase of Claim 14 for one point five trillion, disbursed half in Antarean crowns, half in Federation credits to maintain liquidity across borders. “Second, full Concordat citizenship. Not residency, mind—citizenship, with its attendant immunities. “Third, executive directorship of a newly formed subsidiary, Ophir Dynamics, salary commencing at four million crowns per quarter. You would manage initial extraction, applying your local knowledge. We keep people where they become symbols, Mr. Neegan, not casualties.” Arthur let the figures hang in the air a moment, tasting them the way a prospector tasted subsurface dust. “That’s generous. And if I decline?” Rojan’s smile never wavered. “Then we invoke Section Ninety‑Four of the Colonial Emergency Requisition Statutes, on file with the Mars Provisional Authority. They permit us to place any strategic asset under administrative stewardship for the duration of an interstellar security crisis.” He paused. “Given that the Perseid Brink Skirmish ignited yesterday—surely you saw the news crawl?—the crisis is, shall we say, firmly upon us.” “So that’s the stick.” Arthur folded his arms. “What about my workers? Twenty‑seven people, most indentured for another six years. Some of them brought children.” “Indenture contracts transfer with the asset, naturally,” Rojan said. “However, we can commute those obligations into ten‑year Concordat service postings with full medical and educational allotments. A net upgrade, I assure you.” “Except they don’t get to choose, do they? Same as me.” Rojan regarded him for a thoughtful moment. “You see coercion where I see necessity. Azra isn’t copper or iron, Mr. Neegan. It amplifies decay constants a thousandfold. A kilogram could short‑circuit a battleship’s antimatter shielding; a ton could sterilize half a planet if mishandled. Your claim is a fulcrum on which civilization presently teeters.” Arthur exhaled. “Big words.” “Large realities.” Rojan leaned back. “You might be curious why we bothered with a carrot at all. Other powers”—he flicked the holopad until new sigils appeared: Coalition, Belt Syndicate, Terran Federal Science Directorate—“would simply land marines and cite eminent domain under some banner or other. The Concordat prefers consensus. Public opinion, even light‑minutes away, still matters.” A faint shudder rippled through the deck plates. Rojan glanced upward. “We’re docking with the courier. From there, a three‑day haul to L5 where the formal papers await.” He looked at Arthur. “We’d like your verbal assent before transit begins. Otherwise we must detain you under stewardship rules immediately.” His tone turned almost apologetic. “Believe me, I would rather list you as a partner than a detainee.” Arthur thought of the red desert, of wind scraping at pressure domes that always leaked, of his mother recording daily logs no one listened to except him. He remembered his father cursing every corporate delegate who had promised infrastructure and delivered accounting tricks. Mostly he pictured the twenty‑seven miners—Kesh with his concertina, Marya who read Turing mysteries aloud during power outages, little Cheng who chased dust devils between hab modules. “You give me ten percent equity in Ophir Dynamics,” Arthur said slowly, “not a salaried position. My workers receive full citizenship with freedom to walk at any time, no ten‑year clause. And a guarantee—written—that the mine stay Martian‑side, no off‑world transfer of raw ore until refinement protocols are proven safe.” Rojan uttered a soft chuckle. “Ambitious. You bargain as though you hold the better hand.” “I hold the only hand that keeps this legal. Without my signature, Section Ninety‑Four drags you into the same quagmire as everyone else, and the Federation senate loves quagmires. They’ll convene committees until your rivals land those marines you mentioned.” The envoy’s eyes gleamed with subdued admiration. “You propose a truce of visibility—make the operation so transparent no one dares sabotage it.” “Call it civic stubbornness,” Arthur said. “I’m Martian. We survive by making every pressure seal everyone’s business.” Silence hung, punctuated by the distant clank of docking latches engaging. Rojan steepled his fingers, weighing calculations that spanned parsecs. “At minimum,” he said at last, “I can pledge provisional equity—three percent, revocable only by board consensus. Citizenship for your people, eight‑year service option, not mandatory. And I can certify that initial refinement will occur in‑situ. Raw exports after that remain negotiable.” “Five percent equity. Six‑year option. No raw exports until safety sign‑off by a neutral scientific council—Terrans, Antareans, even a Belt rep.” “Four percent,” Rojan countered, “and the council seats rotate monthly to prevent deadlock.” Arthur extended a hand. “Done—pending written text.” Rojan’s handshake was firm, sealing more than a deal; it sealed, Arthur suspected, a future history chapter that scholars would debate for centuries. “Very well, Director‑Designate Neegan. Welcome to the Concordat.” The hatch unsealed. The guard beckoned them toward the air‑lock leading into the courier’s polished interior. Rojan gestured for Arthur to precede him. As he stepped across the threshold, Arthur heard Mars Control on an open channel, crisp with static: “Unidentified velocity vector inbound, zero‑point eight c, course extrapolates Antares corridor. Please confirm IFF.” Rojan’s brow furrowed. “More visitors already.” Arthur allowed himself a tight smile. Political tug‑of‑war, he thought, and I’ve just become the rope—and, maybe, the knot that keeps it from snapping. Ahead, the courier’s corridor curved like a gun barrel pointed at the stars. The hum of the air system followed him, relentless, as the hatch closed behind.

Model Output:
The safelight hums like a lazy wasp above us, washing everything in syrupy red. It’s almost 1 a.m., finals week, and the rest of the basement lab is dark and silent. Elliot and I have been here so many nights that the chemical tang seems normal—developer, stop, fixer, successively sharper notes clinging to my hair and clothes. I’m usually a cyclone in the darkroom, barked instructions and decisive test strips, but tonight feels different. He’s different. Elliot stands at the enlarger, thumbs worrying the band of silver rings he always wears. Black mesh top under a thrifted velvet blazer, eyeliner smudged from rubbing a tired eye; he looks like a Victorian ghost uploaded to TikTok. I know half the department calls him “nu‑goth boy.” They don’t see the subtlety: the way he hides a smile when a print turns out right, the gentle flicker of doubt when he thinks no one’s looking. I’ve spent a semester collecting those small glimpses, like negatives waiting for the right exposure. “Okay,” I say, louder than I meant, “grade 2 filter, fifteen seconds. Let’s nail the contrast before we commit to a full sheet.” “Sure.” His voice is soft, cottony. He positions the easel, but his shoulders are bunched, tense. I fight the impulse to step in and adjust the focus knob for him—classic Dani takeover. Instead, I lean against the wet table, arms folded, letting him find the sharpness himself. Let him steer, I remind myself. The timer clicks. Paper slides under the enlarger’s light. When the glow snaps off, we walk the sheet through the trays side by side. The print blooms in the developer: a double exposure of rusted playground swings overlaid with a blurred self‑portrait of Elliot. The ghost of his face hovers inside cold metal chains. He exhales, a shaky, almost relieved sound. “It works.” Then quieter: “Mostly.” “It’s gorgeous,” I say, and I mean it. “Haunting but kind. Like—” I search for the right word, “—like a confession nobody punishes you for.” Elliot’s head tilts, hair brushing his cheek. “A kind confession. I like that.” Silence stretches. Red light pools on our wrists, makes our skin look alien. I always found it theatrical, perfect for dramatic flirting. Yet my throat is tight, because there’s something shimmering in the air tonight that isn’t developer fumes. He sets the print in the wash and rests both palms on the rim. “Dani?” “Mm?” “Can I ask you something weird?” “Please. Weird is my brand.” I try for breezy, but my pulse spikes. He worries one ring, spins it. “You’re…good at just being who you are. Loud, confident. You wear neon braids one day and a power blazer the next, and no one questions it.” “They do,” I laugh. “I just bulldoze over them.” “Exactly.” He inhales, eyes fixed on swirling water. “I’m not sure who I am to bulldoze with.” The room shrinks. I want to pull him into a hug, but I stay leaning, nails digging crescents in my arms. “Talk to me.” He swallows. “I think—no, I know—I’m not comfortable with how ‘guy’ has to look. Or act. I like parts of it, hate others. Some days the mirror feels like rented clothing I forgot to return.” My chest contracts. I’ve daydreamed about his mouth, yes, but also about what his eyeliner means, the deliberate softness in his voice. Now he’s handing me the raw negative, and I don’t want to mishandle it. “Have you tried new pronouns?” I ask. Straightforward, but gentle—well, gentle for me. “Tried ‘they’ online. Feels better.” He laughs, brittle. “Feels terrifying to say out loud.” “You just did,” I point out. “That’s huge.” He turns, finally meeting my eyes. They’re garnet under the red bulb, wide and searching. “Does this make any sense?” “All the sense,” I say. “Bodies are weird, categories are weirder. You deserve to compose yourself however you want.” He releases a breath; it trembles. “I didn’t know if you’d think it was…unattractive.” There: the moment I didn’t realize I’d feared. Because usually, yes, I chase clearly drawn outlines—hyper‑femme women, rugged dudes. Definitions I can grab. Elliot is smudged charcoal lines, still being sketched. Yet my stomach swoops just looking at him. “Attractive is the easy part,” I admit, voice low. “I’ve had a crush on you since your first project, the one with the cracked doll heads.” His lips part. “Seriously?” “Seriously. My problem is—” I gesture vaguely, chemicals sloshing—“I’m used to driving the car. But I don’t want to run you over.” He smiles, small but dazzling. “Maybe we can share the steering wheel?” My laugh comes out hoarse. “Deal.” We stand there, breathing in unison. I’m buzzing, not with the usual conquest thrill, but with an almost reverent excitement: I get to witness his becoming. Then I ruin it. In one careless motion, I bump the open box of photo paper. A perfect tumble of fifty sheets slides under the safelight, square faces flashing white before they hit the floor—exposed. Useless. “Shit!” I drop to my knees, try to gather them as if I could cram the light back in. Developer spots the tiles like static. Elliot kneels too, fingers brushing mine. Instead of panicking, he laughs—a clear, ringing sound. “Well, that’s forty bucks in confetti.” My cheeks burn. “I’m so sorry. I was—” “Dani, it’s okay.” He nudges me playfully with his shoulder. “We still have time. We’ll beg extras from Professor Vyas, or I’ll dip into my caffeine budget.” The self‑forgiveness in his tone startles me. I’m the one who usually talks people down from disasters. Now he’s soothing me. The power balance tilts, and I like it. I stack the ruined sheets, feel the slick emulsion sliding. “You sure?” “Positive. Besides,” he lifts one exposed rectangle like a playing card, “they’re kind of beautiful—blank potential that got interrupted.” “Like us?” I tease, then flush. Too cheesy? But he nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. Interrupted, but not ended.” He sets the card on the table, presses it flat. “Maybe we coat them in cyanotype, make a new series out of the mistake.” My grin spreads. “Upcycling tragedy into art. Very on‑brand for us.” A silence follows—comfortable this time. I reach out, feathers not claws, and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Can I do that?” He leans into the touch. “You just did.” Something in me unclenches. Maybe I don’t need clear labels tonight. Maybe attraction can be an aperture—adjustable, responsive to light we didn’t anticipate. “Elliot—or do you want they instead?” I ask, thumb still on his cheekbone. “They, please.” Their eyes glisten. “They,” I repeat, tasting the word like darkroom chocolate. “Want to start the cyanotype rebellion tomorrow?” “Only if we blast Bauhaus and steal the big sink.” “Excellent demands.” My assertive side resurfaces, but it feels collaborative now, expansive rather than domineering. “I’ll email Vyas. You gather hydrogen peroxide.” They chuckle. “Power couple energy.” The phrase jolts deliciously through me. I tilt my head, testing a boundary. They answer by leaning forward, forehead brushing mine—soft, permission offered rather than taken. I kiss them, gentle, and the red light folds around us like a dark velvet curtain. It’s tentative, an underexposed print still washing, but the image is there: two figures bleeding into each other’s outlines, discovering that definition can wait. Some revelations, like film, need the dark to become visible.

Model Output:
I. 11:14 a.m. – Fontana di Trevi A metallic screech, a gasp, and the rear tyre of a red Ducati Monster freezes an inch from Ben’s sensible brogues. Water roars behind him; coins glitter at his feet. Alessandra jerks off her helmet, curls springing loose. “Attento, professore! Gli occhi, non sul libro!” “I – I’m terribly sorry,” Ben splutters, clutching his dog‑eared Blue Guide. “I was just reading about the fountain’s Baroque topography and, er, spatial dramaturgy.” She laughs, sharp and bright. “Spatial drama? Eccola!” She taps the gas tank. A swirl of turquoise paint streaks a fist‑shaped dent. “Souvenir di un furgone che non mi ha vista. Now, move before the vigili give me another ticket.” He steps aside. His knees knock. “You nearly killed me.” “Yet you live! Vieni, ti compro un caffè.” “I, uh, don’t even know your name.” “Alessandra.” She swings a leg over the bike, eyes dancing. “And you are?” “Benjamin Foster. Classics. Oxford. On sabbatical.” “Benjamín,” she repeats, over‑Italianising each syllable. “Perfetto. Hop on.” “I can’t possibly.” “Then walk. But you still owe me a coffee for scratching my paint with your shoe.” She winks and throttles away, stops, looks back. “Well?” II. 11:38 a.m. – Via del Lavatore Ben clings to her waist, guidebook wedged under his jacket like contraband. Roman traffic blares around them. “Relax,” she calls over her shoulder. “If we die, at least it’s scenic.” “Comforting,” he mutters. The dented tank vibrates beneath him; the turquoise scar flashes like war paint. III. Noon – Trastevere, Bar degli Spiriti Allegri They perch at the counter. Alessandra downs an espresso in one gulp; Ben cautiously sips an Americano. “So, Professor Spatial Dramaturgy, why Rome?” “My monograph. Performative spaces in late‑Imperial ritual.” “Suona noiosissimo.” She grins. “Let’s find you something worth performing.” She palms a vintage brass bottle‑opener shaped like a she‑wolf from the bowl beside the till, sliding it into her jacket without breaking eye contact. Ben blinks; perhaps he imagined it. Outside, she flicks the opener into his hand. “Talismano. Per coraggio.” He examines it. “Did you just–?” “You want a receipt?” He laughs, surprising himself. “You’re outrageous.” “Thank you.” IV. 1:07 p.m. – Lungotevere, traffic light The bike idles. Alessandra turns, inches from his face. “Ever ridden without hands?” “Certainly not.” She releases the handlebars, stretching her arms to the sky as the Ducati glides forward. Cars honk; exhaust fumes surge. Ben’s heartbeat cannonades. “Alessandra!” She grabs the bars again, laughing. “See? Not dead.” He can’t decide if it’s terror or exhilaration making his lungs burn. V. 2:20 p.m. – Basilica di San Clemente, lower level Cool earth‑scented air surrounds dim frescoes. Tour groups queue behind ropes, but Alessandra ducks a side door. “This corridor is closed,” Ben whispers. “Closed, not locked.” She produces a slim piece of metal – maybe a hairpin, maybe something filched earlier. A click; the latch yields. Ben follows, every English instinct screaming. They descend to a Mithraic temple, silent but for their breathing. Torchlight from her phone dances over carved tauroctony relief. “Your late‑Imperial ritual enough?” she teases. He’s speechless, awe glowing on his features. She watches him, expression softening for a fraction before the mischief returns. VI. 4:03 p.m. – Campo de’ Fiori Market stalls pack up. Alessandra haggles for figs, then steals a single bloom from a florist’s bucket, tucking the violet carnation behind Ben’s ear. “Accessory,” she declares. “That’s theft.” “È un fiore. Chi se ne frega?” A vendor protests; she blows him a kiss. Ben expects shouting, but the man only chuckles, shaking his head as if at a beloved delinquent. “You know everyone,” Ben says. “Or they know me.” She bites into a fig, purple juice staining her lip. He wipes it with his thumb before thinking. They freeze, inches apart. Her eyes search his; he looks away first. VII. 5:15 p.m. – Aventine Hill, the Keyhole of the Knights of Malta A queue snakes toward the famous door. Alessandra strolls past, grabs Ben’s hand, and drags him to the front. “Scusi, mia zia è dentro,” she declares to the baffled tourists. No one argues with that smile. Ben peers through the keyhole: St. Peter’s dome framed by manicured cypress. “Worth cutting?” she asks. He nods, hushed. “I’ve studied sight‑lines for years, but this… it’s different when someone shoves you past the rope.” She leans on the door beside him. “Sometimes rules are ladders; sometimes they’re cages.” “Which are they for you?” She smirks. “Depends who’s holding the key.” VIII. 7:02 p.m. – Ponte Sisto, sunset The Tiber glows copper. Street musicians play “Volare.” Alessandra parks the Ducati and swings her legs over the parapet, boots dangling above the water. Ben sits carefully beside her. The city hums behind them. “Do you ever slow down?” he asks. “If I do, I fall.” “From what?” “Whatever keeps me moving.” She taps the turquoise dent on her helmet. “Momentum is safer than stillness.” He studies her profile, the way gold light edges her lashes. “You’re remarkable.” She snorts. “A troublemaker with parking fines.” “Still remarkable.” A gust lifts her hair; the carnation falls from behind his ear. She catches it, tucks it behind her own. Silence stretches, charged. He inches closer. She doesn’t move away, but her eyes flick to his lips, then the river. “I should…” he begins. “You should what?” “I don’t know.” “Good.” She smiles, slow and unreadable. “Not knowing is a start.” IX. 8:30 p.m. – Termini Station, bike lane Neon bathes the pavement. Trains rumble overhead. She pulls up in front of his rented apartment building, engine purring. He dismounts, wobbly. “My hotel’s actually across town.” “I know.” “You brought me here because…?” “Because tomorrow morning your conference friends meet here for a walking tour. Figured I’d save you taxi fare.” “You looked at my schedule?” “The pocket of your guidebook was open.” A shrug. “Curiosity isn’t a crime.” He smiles. “Not yet.” She kicks down the stand. “Benjamin Foster, will you behave yourself now?” He surprises them both by replying, “Unlikely.” She laughs, takes his wrist, presses something into his palm: the brass she‑wolf opener. “A reminder,” she says. “For courage?” “For doors that look locked.” X. 8:33 p.m. – Parting, or Maybe Not He hesitates, thumb warming the metal. “Will I see you again?” “Rome is small. Trouble finds you.” He looks at her – at the dented, paint‑scarred bike, the purloined carnation, the dare in her eyes – and makes a decision. “Dinner?” he asks. “Tomorrow?” “Breakfast,” she counters. “At seven. Early deliveries.” “I’ll be there.” She nods, fits her helmet, visor reflecting him: rumpled academic, cheeks flushed, balance tipped. Throttle, roar, and she’s gone, weaving into Roman night. Ben stands under a flickering streetlamp, guidebook forgotten, grinning like a man who’s just stepped through a forbidden door and discovered the city beating on the other side.

Model Output:
The tap lines hum a sleepy harmony while I polish a tumbler that already shines. Third shift at The Last Outpost is usually quiet—just the way I like it—until stories start walking through the airlock. Tonight’s story announces itself with a thud on a barstool and the faint smell of burnt ozone. “Vega whisky, neat,” the newcomer says, voice fraying at the edges. “Better make that a double.” The tentacled dreads draped over their shoulders are half‑uncoiled, half‑singed. They look like they’ve been on the wrong end of an ion flare and a worse end of a secret. I set the tumbler aside. “We serve it straight from the cask, twenty credits the pour. Still want the double?” “Twenty?” The stranger grimaces. “It used to be fifteen.” “So did docking fees, friend. Prices go up. Trouble keeps pace.” They fish two ten‑credit chits from a coat pocket and slide them across. “Keep the change. I’m paying for silence, too.” “Silence is complimentary as long as no one asks me to lie.” I pour the amber spirit, thick as honey, into a heavy glass. “What name goes with the hush?” “Skell.” They wrap four purple‑tipped fingers around the drink. “At least for tonight.” “That makes two of us operating under first names only.” I lean a hip against the back bar. “Rough drift?” Skell drains half the double in one swallow. “Rough enough to make a supernova jealous.” On cue, a glass shatters behind me—some rookie server misjudging distance to a bus bin. The crack sharpens the room, drawing every eye. Old miners at Table Six glance up, shrug, return to cards. When I straighten, Skell’s eyes flick toward the door like a prey animal scanning brush. “Relax,” I murmur. “Only thing hunting you in here is the house band’s bad timing.” Skell’s laugh comes out hollow. “If only. Got a back room?” “Couple. Reservation costs triple what you’ve tipped.” Another sip. “What about a storeroom, then? Five minutes, no questions?” “I’m a bartender, Skell. My job is questions.” They pinch the bridge of their nose. “Look, Nets—yeah, I know who you are—word travels on the belt. People say you keep confidences the way stations keep airlocks.” “That depends who’s breathing inside.” I nudge the bottle into a cradle. “Who’s chasing you?” “Not who. What.” Skell taps the rim of the glass. “Ever heard of a no‑trace bounty?” “No ID beacon, no kill log, payout in unmarked crypto,” I recite. “Unlicensed hunters love them. Means whoever wants you silenced doesn’t want any chatter on the grid. How big’s the price?” “Let’s say I could buy this whole bar three times over and still leave a tip.” I whistle. “So why park your high‑value hide here? We’re a neon sign in the middle of vacuum.” “Because no legit traffic controller scans inbound rock jumpers this deep. Hunters can’t afford to miss their mark, so they’ll check cargo hubs first. I needed someplace loud enough to mask my beacon but too small to call in station security.” “Congratulations.” I spread my arms. “You found us.” A miner two stools down—old Goran, face like a quarry wall—grunts. “Nets, you serving monologues tonight or booze?” “Keep your drills on, Goran.” I slide him a fresh ale. “Talk slower and it’ll last longer.” I turn back to Skell. “Why the bounty?” “They think I stole something.” Skell cradles their drink like a compass. “I didn’t.” “What do they think you stole?” “Proof they’re lying.” I blink. “You’re gonna have to help me untangle that.” “Not here.” They scan the room. “Too many ears, even with the glassware screaming.” “The Outpost isn’t a confessional chamber,” I warn. “Whatever trouble you drag in, we all breathe it.” “Which is why I’m asking, Nets.” Skell’s voice softens. “I just need a stasis locker till the next shuttle cycle. After that, I’m gone. No footprints, no fallout.” Before I can answer, the front hatch hisses open. Three figures silhouette against corridor lights—sleek armor, helmets tinted like midnight oil. The nearest swings a gaze across the bar, pausing when their visor catches Skell’s back. Skell’s knuckles blanch around the glass. “Stars, they’re early.” I keep my tone casual. “Friends of yours?” “Opposite of.” “Stay calm.” I flick a switch under the bar, cutting the jazz drone and brightening house lights. Makes everyone visible—and puts me in charge of attention. “Evening,” I call to the newcomers. “Grab a table; we’ll be right over.” The tallest hunter’s helmet tilts, voice modulated into syrupy static. “Just looking for a mutual acquaintance.” “Lot of acquaintances cycle through here,” I say. “Names help.” “Goes by Skell. Tentacled dreads. Seen ’em?” I give Skell a half‑second glance—enough to say decide now. Their jaw tightens. My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “Only Skell I know is a cargo node out by Babel Quadrant. Drinks a lot less.” The hunter steps forward. “Mind if we search your premises?” “I do, actually.” I grin. “Health inspectors already beat you to it, and I despise redundancy.” Goran laughs into his ale. “Tell ’em, Nets.” The hunter plants gauntleted palms on the bar. “Interfere, and we add you to the contract.” Behind me, another glass breaks. This one isn’t an accident; a nervous server drops a tray when the tension arcs. Skell whispers, “I didn’t want anyone hurt.” “I’ve survived worse than blaster breath,” I mutter. “Thirty seconds,” the hunter warns. “Produce Skell or we level the lease.” The rooms hum—generators feeling the mood. I slide the whisky bottle to Skell. “Refill?” They shake their head. “Last chance,” the hunter presses. I lean in, voice sugary. “First, you identify your charter.” “Classified.” “So is my compliance.” I flick my wrist; emergency shutters begin to lower over the liquor shelves—standard procedure when blaster fire feels imminent. Patrons scoot chairs back, some ducking under tables, but no one leaves. They’ve seen gunfights; gossip’s cheaper than entertainment streams. The hunter raises a hand, and I catch the whine of a charging capacitor. Skell tenses beside me, ready to bolt. I lock eyes with them and whisper, “Storage hatch behind counter. Left at the keg rack. Ten paces, then down.” Skell opens their mouth to argue. I cut them off. “Go.” They slide off the stool just as the hunter’s arm canonizes. I palm a thermal muddler—hot end glowing—for lack of a better weapon. “Threatening a bartender violates every civil charter in the sectors,” I say, hoping my grin covers the tremor in my knee. “Charter’s suspended when the pay is right,” the hunter replies. From the back room a siren chirps—Skell triggering the secondary hatch. Good. They’re moving. Bad. The hunters hear it. The second hunter peels off toward the sound. I vault the bar, slinging the muddler like a baton. It meets armored ribs with a hiss; the smell of scorched plating fills the air. Doesn’t do much damage, but it buys a heartbeat. Card‑playing miners stand up; Goran shoulders his chair like a club. “Outpost code,” he growls. “You don’t draw iron under her roof.” The lead hunter aims at Goran. “Stand down, fossil.” I plant myself between them. “Put the weapon away, and maybe you leave with your dignity.” “You have no idea what you’re sheltering.” “Story of my life.” I spit dust. “Last warning: holster or hover outside.” Instead, the hunter cocks the barrel. The night freezes. I hear the storeroom hatch rumble closed—Skell’s inside, safe for the moment. Now every set of eyes in the bar rests on me and the hunter, waiting for the first bolt to carve a path. Nobody breathes. The only sound is whisky dripping from the glass Skell left behind, each drop ticking off seconds we don’t have. And I’m standing here, muddler glowing, wondering exactly how much trouble I’ve just bought on credit. (Word count: ~1,045)

Model Output:
I’m standing in the middle of Decatur Street, dawn sunlight bouncing off puddles the sweepers missed, wondering if I’ve just pulled the dumbest—or bravest—move of my life. The guy who gave me the ride down‑river last night kept calling me “kid” like he was doing me a favor, then angled for a kiss when we hit Canal. I bolted the second the truck slowed, grabbed my backpack, and now here I am: sixteen, broke, and technically homeless in a city that smells like powdered sugar and stale beer. A saxophone drifts out of Jackson Square—some bluesy thing that makes my ribs hum. I follow the sound because music is easier to trust than people. Mom used to play Coltrane on Saturday mornings while she cleaned; she’d grab the broom and spin me around the kitchen. Yesterday Mom was spinning words instead—sins, perversions, disappointment. “Be normal, Taylor. Please, just be my daughter again.” Newsflash, Mother of the Year: I was never your daughter. I shake the memory off, adjust my hoodie, and pretend I know where I’m going. The hoodie’s a shield; it flattens my chest, hides my face, makes me something blurry. I weave between tourists photographing wrought‑iron balconies, pretending I’m one of them. They’ll fly home with beads and stories, but I can’t go back. The sax guy is posted by the cathedral, case open, notes spilling like warm syrup. I drop my last dollar in—more guilt offering than tip—and he nods, eyes crinkling behind mirrored shades. “You lookin’ for breakfast or salvation?” he asks mid‑solo, like he’s read my mind. “Whichever’s cheaper,” I mutter. He laughs through the mouthpiece, the horn turning the sound into a bright, impossible chord. Then he jerks his chin toward the riverfront. “Café du Monde got both—sugar for the body, music for the soul. Tell ’em Curtis sent you, maybe they won’t charge extra for the air.” I thank him, doubt the “discount,” but start walking anyway. The Mississippi glints dirty gold to my left. I can feel Tennessee sliding farther behind with every step, like road grime washing off in the humidity. At the café a long line coils under green‑and‑white awnings. I’m deciding whether to join it or just keep moving when someone taps my shoulder. I spin, fists half‑raised—reflex from bathrooms and hallways back home—but it’s a kid about my age. Tallish, wiry, curly hair shaved close on one side. “Hey,” they say. “Know if this place takes card?” “No clue,” I answer. “I’m more of a window‑shopping enthusiast.” They snort. “Same.” They glance at my backpack—patched canvas, safety pin zippers. Recognition flickers. “You traveling?” I shrug. The less said, the safer. But the silence stretches, feels like an accusation, so I throw them a crumb. “Just got in last night.” “Me too. I’m Jules.” They extend a hand; I hesitate, then shake. Their palm is calloused, fingers ink‑stained. Guitarist maybe. “I’m—Taylor.” Saying my name, my real name, still sparks somewhere behind my ribs, like a match strike. I try not to smile too wide. “Cool. You hungry?” Always. “Starving but broke.” “Same,” Jules repeats with a crooked grin. “Let’s pool our nothing and see what we get.” We end up sharing a powdered‑sugar‑coated plate someone left behind. It’s gross if I think about it, so I don’t. I lick beignet dust off my thumb and scan Jules’s face. They’ve got sleepy brown eyes and a scabbed lip. Some bruising under makeup. Familiar kind of damage. “So,” I say, “where’d you blow in from?” “Florida Panhandle. My stepdad’s fists can travel faster than hurricanes.” Jules pokes the bruise with their tongue, like checking if it’s still there. “You?” “East Tennessee. My mom’s words hit harder than fists.” They nod like yeah, that tracks. Under the table our knees bump; neither of us moves. We spend the morning wandering the Quarter. Jules knows shortcuts through courtyards and alleys where ivy climbs brick like frantic handwriting. They claim a bench by the river as “home base” and we divide labor: I scout tourists to ask for spare change—turns out pity money works when you look underfed and tragically earnest—while Jules sketches caricatures on napkins for tips. The saxophone dude drifts in and out of earshot, soundtrack to our brand‑new hustle. By noon we’ve made eight bucks and a handful of coins sticky with hurricane cocktail residue. Riches. We blow half on po’boys the size of my forearm. The first bite tastes like a promise: maybe I can survive here. But survival has rules. Rule one: know when someone’s staring too long. Across the plaza a man in a red baseball cap watches Jules draw. Late twenties maybe, clean‑shaved, expensive camera strap. Something twitchy in his jaw. My gut whispers predator. I lean over. “Friend of yours?” Jules doesn’t look up. “Never seen him.” Their voice is steady, but the pen trembles. Cap Man lifts the camera, snaps a shot without permission. Jules stiffens. I slide off the bench, position myself between them and the lens. “Not cool,” I say loud enough for a few tourists to glance over. Cap Man lowers the camera, smirking. “Public space, kid.” “Still rude.” My heart’s punching my sternum, but I keep my feet planted. He steps closer, eyes flicking from me to Jules. “J, you gonna introduce me to your new boyfriend?” My stomach ices. He knows their name. Jules snarls, “Back off, Caleb.” Ah. Not random. Ex‑something. Maybe worse. Caleb dangles a cheap motel keycard. “You forgot your stuff. Figured you’d be here hustling.” His voice is oil on water. He focuses on me. “You have any idea who you’re hanging with?” I don’t, actually. But rule two: back your crew in front of enemies, ask questions later. “I know enough,” I say. Jules grabs my wrist. “Let’s go.” We bolt. Caleb’s footsteps slap behind us for half a block, then fade. We zigzag through an antiques shop, out a side door, end up in an alley that smells like damp stone and cigarettes. Jules collapses against a wall, breathing hard. “Thanks.” “What was that?” I ask. They wipe sweat off their brow, leaving a charcoal smear. “Caleb’s… complicated.” “You running from him?” “And other things.” Jules’s shoulders hitch. “He says I owe him. For rent, rides, who knows. He doesn’t like when I disappear.” The bruise on their lip winks purple. I want to smash Caleb’s camera over his skull. Jules looks up, eyes shiny. “You probably don’t need my drama.” I bark a laugh. “Pretty sure drama’s my middle name. You okay?” They nod, but their chin shakes. I reach out, almost pull back, then let my hand rest on theirs. Warm. Solid. Real. Afternoon bleeds into neon dusk. A storm threatens, sky bruising like Jules’s lip. We sit on the river wall, feet dangling over black water. Curtis the sax man finds us, plants himself nearby, lets his horn mimic thunder. “You two look world‑weary,” he says between phrases. “World’s heavy,” I answer. He shrugs. “Gotta learn to dance with the weight.” He riffles in his case, pulls out two battered bills—ten each—and presses them into our hands. “Consider it advance payment. I’mma need an audience tomorrow too.” I choke up. Jules blinks fast. When Curtis walks away, Jules whispers, “Why’d he do that?” “Maybe he likes our vibe.” I tuck the ten into my sneaker. “Or maybe he knows what it’s like to start over.” Lights spark on the riverboats. The air tastes like wet coins. I think of Mom, of how she’s probably called every cop between Knoxville and Baton Rouge. I think of my birth name, how it never fit, how Taylor feels like the first real garment I ever slipped on. I think of Jules beside me, their pulse thrumming where our shoulders meet. Tomorrow’s a snarling unknown, but tonight we have ten bucks, a shared sandwich, and a song weaving through the dark. Might be enough. I glance at Jules. “Rule three,” I tell them. They grin tiredly. “Hit me.” “When the world goes south,” I say, “go farther south and claim it as yours.” The saxophone answers with a low, defiant wail, and for the first time in forty‑eight hours, I believe it.

Model Output:
The trouble with mornings, Midas reflected, was that they still happened, even after the world had politely ended. He crouched inside what had once been a bus‑stop, now a lopsided sheet‑metal cave, stirring a tin of something that insisted it was “Creamed Corn” despite looking like yellow pessimism. On the opposite crate sat Chewy, an animo‑tronic koala whose synthetic fur had long ago adopted the texture of old porridge. When his solar cell caught enough sun, Chewy could blink, swivel his head, and deliver exactly nine stock phrases, seven of which were optimistic to the point of insult. Chewy’s eyes flickered. “HUG ME,” he chirped, voice squeaking like a rusted door hinge. Then the power died, leaving him frozen mid‑blink—half wisdom, half migraine. Midas saluted the statue. “Morning to you too, oh furry sage. Right, agenda. We need: one replacement water filter, two tins of anything not corn, and a reason to persevere that doesn’t involve mutual pity.” He unfolded yesterday’s find—a sheet of corrugated roofing sprayed with crimson paint. The message read: “ → THE REFUGE BRING YOUR OWN SPOONS DON’T MENTION THE EMUS” It was signed with a cartoony crown and the words KING GONE‑WEST, which either indicated royalty or poor spelling. Beneath, a second scrawl in faded blue warned, “LIES! TURN BACK!” then, in smaller letters, “unless you’re desperate.” Desperate was practically their surname. Chewy’s eyes sputtered to life again. “ADVENTURE AWAIT—” The koala slumped, battery exhausted from enthusiasm. “Couldn’t agree more,” Midas muttered. He slung the koala into his pack, grabbed a spanner that occasionally agreed to be a weapon, and stepped into the ashen daylight. * * * Two streets from home base the city became a museum of bad ideas. Ivy throttled abandoned autos; billboards peeled like sunburn. Midas consulted the metal sign. An arrow painted in the same crimson pointed toward the eastern fringe—what pre‑Collapse cartographers had optimistically labeled “Light Industrial” and everyone now called “Screech Alley,” on account of the local gulls’ unholy mating song. As they trudged, Chewy whirred to half‑life. “REMEMBER—HYDRATE!” “Working on it,” Midas said, already regretting the breakfast corn, which possessed the fluidity of grout. Screech Alley announced itself with a rusted gate and the smell of bygone lubricants. Midas eased through, boots crunching on shattered plastic. The red arrows continued, though the painter’s commitment to straight lines had wavered into drunken zig‑zags. Graffiti on a wall formed a sort of running commentary: ARROWS ARE SAFE —ARE THEY? PROBABLY —YOU FIRST The last message was a paint‑silhouetted figure fleeing left in panic. Midas, who traditionally took foreshadowing as polite suggestion, followed the right‑pointing arrow. Fifty meters on, the arrows stopped. So did the ground. He reached the edge of an unexplained crater the size of indecision. At its bottom sat the husk of an old data center, cooling towers collapsed like spilled dice. The diligent arrow painter had managed one final direction: a red‑painted plank bridging the chasm, no wider than a politician’s apology. “WELL THIS LOOKS SAFE,” Chewy shouted, because the speaker volume knob had eroded away years ago, leaving everything at Maximum Parade Ground. Midas flinched. From somewhere in the ruins, something growled—a sound suggesting molars, regret, and at least two stomachs. “Thanks,” Midas hissed. “Next time maybe mime.” He tested the plank. It groaned like a ghost with gout. A second growl answered from below. Risk calculus was simple these days: either walk the plank or discuss brunch with the unseen carnivore. He edged forward, arms spread, Chewy swinging from the pack like a demented metronome. Midway across, destiny took its usual interest. The plank snapped. Gravity, always punctual, yanked them down. * * * Impact was softened by a heap of something that had once been bean‑bag chairs and now resembled multicolored compost. Midas surfaced coughing Styrofoam pellets, miraculously intact except for pride, which was optional equipment anyway. Chewy tumbled free, landed upright, and declared, “I’M OKAY!” then shut down again like a smug car alarm. The guttural noise belonged to a colony of feral server‑rack monitors—flat screens gone semi‑sentient, their backlights glowing menacing slogans such as NO SIGNAL and REBOOT? They prowled on scraped casters, snapping cables like whip‑cord tails. Midas scrambled. In the old days you fixed a computer by turning it off and on again. Now, the safest course was off. Permanently. He swung the spanner, shearing a dangling power strip. Sparks showered. The monitors recoiled, squealing dial‑up modems. A red arrow, almost rubbed away, pointed toward a stairwell labelled SUB‑LEVEL: MAINTENANCE. Paint below it added helpfully, PROBABLY SAFE NOW. “Define ‘now,’” Midas muttered, but took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom they found the Refuge. Or rather, the opposite. The maintenance level had been repurposed into a settlement, if one used “settlement” with the generosity normally reserved for calling a puddle a bath. Tarps hung from conduits; a fire barrel spat smoke; ragged people milled, exchanging tinned food for gossip. Above the scene, scrawled in the same royal red: WELCOME TO THE REFU— (remainder obliterated by soot) An elderly woman with steel‑wool hair intercepted him. “Password?” “Spoons?” he tried. She sighed. “That was yesterday’s. Today it’s ‘enchilada.’ Keep up.” She beckoned him inside, already bored. Midas entered, counting exits. Three, if one included the suspiciously chew‑marked hole in the far wall. A makeshift sign above that read, in blue paint: EMUS THIS WAY. EXCELLENT. He turned to thank the crone, but she’d vanished, replaced by a giant of a man wearing a hijacked traffic cone as a hat. The cone’s reflective stripe read CAUTION, a message the man evidently ignored. “Tribute,” the giant grunted, extending a palm like a wheelbarrow. “I’ve got corn,” Midas offered. The giant sniffed the tin, recoiled. “Blasphemy. King Gone‑West decrees payment in batteries.” Of course he does, Midas thought. Currency, post‑Collapse, obeyed one rule: whatever you didn’t have was legal tender. He possessed exactly two AAA cells rattling inside Chewy’s back panel, both half‑dead and entirely spoken for. A brief moral debate ensued, lasted four seconds, and lost to pragmatism. He popped Chewy’s battery hatch. The koala buzzed. “I LOVE YO—” Power off. Midas handed the AAAs across. The giant nodded and waved him onward to a door marked INNER SANCTUM: NO EMUS BEYOND THIS POINT. Inside, he found the king—a scarecrow of a man on a swivel office chair, draped in reflective emergency blankets that lent him the air of a baked potato with delusions of grandeur. Beside him, a tilting pyramid of confiscated batteries. Midas swallowed his anger along with lingering corn. “Heard you offer refuge.” The king rotated, producing a squeal long enough to make both of them wince. “Refuge, yes. Also vision, community, and interpretive dance evenings.” His smile was pure sales brochure. “All it costs is loyalty, service, and, er, more batteries.” Midas glanced at the pile. Loyalty looked heavy. Service was non‑negotiable. Batteries he no longer possessed. The math resolved itself: leave, preferably at speeds exceeding chicken. Just then, the sanctum door burst open. A stampede of grey feathers and homicidal good humour surged in—emus liberated from wherever the chew‑marked hole led. Someone had definitely mentioned the emus. Chaos is, at least, reliable. Emus scattered settlers, pecking anything shiny, which included, unfortunately, everything. The king screamed. The giant with the cone hat attempted authority and was promptly de‑hatted. Midas snatched Chewy’s batteries off the pile, slotted them back home, and sprinted. The koala re‑animated mid‑escape: “HUG TIM—” Fine, close enough. He dove through the chew‑hole, crawled a tunnel smelling of bird achievement, and emerged in daylight beneath the collapsed cooling tower. Ahead lay the crater’s opposite rim—and a knotted rope ladder he’d missed earlier. Wry gratitude to the unknown pessimist who’d installed Plan B. Hauling himself up, he felt the batteries already fading—cheap off‑brand alkalines, naturally. At the top he didn’t stop until Screech Alley became merely an unpleasant memory tingling in his calves. * * * Twilight guided him back to the bus‑stop. He collapsed into the bus shelter, legs trembling like débutante jelly. Inventory check: one bruised ego, one dented spanner, zero useful supplies, plus a koala. Chewy’s eyes flickered the colour of overworked toast. “DID WE WIN?” Midas looked at the deepening sky, the useless tin of corn still clutched in his fist, and the countless arrow‑shaped bruises purpling beneath his shirt. Then he laughed—short, rueful, but undeniably alive. “Put it this way,” he told the koala. “We’re home, the world’s slightly worse off, and somehow that counts as victory.” Chewy considered this, or pretended to. “HUG ME,” he suggested. Midas obliged, because in a universe where emus could overthrow monarchies and computers hunted in packs, hugging a threadbare koala felt like the day’s one sensible act. Tomorrow would undoubtedly be awful. But mornings, he reminded himself, still happened—so survival, by necessity, would happen too. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond the next bad idea, a real refuge waited, one that didn’t demand batteries or disclaim all responsibility for emus. He set the corn aside. Breakfast could be optimism for a change.

Model Output:
The bell above the door gives a startled jangle. Nia: (not looking up from the till) We close at six, sorry— Jack: Then I’ve got exactly seven minutes of sanctuary. Mind if I hide behind a stack of poetry? Nia: (glances up, takes him in—rain‑slick hair, half‑undone scarf) Poetry’s down the middle aisle, but the paparazzi’ll spot you through the front window in thirty seconds. Jack: You noticed them, then. Vultures with better lenses. Nia: Hard to miss a convoy of black vans on Castle Street. Jack: Right. (drops his voice) Could we… I don’t know… barricade the door with Dylan Thomas first editions? Nia: Tempting. But I like those editions. And I like my insurance premiums. Jack: (grins, hand to heart) You wound me. My adoring public usually flings open doors for me. Nia: This door’s on a spring hinge. It flings itself. He laughs, a little too loudly; she gestures him behind the counter. Nia: Through here. Staff only. Try not to knock over the tea‑things. Jack slips behind, crouches beside a crate of remaindered cookbooks. Jack: I owe you. Nia: You can pay in sterling or silence. Preferably the latter. Jack: (peeks up) You do know who— Nia: —you are? Yes. Jack Halden. Most illegally symmetrical jawline in the UK. Currently starring in that Arthurian series they’re filming up the valley. Jack: (pleased, then uncertain) You actually watch it? Nia: I sell the box‑set novelisations. Close enough. Jack: Usually when people recognise me they gush. You—what’s the Welsh for “under‑whelmed”? Nia: Under‑whelmed. We borrow it from the English. Very efficient. Jack chuckles, but the edge of a bruise crosses his expression. Jack: Can I stand? My knees aren’t insured. Nia: Fine, but keep low if the cameras flash. He straightens, rain dripping onto the parquet. Jack: Look, Miss— Nia: Morgan. Nia Morgan. Jack: Miss Morgan, you’re saving my hide; the least I can do is sign something. Perhaps your forehead? Nia: I’ll pass. People read my face often enough without extra text. Jack: (studies her) You’re not… dazzled. That’s new. Nia: You’re a customer. Customers are exhausting enough without being dazzled by them. Jack: Ha! Brutal honesty. I like it. Nia: You like everyone liking you. Slight difference. Jack: Ouch again. And yet I stay. What does that say? Nia: That you’re cornered? Jack: Or intrigued. (leans on counter) How long have you run this place? Nia: Ten years. Bought it when the previous owner retired. Jack: Brave. Independent bookstores are an endangered species. Nia: So are theatre actors who do their own stunts, yet you manage. Jack: Point taken. (quiet) Though I did fracture two ribs last month. Nia: I read the tabloids said “exhaustion.” Jack: They always do. Truth is I fell off a plastic horse in full armour. Glamorous, eh? Nia: Plastic horses have no sympathy. Jack: Neither do insurance companies. (hesitates) Mind if I tell you something ridiculous? Nia: Booksellers thrive on ridiculous. Proceed. Jack: When I was twelve I played a tree in the school play. Oak number three. One line: “Who goes there?” I froze, forgot it, stood there like actual timber while the audience giggled. Since then I’ve needed every person in a room to love me—just to prove I’m not still that mute tree. Nia: (softens, then masks it) Therapy might be cheaper than chasing universal adoration. Jack: Probably, but applause is faster. Nia: Not necessarily kinder. Their eyes hold. A camera flash blooms against the frosted pane; both flinch. Jack: They’re getting bold. Nia: We have a back door onto the alley by the bakery. Smells of sourdough, but no cameras. Jack: You’d let me escape? Even before closing time? Nia: My altruism has a motive. You leave, the crowd leaves, my evening remains peaceful. Jack: Peace. Novel concept. (brushing hair back) Do you have it often? Nia: When celebrity storms aren’t brewing, yes. I make tea, sort invoices, listen to rain on slate roofs. That’s plenty. Jack: Sounds… enviable. Nia: You’re welcome to try it. There’s a vacancy for Saturday assistant. Minimum wage, maximum dust. Jack: (laughs) Imagine the headline: “Heart‑throb Halden Masters Till.” Nia: Your fragile ego might implode. Jack: True. Still—(serious) I could use more rooms where I’m not the main event. Nia: This is one. Unless you knock over the poetry again. A beat. The outside voices grow louder. Jack: They’ll barge in soon. Paparazzi have little regard for No Entry signs. Nia: Then we weaponise literature. (hands him a book) Hold this up; it’s thick enough to hide behind. Jack: “The Mabinogion.” Welsh myths. Appropriate camouflage. Nia: You might learn something between the lines. Jack: Such as? Nia: Heroes rarely get happy endings when they ignore hospitality laws. Jack: I’ll be the most grateful guest in history, then. (offers hand) Thank you, Nia. Truly. She doesn’t take it at first; then she does, expecting a perfunctory shake. Instead his grip is warm, tentative. She lets go too fast. Nia: Don’t mention it. Actually, do. In an online testimonial. “Five stars: Excellent hiding place.” Jack: You’re making jokes. That’s nearly a sign of being dazzled. Nia: Oh, I’m dazzled, all right—just secretly. Jack: Secret noted. (smiles, gentler) Could I buy this copy? Nia: The Mabinogion? Happy to sell culture to London playboys. Ten ninety‑nine. Jack: (reaches for wallet, finds pockets empty) Bloody hell. I legged it without my cards. Nia: Figures. Fame, no loose change. Jack: I can transfer— Nia: The card reader’s on the fritz. Storm took out the signal. Jack: Right. Then a promise: I’ll return tomorrow, pay double. Nia: Actors’ promises—like stage snow, gone by morning. Jack: Then I’ll top it: tomorrow, tea on me. No paparazzi, just two civilians discussing Welsh mythology. Nia: (arches brow) I open at ten. Cameras or no cameras, the front door stays unlocked. Your move. Jack: Ten it is. Unless you’d prefer earlier? I’m dreadful at waiting. Nia: Patience builds character, Mr. Halden. Trees know that. He blinks, laughs, touched and teased in equal measure. Jack: You do listen. Oak number three, redeemed. Outside, a knock rattles glass. Voice: Jack! Look this way! He winces. Nia: Time to disappear. Follow me. She leads him through a narrow hallway smelling of cardboard and old glue. At the back door she pauses. Nia: Alley’s clear. Go left, then right. The bakery’s owner owes me; he’ll stash you until the coast’s clear. Jack: You’re a strategist. Nia: Books teach stealth. Paperbacks slip between worlds. Jack: (lingering) About tomorrow—You won’t pretend not to know me, will you? Nia: Depends. Will you need everyone in the shop to adore you? Jack: Maybe just one person. Her cheeks heat; she hopes the dim bulb hides it. Nia: Dramatic lines belong on stage, Halden. Jack: I warned you I was dramatic. But I meant it. She opens the door; cold air sweeps in. Nia: Ten a.m. Don’t be late. I hate tardiness more than tabloids. Jack: I’ll be early. I’ll bring pastries. And money. Nia: Both improve your odds. Jack steps into the drizzle, pauses. Jack: Nia—thanks for not being impressed. It’s strangely impressive. He jogs off. She closes the door, leans against it, heart thudding. Nia: (to the silent stacks) Under‑whelmed, my foot. She returns to the front, flips the sign to CLOSED, and—without meaning to—smiles at the abandoned copy of The Mabinogion lying on the counter.

Model Output:
The underhold door sank inward on leather‑silent hinges, and a draft of salt‑wet air slid over Aya’s cheeks like a morgue sheet. Brass lamps hissed along the stairwell, their whale‑oil mantles trembling with a cold, blue flame. Pipes as fat as boa constrictors wound the walls, coughing steam at each joint; somewhere below, a pump chugged with the dogged rhythm of a failing heart. “Quiet as an empty coffin,” Simeon muttered, knuckles white on the stubby scatter‑gun he had smuggled beneath his coat. “Too quiet,” Katra answered, and the faint whirr of the little clockwork crossbow hidden in her sleeve ticked like a nervous metronome. Aya forced a smile she did not feel. The scythan relic waited two floors down, if her stolen schematics were true. One touch, one whispered syllable from the immateria, and the guild would belong to her. Mother, you always said audacity is half the spell. They reached the final landing. A circular vault door yawned open, its gear‑rimmed lip glinting. Aya frowned; Katra had not yet picked it. Within, lanterns already burned. Shadows stood in rows—too tall, too still to be mere crates or pillars. Aya tasted iron in her mouth. “A welcome committee,” she whispered. Boots clicked on the stone. Out of the glow stepped Valissa Morska, the guildmistress who, by every broadsheet in the city, was meant to be rotting in a caged wagon on the road to Blackgate Gaol. The woman wore a calf‑length greatcoat of seal‑skin, its shoulders quilted with steel plates. One hand rested on the silver haft of a voltaic saber; the other held a stubby brass pepperbox. Flanking her moved four brawny figures in soot‑black armor, faces masked by whale‑bone visors. Behind them, on a velvet plinth, lay the relic: a crescent of scorched obsidian, webbed in red veins that pulsed like a sleeping heart. Aya’s stomach turned to slag. Valissa gave a slow, theatrical bow. “Lady Ayandra Sevrigne. We’ve been expecting you.” Simeon’s gun rose. A dozen clocklock rifles snapped to shoulders. He froze. “I had nothing to do with the raid, Mistress,” Katra blurted. “Word in the alleys said you were pinched for good—” “Oh, I was,” Valissa said lightly. “Long enough to discover which of my flock began sharpening knives the moment my back was turned.” Her gaze slid to Aya, pupils reflecting the blue lanternlight like bits of glacier. “Imagine my surprise when the name was not some gutter‑born cutpurse, but a debutante from the Heights.” Aya’s gloved fingers twitched. A single sigil traced in the air could conjure a shard‑hound or worse, but the corridor swarmed with iron and men—immateria thrived on fear; stray bullets did the same. “Gag magick and she’ll be tame,” one guard growled. Valissa raised a palm. “No. Let the prodigy speak; curiosity is an old indulgence of mine.” Aya inhaled the biting reek of burning whale‑oil. “If you know my name, you know my worth,” she said, voice steady though her pulse hammered. “Kill me and every newspaper from the Iron Docks to the Astronomer’s Court will howl for blood. Ransom me, and you retire wealthier than a rail‑baron.” Behind her veneer, panic scratched. Mother swung from a rope for far less than this. Father would disown her first, then fund the very scaffold. But stalling was oxygen. Valissa chuckled, the sound dry as match‑heads striking. “A tempting offer. Yet rumor says Lord Sevrigne has lately mortgaged his holdings to outfit a private whaling fleet. Purse strings may be tighter than you think.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing at Aya’s domino mask. “Besides, I prefer certainties.” A flick of the saber. Aya’s mask fell, silk ribbons spiraling. Lamplight revealed the high cheeks, the faint splash of freckles, the Sevrigne eyes—one blue, one green. Gasps rustled among the guards. Simeon swore, soft and wounded. He had never seen her unmasked. Katra simply closed her own eyes, as if anticipating a guillotine’s whisper. Valissa’s voice dropped to a purr. “Look at that—treachery wears such a darling face.” Aya straightened, refusing the luxury of shame. “I am still worth more alive than dead. The City Watch wants a culprit for your supposed escape. Hand them the mastermind behind tonight’s blunder—” she indicated herself with a curt nod—“and you regain their favor without losing a single cut of profit.” A horn groaned from the harbor beyond the guild walls—three forlorn blasts that seeped through the stone like the moan of some leviathan. The guards shifted, eyes darting upward at the sound, as though half‑expecting the sea itself to crash through the ceiling. “Clever girl,” Valissa murmured. “Offer me your own noose to tighten.” She reached out, brushed a lock of Aya’s hair from her brow with unnerving gentleness. “But your value is greater still.” Aya forced herself not to flinch. “How so?” “The relic.” Valissa gestured to the scythan crescent. “Old Scythan inscriptions speak of a ‘veil‑singer’—a vessel who can coax the stone awake. That requires a specific talent: command of immateria.” Her lips curved. “You inherited more than your mother’s eyes, did you not?” Cold sweat slid down Aya’s spine. She had not uttered a single spell in Valissa’s presence, yet the woman had divined the truth as neatly as a vivisection blade finds an artery. “If you think I’ll help you pry that thing open—” Aya began. “You misunderstand,” Valissa interrupted, eyes bright with feverish delight. “Help is such a polite word. I mean to chain you to it until the stone sings, screams, or both.” A signal. Iron arms clamped Aya from behind, pinning her elbows. Another pair seized Katra and Simeon. Simeon struggled once, then stilled when a rifle muzzle kissed his temple. Katra bit a guard’s hand; she earned a punch that left blood splattering the flagstones. Aya’s throat thickened. “Take me, then, but release them. They know nothing of the immateria.” Valissa tilted her head. “Ah, bargaining chips of your own. Admirable. Unfortunately, loyalty is best tested under twin torches: time and terror. I’ll keep them close.” She tapped Aya’s chin with the saber’s flat. “Motivation for you to sing sweetly.” Aya met Simeon’s eyes—grey, already bruised with defeat. Katra’s lip bled crimson against her teeth, feral but frightened. I brought them into this abyss. She swallowed the iron taste of guilt. “Very well,” she said, voice barely a rasp. “I will rouse your relic. But you must swear on whatever shreds of honor thieves keep that they leave here alive when it is done.” Valissa sheathed the saber with a satisfied click. “On brass and oil I swear it—assuming you keep breath in their lungs through your cooperation.” She nodded to her guards. “Secure our guests. The ritual chamber awaits.” Chains kissed wrists; gags of oiled leather slid between teeth. Aya’s remained unbound, her hands free yet useless, the implicit threat louder than any shackle. As they were marched past the relic, the stone’s red veins flared, as if sensing fresh blood in the room. A distant, almost musical vibration rippled through the air, brushing Aya’s eardrums with cold fingers. Somewhere above, the pump coughed water, and the lamps guttered. Mother, teach me one final trick, Aya pleaded in silence. Because the next words I speak may call forth more than any of us can cage. Behind her, the foghorn howled once more, thrice more, until its echo tangled with the relic’s pulse, and the underhold felt suddenly like the belly of some vast, waiting beast.

Model Output:
The rain comes down in greasy sheets on Isla de la Muerte, soaking the neon and washing cigarette butts into the gutter. Inside the Rusty Anchor, a jukebox glows radioactive pink, stuck on the same scratch‑scarred rock track that hisses out a broken riff every ninety seconds. The bar smells of cheap rum, gun oil, and old regrets. Spike Spiegel eases through the door like a man testing the temperature of bathwater. His green hair is damp, his tan suit rumpled, and a half‑smoked cigarette clings to his lips. He glances at the room with mismatched eyes, one living, one glass. A practiced flick of his wrist sends the cig to the floor, where he crushes it under a boot. At the counter he orders whatever qualifies as whiskey. The barkeep pours something the color of engine coolant. Spike sips, winces, and lets the burn settle. Freedom tastes like bad liquor tonight. Across the room, Revy Lee leans against the wall, thumbs hooked in the waistband of shorts that barely qualify as clothing. Her dragon tattoo coils down one arm, glistening with sweat. Two modified Berettas ride low on her hips. She’s already six shots deep, but her gaze is razor sharp. The jukebox loop restarts—kchhh—guitars scream through blown speakers. Revy’s eyes flick toward Spike. “You gonna keep starin’, cowboy, or buy me a drink?” Spike taps ash from an invisible cigarette. “That depends. You Revy Lee?” She straightens, danger rippling off her like heat off asphalt. “Who’s askin’?” “Someone chasing a fat stack of Woolongs.” He spins his glass. “The bounty on Hector ‘Mad Dog’ Ruiz?” Revy’s laugh is low and predatory. “Figures. I fly twelve hours from Roanapur and run into competition.” “Competition, cooperation—” Spike shrugs. “Whatever happens, happens.” She rolls her eyes. “Philosophy? Cute. I just want the payout.” “Same.” He tilts his glass in salute. “So how do we do this? Coin toss?” Revy’s smirk hints at fangs. “I got a better idea.” Before she can elaborate, the saloon doors swing wide. Three goons in soaked ponchos stomp in, Ruiz’s skull‑and‑jaw logo stenciled on their backs. Shotguns glint. Revy’s hands dip—steel sings free. Spike, too lazy to draw, just sighs. One thug barks, “Spike Spiegel! Revy Lee! Boss says hands off. Ruiz is under his own protection.” Spike smiles lopsided. “You sure you want to do this? The music’s terrible enough.” The jukebox screeches back to the chorus. Gunfire answers. Wood erupts behind the counter. Patrons dive. Spike moves like smoke, sliding off the stool, sweeping a leg to flip a table for cover. Revy is pure aggression, vaulting forward with pistols blazing. Two shots, two head splashes; her nickname, Two Hands, isn’t hyperbole. Spike grabs a bottle, flings it; glass shatters on a muzzle, and the third thug’s aim wanders. Spike closes distance and drives a kick into the man’s ribs, Jeet Kune Do economy—one strike, silent crunch. A follow‑up jab drops him cold. The jukebox crackles—kchhh—verse again. Nobody left to complain. Revy blows smoke from a barrel. “Nice moves, space cowboy.” “Yours weren’t bad either.” Spike pats the corpses for ammo, finds a hotel key instead—Motel Estrella, Room 23. “Looks like Ruiz is nesting nearby.” Revy snatches the key. “I’m closer. Find your own clues.” Spike eases a new cigarette between his lips but doesn’t light it. “We could share the bounty. Fifty‑fifty?” “Yeah?” She licks rain off her lip. “I don’t share money, food, or pillows.” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He follows her out anyway. Rain tattoos their shoulders. The motel squats next door, vacancy sign buzzing like an angry insect. Revy kicks Room 23 open. Inside: urine‑scented carpet, a flickering lamp, and Ruiz hog‑tied on the bed, gagged and bloody. Someone beat them here. Revy whistles. “Guess we’re late to the fiesta.” Spike checks Ruiz’s pulse—alive, barely. “Still worth something if we haul him in.” Behind them the door slams. Revy spins, guns up. Spike turns, hand on his Jericho. A scarred woman in trench coat stands there, sawed‑off leveled. “Back off. Ruiz is mine.” Spike sighs. “More competition.” Revy snarls, “Lady, you got three seconds.” The stranger fires. Spike yanks Revy down; pellets chew drywall. In the confusion the woman grabs Ruiz, hauls him toward the window. Spike draws and fires once—glass explodes, the sawed‑off drops. Revy empties a mag, forcing the kidnapper to retreat sans gun, but Ruiz tumbles out the window with her. Rain, sirens, disappearing taillights. Revy curses so colorfully the wallpaper peels. “All that work, nada.” “We still have the room.” Spike eyes the keys on the nightstand. “And each other.” Tension coils. A single bulb buzzes overhead. Rain ticks against cracked glass. Revy holsters one pistol but keeps the other trained on him. “Don’t get ideas.” Spike lights his cigarette finally. The flame paints shadows across his artificial eye. “Too late.” They stand five feet apart, barrels aimed—hers at his chest, his at her thigh. Smoke from gunpowder and tobacco braids in the stale air. “Tell you what,” Spike says, voice lazy but eyes sharp. “Pot’s bigger if we tag‑team. You do the close‑quarters mayhem, I do the footwork. Split eighty‑twenty.” She laughs—a short, dangerous sound. “Eighty for me?” “Obviously.” He smiles. The jukebox riff, still audible through the wall, restarts—kchhh. Even fate’s stuck on repeat. Revy’s finger caresses the trigger. “You don’t trust me. Smart. I wouldn’t trust me either.” “I don’t trust anybody.” Spike exhales a ribbon of smoke. “But you’re interesting. That counts for something.” She studies him, weighing profit against instinct, attraction against survival. Lightning flashes, strobes their silhouettes: two predators scenting each other. His lean frame, casual danger; her tension‑wired body, hair plastered to her cheek. “Fine,” she says, lowering her gun an inch. “Sixty‑forty. And you buy the drinks from here on.” Spike lowers his own. “Deal. Though I’m broke.” “Then you’d better shoot straight, cowboy.” She holsters, turns to gather magazines. Spike holsters as well, but his gaze lingers on the curve of her back, the inked dragon flexing. He wonders what it’d feel like to trace the scales, then wonders if she’d bite off the finger. Revy senses the stare, smirks without turning. “Eyes up, space case, or I’ll gouge one out to match the other.” Spike chuckles. “Wouldn’t make much difference.” The motel door creaks as they step into the rain again, two silhouettes disappearing into neon glare. Behind them, the jukebox hits the broken chorus one more time, as if blessing a partnership forged from liquor, bullets, and the promise of money neither may live to spend.

Model Output:
We left Astrid’s kitchen at twenty‑three forty with our pockets full of things that felt like props from a school play: a twist of coarse sea‑salt, four rowan twigs cut to the length of a hand, and a strip of reindeer hide that still smelled of smoke. Astrid also carried her grandmother’s brass pocket watch, ticking so loudly it seemed to measure out goose‑bumps instead of seconds. I kept telling myself it was only a prank dressed up as folklore, a way to make this grey village less boring than Stockholm had ever been. Still, my palms sweated under my borrowed wool mittens while we pushed our bikes along the gravel road toward the ridge everyone called Gravkullen—the Grave Hill. The night was clear and brittle. Beyond the last streetlamp the sky opened like black glass, pricked by the pale shimmer of the northern lights. I pedalled behind Astrid’s back wheel, watching her denim jacket flare in the cold wind. She hummed as if we were heading for a party. “Remember,” she called over her shoulder, “no metal inside the circle except the watch. Spirits hate iron, they say, but they like bronze. Don’t ask me why; that’s just the rule.” “Who made the rules?” I asked, trying for sarcasm but hearing my own voice wobble. “Dead people.” She laughed. “Old ones. Vikings, maybe. Mormor never specified.” We abandoned the bikes at the forest edge and climbed the slope on foot, our torches balanced between darkness and trees that creaked like doors. The burial mound appeared suddenly, a mossy hump framed by squat standing stones. My first thought was how small it looked; my second was how easily something small could still contain the past. Astrid snapped off her torch and the night pressed closer. “Útiseta,” she announced, as if unveiling a stage act. “Sit‑out. You go quiet, you stay all the way till dawn, you listen. They answer in three ways: sight, sound, or thought. Choose which one you want before midnight, or they’ll choose for you.” “I’ll take thought,” I joked weakly. “Less scary than sight.” She grinned, teeth white in the starlight. “I’d rather see. Seeing can’t lie.” We placed the rowan twigs north, south, east, west, then sprinkled salt between them. Astrid knelt to smooth the reindeer hide at the centre. The ritual looked childish, but her seriousness infected me; every pinch of salt felt like a promise I didn’t remember making. She consulted the watch. “Eleven fifty‑four. From now on, silence.” We sat back‑to‑back on the hide, legs crossed, heads outlined against the aurora. The ground breathed cold into my spine. I tried to think of ordinary things—my Walkman, my mother painting the living‑room, the geography test on Monday—but the forest kept inserting other images: antlers half‑buried in snow, jawbones opening in the dark. Deep in the pines a capercaillie clacked, then went mute as if someone had pressed pause. I heard my heartbeat, then Astrid’s breathing, slower than mine. A wind snaked over the mound, yet the air inside the salt circle stayed utterly still, as if glassed in. Static prickled along my hair. I wondered if the reindeer hide could insulate against electricity, and whether folklore was just an elaborate way of explaining physics no one had measured yet. At exactly midnight the distant church bell struck once. There was no scheduled service; the pastor was visiting Umeå for a conference, a fact my mother had mentioned over dinner. The single gong rolled through the trees like a thrown stone. When it faded, something else remained—a vibration too low to name, pressing on my ribs. Astrid whispered, breaking her own rule. “Did you invite them?” I tried to answer but my tongue felt thick. Frost glittered on the salt, tiny mirrors reflecting starlight. In each reflection a different sky seemed to arc, as if the mound wore more than one night at once. Then the smell arrived. Not rot, not earth—something sour and hot, like iron left on a stove. Astrid’s fingers dug into my arm. “Sight,” she murmured. “They’re showing.” Across the circle, beyond the western twig, a shape lifted from the ground. It might have been fog, except fog doesn’t kneel. I saw the impression of shoulders, a head cocked sideways, long hair drifting without wind. Eyes, or the idea of eyes, opened: twin voids pulling at colour, memory, courage. I wanted to blink it away but my eyelids had forgotten their job. A second bell note quivered in the air though no metal struck, a ghost‑echo of the first. The shape leaned closer. Its edges overflowed the circle but never crossed the salt; instead they curled upward, like smoke hitting an invisible pane. My brain insisted this was temperature inversion, optical trick, anything. My lungs insisted we were trespassers. Astrid’s voice scraped out, older than her years. “Tell us what Jonas did to get the answers on the maths test. Tell us what he fears.” The shape rippled. I tasted metal on my tongue and, inside my skull, a wordless image flashed: Jonas at his desk, tears leaking while a shadow—teacher, father, I couldn’t tell—lifted a belt. Another flicker: Jonas burying the stolen answer sheet beneath his dog’s blanket. The images felt shoved into me, like photos slid under a locked door. I jerked away, breaking contact with Astrid’s back. My boot scuffed the salt. A dark seam opened in the perfect circle. Wind punched through instantly, slapping branches, rattling the standing stones. The shape unfolded taller, testing the gap. “Fix it!” Astrid hissed. I dropped to my knees, groping for the salt sachet. My fingers were numb, or the earth was moving; either way I scattered more than I poured. A howl lifted from the trees, not animal, not metal, but something that had waited a long time to stretch its throat. In that howl I heard Swedish words twisted backward, like a cassette played wrong: Kom in, kom in, kom in. Astrid slapped the bronze watch face‑down over the breach. The ticking sounded furious. The wind stopped mid‑gust, as if someone had hit mute. Silence throbbed louder than the howl had. The shape was gone. Only frost steamed where it had hovered, melting into black peat. Astrid exhaled a shaky laugh. “See? Works every time.” “That wasn’t Jonas,” I whispered. “That was something else.” She shrugged. “Knowledge is knowledge.” A branch snapped behind us. We spun, but the forest showed only trees. My torch refused to switch on; the batteries had died though they were new an hour earlier. Astrid’s watch ticked back to life, louder than before, until the minute hand jerked past twelve—then the mechanism stopped with a dry metallic sigh. “Time to leave,” she said. We packed in silence, though every rustle seemed magnified, as if other ears copied us from deeper in the woods. At the bikes I glanced back. The rowan twigs still marked the points but their bark smouldered softly, burning without flame. When I blinked, the glow was gone and I couldn’t be sure it had ever been there. We rode home through corridors of frost. No lights showed in the village; even the streetlamps looked dimmer, as if the bell’s single note had peeled away a layer of brightness the world couldn’t spare. Astrid whistled, carefree, but I noticed she never looked over her shoulder. I lay awake until dawn, listening for another bell that never came. On Monday Jonas avoided my eyes all day, and the maths teacher announced someone had confessed to cheating but wouldn’t say who. I still don’t know whether we uncovered truth or invented it. I only know that every night since, somewhere between twelve and one, I hear a solitary tick that isn’t a clock, reminding me how thin the salt line really was. Word count: 1,009

Model Output:
I smell the eucalyptus liniment before I see her, but when Alex steps out from behind the privacy curtain, clipboard tucked against her ribs, the scent fades beneath the sharper jolt of recognition. Same hawk‑bright eyes she used to aim across starting blocks at me. Same braid—only now it’s pinned higher, the ends brushing her scapula rather than whipping behind a racing singlet. She’s in navy scrubs instead of spikes, and I’m on crutches instead of podiums. “Table three,” she says, voice professional, neutral. She motions me toward the high‑low plinth that sits under a wall‑mounted diagram of anterior musculature: every origin and insertion like crime‑scene evidence of what’s been taken from me. I haul myself up, crutches clattering. The surgical brace below my right knee locks at thirty degrees, so I pivot from the hip, scooting backward until my calves meet vinyl. The table’s cold through the thin cotton of my shorts. “Supine,” Alex instructs, already washing her hands at the sink. I roll onto my back, brace unclasped, knee exposed: a ridge of pink scar tissue arcs from medial epicondyle to tibial tuberosity, still puffy, still ugly. She stands at my right, nearest the injury, feet in a staggered stance to protect her own lumbar spine. “We’ll start with passive flexion. Tell me the second it’s more than discomfort.” A practiced hook of her pinky frees the Velcro of the brace; she lowers the distal strap first, then the proximal, peeling the rigid shell like she’s unwrapping fragile glass. Her fingertips are warm, purposefully gentle—cruelly gentle, because I don’t want to need gentleness. With one hand she cups my heel, the other brackets my tibial plateau. She lifts, letting gravity drape my calf over her forearm so the joint bends. Ninety degrees used to be nothing; now each incremental arc feels like rust flaking from a hinge. At sixty‑eight degrees the burn inside my joint cavity crosses into heat. “Seventy … seventy‑two …” She reads the goniometer arms aloud. If she’s impressed I’ve gained ten degrees since last week, she doesn’t show it. At eighty I grunt. She stops instantly, pressure easing but her hand stays, the heel of her palm nested in the notch behind my knee where popliteus fibers quiver. The involuntary twitch embarrasses me; the muscle remembers running even if I can’t. “Back to neutral.” She guides the leg straight, then lays my heel on the bolster so the knee floats just off the table—joint distraction without axial load. Her thumb circles inferior to the patella, coaxing synovial fluid away from the effusion pocket. My quad spasms; she presses proximal to the VMO to quiet it. The contact is platonic, clinical—and somehow more intimate than anything I’ve felt since surgery. “You doing your isometrics?” she asks. “Three sets, twice a day.” I stare at the ceiling tiles, counting micro‑fissures instead of the seconds her palm stays on my thigh. “Show me.” She slides two fingers beneath my patella. I contract; the kneecap lifts against her touch, trembling. The diagram above me shows vastus medialis lit red, but I feel nothing except her skin through latex. “Hold … and relax.” She nods approval that should feel like victory. It doesn’t. “Prone next,” she says. I roll facedown, careful not to torque the joint. Her hand brackets my achilles and bends the knee again, this time letting gravity pull the foot toward my glutes. The table paper crackles under my chest as my hamstrings protest. She monitors the angle with her eye now, free hand supporting the anterior tibia. Eighty‑five degrees, enamel‑bright pain, and my hip flexors try to hitch the pelvis off the plinth. She presses gently between posterior superior iliac spine and sacrum, pinning me down so the movement stays isolated. The pressure is firm, corrective; all I can think about is how her palm used to collect sweat from starting block resin. “Breathe.” Her voice drops half an octave—coach’s cadence. I obey despite myself, diaphragm sliding against the hard edge of the table. When she lowers my leg, the ache lingers like a bruise behind the patella. She steps beside my head, wipes the goniometer with alcohol. I can smell the citrus of her shampoo when she leans to adjust the bolster. Memory rewinds to hotel hallways and 5 a.m. shakeout runs we used to share—both of us pretending the closeness was only camaraderie. We were always good at pretending. “Let’s get you seated for neuromuscular re‑ed.” She raises the backrest to forty‑five degrees; I push up on elbows, then swing my legs over the side. Blood rushes downward, making the joint throb. She kneels, loops a yellow TheraBand around the forefoot, securing the ends to the table leg behind me so resistance is directed posterior‑to‑anterior. “Ankle dorsiflexion with tibial rotation,” she reminds me. “Slow tempo.” Her hands bracket either side of my tibia just below the joint line. “Ready?” I nod. She gives a slight traction—five pounds at most—then cues, “Draw the toes up, externally rotate.” I fire tibialis anterior; the band stretches, tension humming up the kinetic chain. At twenty degrees rotation I feel the scar tissue bite. She meets my gaze, the eye contact a tether more binding than the band. “Hold two … one … relax.” She eases the limb back to start, never letting go. The disciplined neutrality on her face frays for a heartbeat; I catch the memory of the grin she wore after winning nationals the year I blew my hamstring. She smothers it beneath professionalism, but electricity vibrates between her fingertips and my skin. We do three sets of ten. By the last repetition sweat beads at my hairline. The rehab gym smells like rubber mats and detergent, but my autonomic system reads it as danger: fight or flight with nowhere to go. “Stand for gait drills.” She fits the hinged brace, releases the lock so I can flex to ninety. With a side step she’s in front of me, feet hip‑width, knees soft. “I’ll support you until mid‑stance. Ready?” Her left hand crosses my torso, fingers splayed across obliques to keep my trunk upright. The touch is nothing she hasn’t done with a hundred patients, yet my breath shortens. I plant the crutch tips, rise. Weight transfers to the surgical leg; tibial plateau compresses, meniscus whispering warnings. She shifts with me, palm following the glide of my rib cage. At heel strike her right hand cups my lateral epicondyle, guiding valgus control. My quad trembles; her biceps brush my forearm. We hold the position, muscles vibrating like piano wires. “Step through.” Her mouth is inches from my ear. I smell spearmint and sweat. I step, pain flaring up the chain, but also something else—an afterimage of stadium lights, of lives when we were both whole. She helps me sit again, unclipping the gait belt. “Good work,” she says. The praise scalds; it feels like a participation ribbon for a champion turned casualty. I look past her at the musculature diagram. Sartorius crosses gracilis, meets semitendinosus at pes anserinus—three converging paths that still know their purpose. Mine don’t. “Alex,” I begin, words catching like turf in a spike. “Does it ever stop feeling like losing?” Her eyes soften; for a second she is the competitor who once leaned against me on a cool‑down lap, heartbeats syncing. Then the mask settles. “Recovery isn’t winning or losing,” she says quietly. “It’s just time moving forward. You decide whether you move with it.” Easy for her—she’s already stepped off the track into a life that fits. I’m still scraping cinders from my skin. She scribbles next week’s progression: closed‑chain step‑downs, terminal knee extensions, hydrotherapy intervals. She doesn’t touch me again, but the phantom of her hands lingers, mapped across my fascia like new landmarks. “Same time Wednesday,” she reminds me. I brace on crutches, the joint stiff but fractionally freer. As I pass the diagram, the red‑inked muscle fibers seem to pulse, urging motion. I don’t know if they’re promising redemption or just more pain, but I follow the hallway lights out, Alex’s citrus‑and‑eucalyptus shadow ghosting each reluctant step.

Model Output:
I woke with tar on my tongue and the gunroom pitch revolving about me. The quartermaster’s bell marked six, but the Indus’s timbers throbbed like noon drums in my skull. I fingered the jade monkey in my pocket—cool, slick, reassuring—and told myself I was a lieutenant of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, not a gutter rat. My body called me liar at once. “Hullo, Merrick.” Hammond’s head poked through the hatch. “Captain expects your survey reports before luncheon.” “Of course,” I said, fumbling for my boots. “Just need a breath of shore air. Sketches are practically finished.” “See they are,” he muttered, eyeing the sweat on my collar. “One more lapse and the old man will have your epaulettes.” I laughed too brightly. “Trust me.” The jade monkey slipped between my knuckles as I passed him, and I could feel his suspicion trail me up to the deck. Outside, the Pearl River carried a smell of rotting lilies and coal tar. Junks and sampans jostled our pinnace, their crews shouting in dialects that fluttered like startled birds. I hailed Ah Fai, the boatman who never asked questions for an extra sixpence. “Morning, lieutenant.” He bowed with a grin that might have been pity. “Same destination?” I nodded, wiping a tremor from my lip. “Fast as you can, Fai.” “Faster costs more.” I rattled two coins in my palm—last night’s winnings at loo—and climbed aboard. The boat shot off, oarlocks squealing. I clenched the jade so hard it left a crescent on my palm. “River rough today,” Ah Fai said, nodding to choppy waves. “Just row,” I snapped, and then softer, “forgive me. Head aches.” “Head or belly?” he asked, not unkindly. I had no answer, so I watched factory chimneys slide past like blackened masts. Withdrawal gnawed behind my eyes; every splash sounded like musket fire. By the time we reached Coombe Alley the shivers had started. I tossed Fai his fare and stumbled onto the quay. The alley smelled of frying sesame cakes, pig offal, and human misfortune. A silk importer named Calvert waited beneath a striped awning, cane hooked over his arm. “You’re late, Merrick.” “Chart-room rumours cost extra,” I said, pulling him into shadow. “Patrol grid for next week—twenty Spanish dollars.” He tsked. “Ten.” “Eighteen and I forget your name if the Admiralty asks questions.” He studied my twitching fingers, then produced a purse. “Very well, eighteen. Let’s hear it.” I whispered the frigates’ rendezvous points, tasting bile each time I betrayed a seamark. When I finished, he handed me the silver. It felt absurdly light—nothing is ever heavy enough when one is sinking. Calvert lingered. “You look ghastly, old son. There’s a surgeon—” “I have all the medicine Canton can provide.” I tucked the coins deep, clutching the jade monkey beside them, and left before pity could sting. Next stop: Madam Lin’s teahouse, a sagging terrace draped in faded lilac curtains. Incense coils hung like dead serpents from the rafters. Inside, the air was thick with opium smoke and wintergreen. I coughed, half in longing, half in revulsion. Madam Lin emerged, lacquered hair gleaming. “Lieutenant Merrick, the dragon rider returns.” “My usual box,” I said, voice raw. She tapped a long fingernail on her abacus. “Two dollars more. British silver hard to come by.” I slid ten onto her tray. “Keep the change. Quick.” Her eyebrow twitched; greed and concern warring briefly. “You burn too fast. Slow ember, long dream.” “Lecture someone who sleeps well.” I followed her down a bamboo corridor. Curtains brushed my face like damp cobwebs; moans drifted from cubicles—pleasure, pain, indistinguishable here. In my stall I collapsed onto the reed mat. A boy brought the lamp and pipe. My hands shook so violently he had to set the pellet himself. “You alright, sahib?” he asked. “Soon,” I croaked, striking the lamp. Blue flame kissed the pipe bowl, and the resin bubbled like an awakening eye. The first pull scorched my throat; the second smoothed it with velvet. After the third I could unclench my fist. The jade monkey lay on my lap, smug. Voices outside blurred into a lazy tide until Calvert’s cane tapped the floorboards again—he never left me alone long. “Merrick,” he called, tone urgent. “Lin’s got word the prefect’s men are sweeping the quarter.” “Let them sweep.” I exhaled a fragrant coil. He yanked the curtain aside. “You’ll swing if they find a King’s officer sucking poppy.” Madam Lin hissed behind him, “No disturbances! Good clients cost me more than mandarins.” I rose, legs rubbery. “Fai’s boat is docked near the water gate. I can reach the Indus before flag muster.” “You can barely stand,” Calvert said. I ignored him, rubbed the jade, and steadied my spine. “I’ve faced French broadsides, Calvert. A few Qing constables won’t trouble me.” He laughed bitterly but helped me outside. Rain had begun, warm and relentless. The alley’s lanterns smeared into comets. Halfway to the quay we nearly collided with a pair of bearded Sikhs in Company livery, rifles slung. Calvert melted into a doorway; I kept walking, heart hammering. The jade seemed to burn in my pocket. At the pier Fai waited, chewing betel. “Trouble?” “Storm,” I said, climbing in. “Row.” He rowed. Thunder rumbled over the factories, matching the cannonade in my chest. Smoke still fogged my thoughts, but beneath it coiled a new dread: those patrol secrets would sink some honest middie who trusted the schedules. Guilt flared, brief as phosphor on dark water. Fai spoke softly. “Many officers come to Lin’s, but only you bring shame face.” “I haven’t asked your counsel.” He shrugged. “River listens even when ears close.” The Indus loomed ahead, gunports like accusing eyes. I stuffed a peppermint in my mouth, wiped my brow, and tried to conjure an officer’s gait. “Fai,” I said, tossing him a final coin, “if I’m not here tomorrow—” “I will still row,” he finished. His oars dipped in black water, indifferent. I climbed the accommodation ladder. Hammond awaited, oilskin over his shoulder. “Survey reports?” he barked. “In my cabin,” I answered. “I nearly drowned retrieving depth soundings.” He sniffed, catching spearmint and something sweeter. “Cabin. Now.” As we crossed the deck, the ship’s bell struck eight. Sailors hauled lines, the world moving in crisp precision I once commanded. My legs wobbled disgracefully. Inside my cabin Hammond shut the door. “Your eyes are glassy, James. Are you ill?” “Chinese fever,” I lied, rummaging for papers I hadn’t written. The jade monkey rolled across the desk. Hammond snatched it. “Pretty trinket.” “Give it back,” I snarled, surprising us both. He weighed it in his palm. “You’re tearing yourself open for what’s inside this stone, aren’t you? God help you.” I took it gently. “God, Hammond, is presently engaged elsewhere.” He sighed. “Captain sees those reports at noon or you’ll face court‑martial.” When he left, I slumped, sweat soaking my collar. Outside, cannon drills commenced—sharp, righteous explosions. I longed to stand there barking orders, but the poppy held my leash. Silver from Calvert lay on the desk, eighteen silent judges. I rubbed the jade monkey until my thumb went numb, then unfolded a fresh chart. The ink jar trembled. Noon was three hours off; the smoke would carry me that far, just, if I dared slip ashore again. The thought slithered through me like a promise and a curse. “Tomorrow,” I told the cabin walls. “I’ll stop tomorrow.” The river laughed beneath the keel.

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The Asphodel Heights Weekly Circular The “ROLLING INSIGHTS” Column—Issue IV By Sisyphus of Corinth, as dictated to Crow, licensed messenger (and unsolicited commentator). Scene: A sunless afternoon on the familiar slope. Sisyphus braces shoulder to granite, the boulder creaking uphill like an elderly bureaucrat on payday. Crow rides the uppermost ridge of stone, biro clamped in beak and a sheaf of stolen hotel stationery under one wing. Sisyphus: Steady on, friend. We’re nearly at the view. All right—first letter. Crow (mumbles around biro): “Dear Sisyphus, My girlfriend says I never listen. At least, I think that’s what she said. How can I show her I care?—Hard‑of‑Hearing in Halicarnassus.” Sisyphus smiles, feet sliding on gravel. Sisyphus (dictating): Dear Hard‑of‑Hearing, Listening isn’t a posture of the ears, it’s a posture of the day. Reserve ten undistracted minutes—no amphorae to fill, no sheep to count, no heroic destinies to chase. Tell her, “I’ve set this time aside for you; guide me.” Then actually do it. If the conversation wanders, let it. That’s where the treasure is buried. Signed, S. Crow, scribbling: [Side note: Ten minutes? The last man who gave a woman only ten minutes was turned into a laurel.] A gust of sulphurous breeze. The boulder wobbles. Sisyphus steadies it with the calm of long practice. Crow: Second letter—“Dear Sisyphus, My bakery opens at dawn, my twins wake at dawn‑minus‑one, and my boss believes sleep is for Spartans. How do I find balance?—Flour‑Faced in Phocis.” Sisyphus (dictating): Dear Flour‑Faced, You can’t pour from an empty jug—though in your case it’s probably a bag of rye. Hand the morning shift to the apprentice twice a week; apprentices exist for precisely two reasons: ambition and broom duty. Spend one dawn making pancakes with the twins and one dawn sleeping like a well‑fed cat. Your pastries will improve; rested bakers measure sugar rather than guessing. Your boss will grumble, but bosses are basically kettles—loud, hissing, harmless once the steam is gone. Yours, S. Crow: [Addendum: If harm does occur, send éclairs.] Sisyphus plants his shoulder and heaves. Pebbles skitter downhill into misty infinity. Crow: Third letter—“Dear Eternal Rock Jockey—” Sisyphus: That’s new. Crow: “—I share a flat with my brother. He keeps borrowing my tunics without asking and returns them smelling like satyr sweat. Talking leads to shouting. Suggestions?—Frustrated in Thebes.” Sisyphus (dictating): Dear Frustrated, Move the conversation from the battlefield to the workbench. Invite him to wash the tunics with you. No accusations, just soap and basins. People cannot yell while simultaneously wringing out linen; the lungs get confused. When he sees the labour he causes, he’ll either reform or start funding the laundress. If neither, padlock the wardrobe and gift him three of his own. Generosity feels like surrender right up until it starts feeling like freedom. Cheers, S. Crow: [Parenthetical caw: Alternatively, replace his tunics with those fashionable transparent numbers popular in Athens this season.] The ridge flattens. For one glorious heartbeat the boulder balances against the sky. Sisyphus and Crow admire the panorama of gloomy plains. Sisyphus, peacefully: Ready? Crow: Always. Heave‑ho. They escort the boulder back down. Crow: Last letter—“Dear Sir, I’m twenty‑nine, employed, admired, and inexplicably hollow. There must be more than invoices and payday wine. Advice?—Purpose‑Puzzled in Pergamon.” Sisyphus (dictating as they jog alongside the descending stone): Dear Purpose‑Puzzled, The emptiness you feel isn’t a flaw; it’s space. Try filling it smaller, not larger. Plant herbs. Teach someone the thing you do best but hardly notice—whistling, knot‑tying, mental arithmetic. Purpose is less quest, more housekeeping. And remember: it’s acceptable to push the same load each day if you like the view on the climb.* Warmth, Sisyphus. Crow pauses, mid‑stroke. Crow: That— Sisyphus: Yes, yes, one little metaphor. Let the Fates fine me. Crow adds a footnote with relish: [*Legal Department requires acknowledgment that columnist’s example should not be interpreted as endorsing recreational geology, perpetual or otherwise.] Scene: At the foot again. The boulder thuds into its accustomed groove like a sleeping dog returning to its rug. Sisyphus stretches, rolling his shoulders instead of the rock for a change. Crow flutters down, parchments bundled. Crow: Post goes at dusk. Anything further? Sisyphus: Just a heading—“May your burdens be light, and if they aren’t, may they at least be interesting.” Crow: Pithy. The mortals will love it. Sisyphus settles a hand on the granite flank, almost affectionate. Sisyphus: Ready for another round, old friend? The boulder is, by geological standards, non‑committal. Crow: I’ll take that as a yes. They begin again, the slope waiting, the letters flying.

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[Den Den Town, late afternoon. A narrow lane flickers with neon signs and chiptune jingles that leak from retro‑game shops. Miyu—skinny, shoulders hunched, oversized headphones crooked on her ears—stops when a searing guitar run cuts through the 8‑bit clutter. A small crowd encircles a girl in a red hoodie and scuffed boots. The busker’s amp is no bigger than a shoebox, yet the sound feels stadium‑sized.] Akiko’s guitar thrashes out the opening of “Cruel Angel’s Thesis.” Miyu’s head tilts, headphones sliding to her neck. Akiko (calling over a bend): Stay with me, folks—solo’s coming! [Cheers. Miyu edges closer, clutching a plastic bag of synth cables.] Akiko (finishing with a harmonic squeal): And that’s how Misato gets to work! Thank you, Den Den! [Coins clink into the open guitar case. The crowd thins. Miyu lingers, gaze fixed on the sun‑burst Strat copy.] Akiko: You look like you’ve got questions, headphone‑chan. Miyu (startled): Ah—s‑sorry. I, um… nice vibrato. Akiko (grinning): Arigatou. People usually say “nice song” or “play Free Bird.” Vibrato is new. You play? Miyu: Not guitar. Synths. Analog mostly. The modulation you did—on the G string—you micro‑bent forty‑five cents? Akiko (eyebrow lift): Forty‑five, huh? I just nudge till it screams right. You measure it? Miyu (touching her slipping headphones): I… guess? My ear likes numbers. Akiko: An ear with a calculator—cool. I’m Akiko. Aki if you’re lazy. Miyu: Miyu. Uh… second‑year at Tennōji High. Akiko: I graduated last spring. Congrats, you’ve found your friendly neighborhood rōnin guitarist. [Miyu giggles, surprised at herself.] Akiko (packing cables): So, Miyu‑chan the Synth Wizard, what’s in the bag? Miyu (holds it up): Patch cords. Gold‑plated tips. I— I get static if I don’t— Akiko: You’re the kind who rewires the toaster for better tone, aren’t you? Miyu (quiet laugh): Only once. Akiko (leans guitar against amp, folds arms): Wanna hear something? Miyu: I just did? Akiko: No, I mean through your world. Ever run a guitar through modular? Miyu (eyes widen): You’d drown in resonance. Akiko: Sounds like a party. Got time? [Miyu checks phone; it’s 16:42. She nods too hard, headphones slip again, dangling like a broken halo.] Akiko (snorts): Those cans are bigger than your face. Miyu (flustered): They’re monitor‑grade— low clamp force—s‑sorry. Akiko: Don’t apologize; they’re adorable. Come on, I’ll treat you to sushi first. My tip jar’s heavy today. Miyu: I— um, kaitenzushi? Akiko: Spinning plates of joy. There’s a Sushiro two blocks down—next to the store that sells Evangelion rice cookers. Miyu (murmurs): They play “Kom Susser Tod” when the timer’s done. Akiko (laugh‑cough): Dark—and very Japanese. Shall we? [Akiko slings guitar, hoists amp by its handle. They walk.] Akiko: So what pulls a synth nerd to Den Den today? New module? Miyu: I was eyeing a used Korg SQ‑64 sequencer. But the store’s price was… ouch. Akiko: Busking math: that’s about 300 renditions of “Cruel Angel.” Miyu: 280 if you include tips in Suica. Akiko (chuckles): See? Calculator ear. [They stop at a crosswalk. Neon reflects off puddles.] Akiko: You always this quiet, Miyu? Miyu (shrinks): S‑sorry. Akiko: Didn’t mean as criticism. Quiet is cool. Like the intro to “One More Time” before the beat drops. Suspenseful. Miyu (smiles): Daft Punk in a sentence. Nice. [Signal beeps. They cross.] Akiko: My family runs an okonomiyaki shop in Namba. They think I’m “finding myself” before music school. Miyu: Are you? Akiko: Mostly hiding from frying cabbage smell. And you— any band at school? Miyu (shakes head): Clubs are loud. I do the tech for the light‑music club when they let me. Akiko: The wizard behind the curtain. I respect that. [They reach Sushiro. Conveyor belts glow under LED strips. Plates clack.] Host: Two? Counter’s free. Akiko: Perfecto. [They sit. Guitar and amp rest against the booth.] Akiko (picks a salmon plate): House rule—first plate decides the playlist. Salmon means city pop. Agreed? Miyu: Uh… sure. Akiko (half‑sings): “Stay with me… mayonaka no doa…” Miyu (softly): “Kogi akete…” Akiko (points chopsticks): You sing! Miyu: Only when no one’s— hearing. Akiko: Well, I’m no one. Continue. Miyu: The conveyor’s loud. Akiko: Excuses. Here— (cups hand like mic) stage is yours. [Miyu’s cheeks burn. She whispers two lines; Akiko joins on harmony, surprisingly gentle. They laugh.] Akiko: See? Killer. You’ve got tone like… soft tape saturation. Miyu: That’s the nicest nerd compliment I’ve ever had. Akiko: Nerd compliments are my specialty. Plate two? Miyu (grabs tamago): Tamago means chiptune? Akiko: Obviously. So, what’s your favorite wave shape? Miyu: Triangle. Warm but honest. Akiko: I’m more a sawtooth gal— rough around edges. Miyu (nods again, headphones slip; she catches them): Gah. Akiko: Let them hang on your neck. Trust the air. [Miyu sets headphones down beside her, exhaling.] Akiko: Better. Miyu (quiet): Thanks. Akiko: Hey, can I ask something kind of— personal‑ish? Miyu (tenses): Okay. Akiko: When you listened to me play… what did you hear first? Technique? Emotion? Frequencies? Miyu (thinks): The sustain between notes. Like you didn’t want the phrase to end. Akiko (eyes soften): Huh… No one’s ever said that. They talk speed, not spaces. Miyu: Spaces make melodies breathe. Akiko: You’d make a wicked producer. Miyu: I just tinker. Akiko: Tinker in my rehearsal sometime. I’ve got a band—needs someone who hears spaces. Miyu (blinks): Me? I’ve never— parents— Akiko: We practice Sundays, community center five minutes from here. No pressure. Show up, or don’t. But I’ll save you a plate of salmon. [Miyu looks at the moving belts; plates blur like a timeline.] Miyu: I… might. Akiko (grins wide): That’s practically a yes. [They eat in companionable quiet for a moment. Ambient hum of conveyors, distant arcade bleeps.] Akiko (tilts head): Your headphones—what model? Miyu: Audio‑Technica R70x. Open‑back. Akiko: Mind if I try? Miyu (hands them): Careful, the clamp— Akiko (places on head, one ear half off): Whoa, it’s like stepping inside a reverb tank. Miyu (smiles proudly): I modded the padding with velour. Akiko: Luxurious. Here— (returns them) They suit you. Like a pilot helmet. Miyu: Pilot of oscillators. Akiko: Captain Miyu, charting the waveform galaxy. [Both laugh. Stack of empty plates grows.] Akiko (stretching): Okay, my treat, remember? Miyu: But I— I have allowance— Akiko: You can buy me a canned coffee next time. Fair? Miyu (soft): Next time, then. [They stand. Akiko pays with a flourish of coins and digital wallet beep. Outside, evening has painted Den Den Town in deeper neon.] Akiko: Walk you to the station? Miyu: I’m taking the loop line. Akiko: Same direction. Let’s sync BPMs. [Miyu slips headphones over one ear, offers the other to Akiko.] Miyu (thumb on player): City pop shuffle? Akiko: Dealer’s choice, pilot. [Miyu presses play. A mellow Rhodes intro spills into shared earbuds as they step back into the electronic glow, two wavelengths already beginning to harmonize.]

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Chapter Six: Fast‑Forward Fright 1 I swear I was just an ordinary seventh‑grader yesterday. The kind who forgets his locker combo, whose voice still squeaks during book reports, and who is absolutely, positively invisible to girls. Then Mom surprised me with an “early birthday present”—a glossy black smart watch she’d scored at a yard‑sale. It snapped onto my wrist like it had been waiting for me. The screen glowed midnight blue and pulsed my name: LIAM. Weird, but cool. Right? 2 Tuesday morning, doom struck: I’d left my math homework on the kitchen counter. Mr. Gresky was the kind of teacher who smelled fear—and flunked it. My pulse rattled as I shuffled toward his room. That was when the watch vibrated. New icon: two arrows chasing each other around a clock face. Underneath: REWIND FIVE MINUTES? I jabbed YES. 3 The hallway blurred, colors smearing like wet paint. I blinked—and found myself back by the buses, exactly five minutes earlier, homework still safe in my backpack because I hadn’t left it yet. Goose bumps prickled my arms. I wasn’t going to question miracles. I sprinted home, grabbed the worksheet, and made it back before the bell. 4 Second period gym. Dodgeball. A rubber sphere the size of my head rocketed toward my glasses. Panic punch! I hit REWIND THIRTY SECONDS. Wham—time slid backward. This time I ducked. Ball sailed by, nailing Tyler Walker instead. I cackled—until I saw the cat. A mangy gray stray sat outside the gym doors, tail flicking. It stared straight at me, golden eyes shining like traffic lights. Nobody else seemed to notice the feline audience. 5 By lunch I’d rewound three more times: once to memorize the answers Mrs. Peña accidentally left on the board, twice to redo a joke that bombed. Each rewind felt like a roller‑coaster dip in my stomach—nothing more—until I reached for my tray and froze. My arm was…hairier. Not tarzan hairy, but there was definite fuzz that hadn’t been there during homeroom. My sleeves suddenly looked shorter, too. 6 “Whoa, Liam,” my best friend Jonah said. “Did you, like, grow an inch since breakfast?” I laughed it off—sort of. But when I spoke, the laugh tumbled out deeper, like it took an elevator down my throat. Jonah’s eyebrows climbed. 7 After school I sprinted to the bathroom mirror. No denying it now: faint shadows above my lip, cheekbones sharper, and—no joke—a lone zit blooming on my chin. Puberty, express delivery. My stomach twisted harder than any rewind. I raised the watch. “What are you doing to me?” As if answering, the screen flashed tiny gray text I hadn’t seen before: TEMPORAL ENERGY COST: 1 BIOLOGIC YEAR PER CUMULATIVE HOUR REVERSED. I’d already reversed fifty‑eight minutes. Almost a whole year older in one day. 8 I yanked on my hoodie and stumbled outside, needing air. The stray cat was perched on the bike rack, tail coiled around rusty bars. Its eyes followed the watch. No, they followed me—like it recognized the stranger I was becoming. 9 Wednesday morning delivered proof. My voice was full‑on baritone, and my jeans hugged my calves like shrink‑wrap. Mom squinted at me over her coffee. “Did you sleep in stilts?” At school, eighth‑graders nodded at me like I belonged, while seventh‑graders parted around me. Mr. Gresky even called me “Mr. Harper,” the way he spoke to high school visitors. The watch had turned me into my own big brother. 10 I decided, right then, no more rewinds. Ever. Good plan—until Jonah slipped in the cafeteria and dumped chocolate milk over Principal Dawes’s khakis. The entire room howled. Jonah’s face melted crimson. I couldn’t watch my best friend roast for the rest of the year. Just this once, I told myself. REWIND FIFTEEN MINUTES. 11 Time snapped back like an elastic band. I steadied Jonah before he skidded. Victory—until the fire alarm shrieked. Doors burst open, teachers herding us outside. Word spread fast: a city bus had jumped the curb and smashed into the cafeteria wall—the very wall where we’d been standing moments earlier. No injuries, because the lunch period changed when I rewound. But I’d traded Jonah’s embarrassment for a million dollars in damage and a headline disaster. I aged, too. I could feel it—bones stretching, muscles buzzing. The watch read: BIO YEARS CONSUMED: 2.5. My reflection in a shattered window showed sideburns and a jaw so sharp it could slice pizza. 12 Sirens wailed. Smoke hissed. Above the chaos, the stray cat appeared atop a mailbox, glaring like a tiny, furry jury. I understood now: each rewind didn’t just change me—it changed everything around me. The cat, somehow, rode the real timeline, remembering every version. 13 If a fifteen‑minute rewind could wreck a cafeteria, what about the chain reaction still rippling outward? I had to undo all of it—undo myself. My finger hovered over the icon: REWIND 24 HOURS. A warning flashed crimson: BATTERY CRITICAL. FURTHER USE MAY RESULT IN PERMANENT TEMPORAL DISPLACEMENT. I gulped. Permanent sounded, well, permanent. But staying a fourteen‑year‑old in a broken world sounded worse. I glanced at the cat. It blinked once—slow, solemn approval, like it understood sacrifice. Maybe it did. 14 “Here goes nothing,” I whispered. I hit YES. The sky folded inward. My ears filled with rushing wind and a thousand overlapping me’s shouting. The watch’s screen spider‑webbed with cracks, sparks sizzling across my skin. Then blackness. 15 I woke to birdsong and the antiseptic smell of the nurse’s office. My arms were the right length again; my face felt smooth. I bolted upright. “Easy, Liam.” Nurse Patel pressed a thermometer to my forehead. “You fainted during morning announcements. Probably skipped breakfast.” Morning announcements? That meant Monday—before any rewinds. The timeline was patched. Maybe. 16 I stumbled outside as the first bell rang. Students milled, blissfully unaware of buses smashing walls in another reality. Relief washed over me—until I spotted the stray cat sitting on the steps. It lifted a paw, revealing the cracked black smart watch dangling from its claws like a trophy. The cat’s eyes locked onto mine, swirling pools of green and gold. It lowered the watch, let it clatter to the concrete, and padded away. The bell rang. I was late for class—but suddenly I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to touch time again. (Word count: ≈1,015)

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The midway smelled of brine, hot grease, and something singed—ozone from the fickle new sodium lamps that blinked over the peeling façades. She wove through clusters of sailors on shore leave until the crack of the shooting gallery rifles drew her. Tin ducks jerked along a rail, their backs painted with comic‑book grins. *What am I doing here?* The question flickered as unstably as the lights. *I should never have answered that letter. I should never have kept the lock of hair.* Her glove brushed the hidden pocket in her handbag where the small envelope lay feather‑light and incendiary. The barker noticed her hesitation. “Step right up, miss. Five shots for a nickel. Show the boys how it’s done.” “You think I need to prove something?” she asked, smoothing a stray curl behind her ear. “Everyone’s got something to prove on Coney Island.” His grin was more wolf than carnival cheer. A warm voice answered from behind her. “She only proves things when she chooses.” She turned. Obsidian curls; darker eyes. The stranger wore a summer suit that looked almost black under the pulsing lamps, but midnight blue when the bulb above them lapsed into shadow. “You kept our appointment,” he said. “Curiosity is a vise,” she replied. “Once it clamps—” “—one either breaks free or lets oneself be shaped,” he finished. The barker raised a brow. “So, lady, you playing?” The stranger produced a nickel and placed it on the counter. “Five shots for the lady.” She accepted the small .22, the wood worn satin‑smooth by thousands of uncertain palms. “I’m not accustomed to being handled,” she murmured. “Nor am I accustomed to handling,” he said. “Merely facilitating.” *Facilitating what, exactly?* Heat crawled up her neck, equal parts embarrassment and an electricity she hadn’t tasted since girlhood dares. He stepped nearer, not quite touching. “Sight along the barrel. Exhale before you squeeze.” “I know how to shoot.” “Of course.” He folded his arms, letting the lamps sketch blade‑like shadows across his cheekbones. She raised the rifle. The first duck clanged, flinging paint chips. She hit the second, missed the third, hit the fourth and fifth. Applause rose from a gaggle of boys; coins rang in the barker’s till. “Four out of five,” the stranger said. “A revealing ratio.” “What does it reveal?” She set the rifle down, pulse drumming. “That accuracy yields to anticipation. You rushed the third shot.” The barker slung a cardboard swan into her hands. “Prize for the sharpshooter.” She accepted, turning to the stranger. “I prefer live birds.” “They prefer you,” he answered, and somehow it sounded neither compliment nor threat—only inevitable. Music from the carousel floated over them, a warped calliope waltz. The sodium lamp above hissed, dimmed, flared. Patterns like broken fishnet danced across his face. “Walk with me,” he said. “Name first.” He considered. “Names are currencies that inflate too quickly. May I owe you?” “You’re asking credit from a woman you’ve never met?” “I’ve met you,” he said softly. “Last winter, on a bench beneath the El. You dropped your book of Dante. I still recall the pressed violet between Canto V and VI.” She startled. *He was there? Or has he only read me so cleverly that it feels like memory?* She started down the boards anyway, cardboard swan under her arm. Crowds thickened and parted, as though steered by some undertow that favored their passage. “You received my letter,” he said. “Yes.” “And the lock.” “Yes.” She kept her eyes on the distant Parachute Jump, its iron skeleton reddened by sunset. “Whose hair was it?” “Does provenance matter more than intention?” “Intention can poison regardless of source.” He laughed, quiet thunder. “Then call it mine, if that helps.” *His locks.* The antique phrase tolled again, stubborn as a nursery rhyme. Seagulls shrieked overhead. A gust lifted the hem of her linen jacket; he steadied her elbow without presumption. “Tell me what you want,” she said. “Want is too blunt a word. Let us say: I’ve arranged a possibility. One that needs your consent.” “Consent to what?” “To seeing something you’ve refused to see in yourself.” “You speak like a fortune‑teller.” “Fortune‑tellers work from scripts. I prefer improvisation.” He guided her toward the shadowed flank of a tent advertising THE WORLD’S SMALLEST HORSE. Behind it, the boardwalk’s noise sank to a muffled hum. “If you intend harm,” she warned, “I carry more than dimes in my purse.” “Harm is a matter of perspective.” “So is desire.” He smiled. “Exactly.” *I could leave now. Walk back into the light, hail a cab, forget these last weeks of letters and waking dreams.* But some vital hinge had already swung shut behind her. He drew a silver case from his pocket, opened it, revealing not cigarettes but a coil of satin ribbon, black as his hair. She exhaled, startled. “Why bring that here?” “I told you,” he said, “I facilitate. In Paris such ribbons are sold beside perfume. In New York, one must improvise.” “You think I’d let you use it?” “I think you came to decide.” He offered the ribbon across his palm, an altar of flesh. Voices drifted from the midway, laughter stitched with the clack of wooden roller‑coaster cars. The sodium bulb overhead fluttered, plunged them into semidarkness, then blazed again. She touched the ribbon; cool silk whispered over her thumb. *This is madness.* Aloud, she said, “Tell me the rules.” “Only one,” he replied. “That you may stop at any breath. Everything halts when you say so.” “And begin?” “Now, if you wish.” A passing lightkeeper rattled a ladder nearby; they froze until his footsteps faded. She lifted the ribbon. “Around my wrists, or—?” “Around your eyes,” he said. “Trust first; surrender later.” “Blindfolded on a carnival boardwalk. How discreet.” “Discretion,” he murmured, “is more attitude than geography.” The daring in her mouth tasted metallic, like the spent shell casings back at the gallery. She folded the ribbon once, twice, then hesitated. “I’ll tie it,” he offered. She let him. Silk slid over her temples, shutting out everything but ocean roar and heartbeat. Knots drew snug, not tight. “Can you see?” he asked. “Only inside myself.” His breath skimmed her ear. “Describe it.” “Dark. But alive. Sparks when you speak.” “Good.” A fingertip traced the line of her jaw, stopping at her pulse. “Do you want to continue?” “Yes.” “Open your mouth.” She did. The taste of saltwater taffy appeared—no, not taffy, something sharper: a peel of citrus he must have carried for this very moment. “Bite,” he instructed. She bit; juice burst, stinging sweet and bitter. “Another rule,” he said. “Nothing wasted.” His lips found the remaining segment between her teeth, stealing it, stealing her breath with it. *So this is why I came.* Footsteps approached; he pulled back. The bulb above them blinked out completely, leaving only the nacreous glow of distant rides. She whispered, “Someone’s coming.” “Do you wish to stop?” Silence hung, pliant as the ribbon. She heard the passer‑by move on. “No,” she said at last. “But I want to know your name.” He loosened one knot just enough that she could feel air on her lashes but still not see him. “Names are for later,” he said. “For now, let’s trade truths.” “Truth, then: I’m afraid.” “And mine: So am I.” A gull screeched overhead; some instinct of his body sheltered hers until the sound passed. “Another,” she demanded. “Very well,” he said. “Truth: I intend to give back what I took.” “What was that?” “Your aim.” He pressed the small rifle cartridge—the one she’d missed—into her palm. She hadn’t noticed him pocket it earlier. “Why return it?” she asked. “Because next time,” he said, “I want you to hit the mark.” The ribbon slipped away; the lamps flared on. He was already retreating into the crowd, leaving only the scent of cedar soap and burnt sugar. She looked at the cartridge glittering in her hand, then at the distant silhouette that might have been him or any other dream‑dark figure. *Next time.* The words vibrated like distant thunder, promising—or threatening—weather yet to break.

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Chapter Two – The Knocking Distance 1 The lodge’s kitchen smelled of venison stew and wood smoke, familiar scents that should have laid JT’s nerves flat. Instead, every breath felt like inhaling through damp cloth. Mike’s laughter thudded in the air—too loud, too forced, ricocheting off the log walls the way rifle shots cracked against granite. Their father moved around the iron stove with stiff, deliberate motions, muttering to himself about onions and salt. “Crazy how tame they’re getting,” Mike said, peeling the lid off a bottle of beer. “Whole herd must’ve grown up on granola bars.” Their father shot him a look, but said nothing. JT caught the older man’s hands trembling as he ladled stew into tin bowls. Not the chill—that was something deeper, a vibration at the core. JT sat, wrapping his fingers around the hot metal, willing it to ground him. “You gonna tell Mom we missed an easy shot?” he asked, meaning it as a joke. It came out thin and colorless. Mike shrugged. “Nothing to miss. It just walked off. Sometimes that’s how it goes.” JT opened his mouth to protest—the buck had not walked, it had flowed, as if the forest swallowed it whole—but closed it when his father finally spoke. “Let it lie,” the old man murmured. He stirred his own stew without eating, staring at the surface like it might offer a reflection of something lost. 2 That night JT lay in the bunkhouse loft, listening to the wind comb through the treetops. The gusts kept rearranging the world outside, making the porch door thump open, then shut again with a hollow clack. Each time JT flinched, sure someone—or something—had stepped inside. Mike’s snoring rumbled below. A comforting sound, or it should have been, but JT couldn’t shake the image of his brother’s frozen eyes in the clearing, pupils swallowed by black. Just before sleep finally dragged him under, JT heard a soft “knock…knock…knock” from deep in the woods. It echoed exactly three times and then quit, as though a stranger had considered the door and changed his mind. 3 Dawn came grey and reluctant. Frost jewelled every pine needle, the kind of cold that turned conversation into smoke. Over pancakes, Mr. Erickson—owner of the lodge, flannel titan with a jaw like a snowplow—dropped a casual warning. “You boys stay clear of the cut line past Miller’s Creek. Snow machines found an old shack out there, roof about gone. Some fool says it’s got a squatter.” “A squatter?” Mike perked up. “This far out?” Erickson shrugged. “Or something that doesn’t mind the cold. Prints all around—caribou, but spaced wrong. Like they were walking on two legs.” He laughed, but it sounded rehearsed; the kind of laugh you practice because not laughing would leave a silence too big to live inside. Their father scraped his chair back. “There’s no cabin on the maps.” “Maps don’t mean squat,” Erickson replied. “The old-timers called that stretch Knocking Distance. Said if you heard three raps after sundown, you were too close.” JT felt his spoon hover in mid‑air. Three knocks. 4 By midmorning they were on the trail again, snow squeaking under their boots. JT hung near the rear, pretending to adjust his pack so he could watch the others. His father’s gait had changed—softer, like he was afraid of waking something. They skirted Miller’s Creek, then swung north beneath a bruised sky. No caribou. Not even scat. The land was empty in a deliberate way, as if the animals had agreed on a boycott. At noon, Mike stopped at the foot of a gentle rise. “I’m heading east. River flats oughta be crawling by now.” Their father nodded. “Don’t go alone.” “I’m twenty‑seven, Dad.” Mike hefted his rifle and smirked at JT. “Besides, I’ve got junior ranger here.” JT wanted to protest—he still remembered that blank look in Mike’s eyes—but kept quiet, trotting after him. Safer that way. 5 They walked an hour without a word. Noon light slanted through the spruce, turning every branch into a barbed silhouette. JT’s mind kept replaying the knocks, the way they had cut through the night like measured breath. “Something on your mind?” Mike asked finally. JT forced a shrug. “You believe Erickson’s story?” “Cabin? Squatter? Doesn’t matter.” Mike checked the safety on his .30‑06. “Stories keep rookies from getting lost.” “What about the prints that look like they’re walking on two legs?” Mike laughed. “You spend enough winters up here, you’ll see Mickey Mouse dancing waltzes. Brain wants patterns.” He shouldered on, confident. They topped the rise and there it was—half‑hidden in a thicket of birch, sagging roof like a broken spine: the cabin. Far older than any logging camp, its boards petrified to the color of gravestones. JT tasted copper in his mouth. “We should circle around,” he said. “Waste of daylight,” Mike answered, already descending. 6 Twenty yards from the door, the woods went hush, not the pleasant hush of snow but a vacuum that drank every sound. Even the wind refused to trespass. JT’s ears filled with his own pulse. Mike set a palm against the door. “Hello?” he called, almost playful. His voice died inches away, throttled by the stillness. He glanced back. “See? Nobody home.” He pushed. The door creaked inward. Darkness pooled inside, smelling of wet fur and ashes long cold. JT remained outside, boots rooted. A low beam of light slipped through the rafters, and in that dim stripe he saw something on the floor: a caribou skull, antlers intact, polished as ivory. A second skull beside it, smaller, maybe a calf. Both arranged facing the doorway like watchers on a throne. Mike whistled. “Creepy décor.” He stepped over the threshold. “C’mon, quick look.” JT swallowed. Each breath felt borrowed. He made himself cross the sill. The cabin interior was only one room—cots rusted to coils, stove belly‑up in a corner. And the smell…not decay exactly, but anticipation, like iron heating before it glows. “See? Just junk,” Mike said, though his voice quivered. He nudged the larger skull with his boot. A soft knock replied. Not from the walls, not from outside. From under the floorboards—three precise taps. JT’s skin crawled. Mike froze, pupils dilating. “Probably a branch,” Mike whispered, but his eyes said he didn’t believe it. The knocks came again. Knock. Knock. Knock. Slow, patient, as if rehearsing. “Let’s go,” JT said. Mike nodded too quickly. They backed out, rifles forgotten at their sides. The door swung shut behind them with a quiet click, though no wind stirred. 7 They trudged uphill, silence grinding between them. JT kept expecting the knocks to resume from the trees, but the forest stayed mute. At the ridge, Mike finally spoke. “We don’t mention this to Dad.” JT bit his lip. “Why?” “Because there’s nothing to tell.” Mike’s smile looked stapled on. “Cabin’s empty. That’s all.” JT wanted to scream that he’d heard it too, that denying it wouldn’t make it vanish. Instead he nodded. Always safer that way. 8 They made camp early, claiming fatigue. Darkness slid in fast, like ink poured over the horizon. Their father brewed coffee while JT tried to read a paperback, eyes skimming the same line until words lost meaning. Mike sat by the fire, gaze nailed to the flames. When the coffee was ready, their father handed out tin mugs. “You boys stick to the flats?” he asked. “Nothing but quiet,” Mike said. JT heard the lie wobble. Their father studied them. The firelight carved hollows under his eyes. “You hear knocking?” he asked abruptly. JT’s mug jerked, scalding his palm. Mike cleared his throat. “What?” “Middle of the night, sometimes you’ll hear three knocks. Log shifting in the cold, most likely. Folks make it into a ghost story.” His tone said he didn’t believe the explanation either. JT opened his mouth, but the words tangled. Instead he stared at the dark beyond the fire where trunks stood like sentinels. Somewhere out there the cabin waited, skulls facing the door, guardian of a threshold no human had asked to cross. 9 Later, after the others crawled into their sleeping bags, JT lay awake, heartbeat ticking like a metronome set too fast. He remembered his father’s trembling hand in the clearing, the way the buck had stared through them as if measuring distance. Knocking distance. A breeze toyed with the tarp, making it rustle like breath. JT shut his eyes. Knock. He bolted upright. Had he imagined it? Knock. Closer now, just beyond the fire’s dying glow. JT’s mouth went cotton‑dry. Knock. Three, no more, no less. The forest held its breath. JT unzipped his bag in slow motion. If he woke the others, the knocks might stop—and that might be worse, because then only JT would know they’d ever existed. He stepped outside the ring of embers. Cold air stitched needles along his skin. “Hello?” he whispered, voice smaller than a child’s. Something moved between the trees—a pale shape, antlered, tall as a man. Its eyes caught the last ember’s light, black and calm. JT couldn’t tell if it was animal or something wearing an animal the way a priest wears vestments. It raised one arm—or was it a foreleg?—and pressed it gently to the trunk beside it. Knock. JT felt the sound in his sternum more than his ears, a summons written in bone. The figure turned, disappearing into the dark, expecting him to follow. Behind JT, the lodge flickered with warm lamplight, the promise of ordinary life. Ahead, the woods opened like a mouth. He stood on the threshold—one step, and he’d know which world was real. Or he might never come back at all. The wind sighed through the needles, urging. JT took a breath, tasting snow and something else—iron, ancient, inevitable. He took the first step.

Model Output:
Lucifer Morningstar’s alarm clock is a choir of damned trumpets tuned to the key of Existential D-flat. They begin blaring at precisely 6:66 a.m.—an hour that shouldn’t exist, which is why it fits so neatly into his diary. He lies in bed for a moment, admiring the ceiling of weeping stalactites, before a drooling hellhound noses him. “Morning, Barghest,” Lucifer mutters, scratching the beast behind the molten‑ear. Barghest responds by padding to the Iron Throne in the corner of the chamber and resuming his favorite hobby: chewing one of its legs to slag. Lucifer winces at the metallic crunch. The throne is a relic from the First Rebellion, forged out of fallen meteorite and committee meetings. Still, a pet is a pet, and it has been millennia since anyone offered him unconditional affection. He makes a mental note—Find indestructible chew toy, preferably made of angelic hubris—and slips into his day‑robe, a modest number of black silk woven from midnight regrets. 7:15 a.m. – Monday Briefing The conference pit is already full: imps with clipboards, a harpy from Human Resources (staff morale is literally subterranean), and Beelzebub, who brought pastries no one can eat because they keep screaming. “First item,” Lucifer says, planting himself on the throne. A groan echoes as the compromised leg sags. “Circles of Hell realignment. We’re overcrowded in the Social‑Media Influencer subsection.” “Suggest we double‑stack them,” Beelzebub offers. “Vertical damnation is very space‑efficient.” Lucifer nods while discreetly nudging Barghest away from the throne with one polished hoof. The hound drools a puddle that hisses through the black marble. “Second item,” he continues, “fallen soul intake is up 6 percent, mostly hedge‑fund managers. Good work, team.” His audience applauds by flapping, clacking, or in one case bursting into polite flame. Lucifer tries not to think of Lilith. Thinking of Lilith at staff meetings is like thinking of poetry during tax audits: dangerous and faintly embarrassing. 9:00 a.m. – Unexpected Visitor The door of the conference pit swings open, revealing Lilith framed in scarlet light. She’s wearing civilian clothes—the casual apocalypse look, jeans and a jacket sewn from the last nightmare of a saint. She wipes ash from her boots. “Forgot my serpent,” she says. “Left it here after the argument. Thought I’d pop by.” Lucifer’s heart (which he keeps around purely for sentimental reasons) executes a double beat. He hasn’t seen her since the ‘Great Who‑Gets‑the‑Left‑Side‑of‑the‑Bed Schism.’ “It’s in Lost & Profane,” he replies lightly. “New wing, right of Eternal Paperwork.” Lilith arches an eyebrow. “You built a new wing? Thought you hated expansions.” Lucifer shrugs. “Hell grows. People give us so much raw material.” He gestures to the meeting. “Care to join? We have open screams at ten.” “Tempting, but I’m only here for the serpent.” She eyes Barghest gnawing industriously. “And maybe to say hi.” That last word hangs between them like unspoken prophecy. 10:30 a.m. – The Quotas Lucifer walks the corridors, clipboard in hand, Lilith half a step behind. They pass the Lake of Unsolicited Opinions, now frozen over by corporate synergy speeches. “So,” she begins, casual as ravens at a battlefield, “seeing anyone?” He gives her a sidelong glance. “Eight billion mortals, one ex, a hellhound, and existential dread. Busy schedule.” Lilith laughs, and the chains on condemned souls rattle in sympathetic vibration. He’s missed that sound, not that he’d admit it without legal counsel. Barghest trots ahead, finds a decorative iron baluster, and bites down. 11:59 a.m. – Lunch They eat at the Soul Food Cafe. Lucifer orders the nine‑layer resentment lasagna; Lilith chooses the heartbreak bisque. It’s oddly domestic—an ordinary couple on a lunch date, except the waitstaff are wraiths who scream the specials. “I’m thinking of leaving Eden Realty,” she says between spoonfuls. “Might freelance mischief again.” Lucifer swirls his wineglass (vintage 1348, year of the plague, peppery with despair). “We could use a consultant. Morale’s up, creativity’s down.” “Consultant,” she repeats, tasting the word. “Is that your idea of foreplay?” “Depends on the contract length.” Their knees brush under the lava‑proof table. Both pretend not to notice. 1:00 p.m. – Performance Review Back in the torture district, Lucifer assesses a demon flenser who’s fallen behind on screams‑per‑hour. He explains motivational techniques while Lilith idly twirls a pitchfork. “Positive reinforcement works, too,” she observes. “Promise them a holiday in Limbo.” Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “Mercy?” “Cruelty through hope. You taught me.” He clears his throat, almost proud. 3:33 p.m. – The Incident During his afternoon address to new arrivals (theme: Welcome to Forever, No We Don’t Validate Parking), the Iron Throne finally gives up. Barghest’s prolonged chewing severs the last structural tooth; the leg snaps with a clang like a cracked commandment. Lucifer pitches sideways, undignified, and lands in a sprawl. The damned cheer—humiliation of authority is always crowd‑pleasing. Barghest, thrilled with his handiwork, wags demonically. Lilith steps forward, offers Lucifer a hand. He hesitates before taking it; her grip is warm, like stolen sunlight. “Your chair’s broken,” she says. “I noticed,” he replies, brushing ash from his robe. She pats Barghest. “At least someone’s happy.” Lucifer sighs, feeling the weight of millennia, the ache of cosmic bureaucracy, and the bruise on his pride. “I keep forgetting that everything in Hell eventually falls apart.” Lilith studies him. “Not everything.” She strokes the hound, who rolls over, belly of blazing coals exposed. “Some things only change shape.” 5:00 p.m. – Aftermath Maintenance imps haul away the throne to weld on fresh despair. Lucifer and Lilith walk the obsidian promenade. The sky rains frogs that croak stock‑market tips. She glances over. “So,” she says, “dinner?” He stops. “Are we talking reconciliation, or just shared calories?” She shrugs, cosmic and casual. “Let’s find out.” Barghest barks—a sound like continents grinding—and trots between them, leash dragging. The hound chooses a direction, and they follow, side by side, trying not to step on each other’s shadows. 7:07 p.m. – Epilogue They end up at Pandemonium Pizzeria, sharing a pie topped with forbidden fruit and pepperoni. Conversation wanders: past wars, future dooms, whether love is simply prolonged curiosity. When the check arrives (signed in blood, includes gratuity), Lucifer reaches, but Lilith is faster. “Consider it a consultant’s courtesy,” she says. “Does that mean you’re taking the job?” “I’m considering the benefits package.” She meets his eyes. “Negotiate tomorrow?” He smiles, small and dangerous and tired. “Tomorrow, then.” Outside, the neon sign flickers: HELL IS OTHER DEMONS, a slogan he’d approved as a joke that turned into branding. Barghest curls at their feet, gnawing contentedly on a spare throne bolt the cook tossed him. Lucifer thinks: Hell is other demons, yes, but sometimes—just sometimes—Hell is a day that ends with possibility instead of accounting. And that, he decides, is almost heavenly.

Model Output:
The sun had barely crested the top tier of the Colosseum when the clatter of wooden practice swords began echoing through the hypogeum. I woke to that sound—hollow thuds against shields, curses in half‑learned Latin, the rasp of straw bedding under restless bodies—long before the lanista’s boys came with the oil lamps. My nostrils filled with the usual mingled odors: damp limestone, iron chains, stale sweat, and the sour tang of last night’s barley gruel. Somewhere farther down the corridor a slave was ladling out garum for the midday meal, and its fishy stench drifted through the bars like a taunt. I stretched, feeling the bruises bloom along my ribs, souvenirs from yesterday’s drills. Every morning I half expected new purple marks to arrange themselves into constellations—signs from the gods, perhaps, or a secret map to freedom. Instead, they were only bruises: reminders that even survival in the arena left its handwriting on flesh. Above us the city was stirring. Rome’s noises seeped through cracks in the stone ceiling: mule carts grinding over paving stones, street hawkers chanting the day’s prices, distant horns calling the morning watch to end. The Empire was already in motion, pushing wheat from Egypt, silver from Hispania, and men like me from every border it cannibalized. I rinsed my face in a wooden basin, the water shockingly cold, and traced the faint scar along my jaw. It was a keepsake from Thrace, like the memories of pine forests and snow I had almost forgotten. Slaves are not supposed to remember home; forgetting is safer. But memory is like the smell of pine pitch—persistent, even under layers of foreign oils. “Marcus Lanius,” the lanista’s runner called, keys jingling. “Up. The medicus needs you before the senators arrive.” I followed him along the torch‑lit passage, passing cells where other gladiators stirred—Gauls, Nubians, Syrians, each branded by Rome’s hot iron yet carrying their homelands in their eyes. We walked by a barred window, and for a heartbeat I tasted freedom in the draft of cool morning air carrying the aromas of the Forum: fresh bread, trampled basil leaves, and the acrid smoke from sacrificial altars. Then the corridor swallowed the window, and I was back in the tunnel’s throat. The medicus, Publius Castor, smelled of wine vinegar and crushed myrrh. He prodded my bruises, dabbed them with honeyed salve, and muttered that the Emperor’s games were costing him more bandages than the Dacian Wars. “Trajan wants victories,” he said, binding my ribs. “The plebs want blood. Hyacinths and carrion, that’s Rome now. Hold your shield a touch higher, and maybe you’ll live long enough to see the crowd turn.” “Will it ever turn?” I asked. He shrugged. “A mob is like the Tiber in flood—dangerous, but predictable. Bread, wine, a few executions, and it recedes.” Outside his chamber, the corridor widened into the practice yard, a sunlit pit open to the sky. The sand here was clean, unused for matches, the color of crushed bone. Wooden dummies, nicked and scarred, stood at attention. I smelled oiled leather and pine tar from the freshly mended shields. The clang of iron-on-iron rang sharp as a lyre string being plucked too hard. I took up a rudis—a wooden sword, light in the hand but heavy with meaning for a man who dreamt of the day it would be given to him as the sign of freedom. The oak grip warmed quickly to my palm. Nearby, Titus the Gaul practiced sweeping cuts with a pair of scissae, blades shaped like crescent moons. Sweat beaded on his broad back, catching the light like molten bronze. “Morning, Thracian,” he grunted mid‑swing. “Hear the news? Rome’s raising taxes again for that bridge over the Danube. Your cousins will walk it straight to our cages.” I parried an invisible opponent and tried to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Empires eat coin like lions eat meat. Seneca said that, didn’t he?” “He also said slavery was a state of mind,” Titus retorted, and hacked the air with a laugh. The trainer, old Lemurius, clapped his hands. “Enough philosophy. Shields up, shoulders square. Remember, spectators love confidence even more than gore.” I moved through the drill, muscle memory guiding each block and thrust, but my thoughts drifted to Hercules—my chosen patron among the gods. Not Mars, as Lemurius advised, nor Nemesis, whom Titus invoked before every match. Hercules was mortal once, flawed and punished, yet through labor he found divinity. I liked to think that each time I lifted my shield, I was pushing my own boulder, one step closer to the stars he occupies now. At midday the drills ended. Lemurius dismissed us to the baths—our one luxury, paid for by tickets the plebs would later buy to see us die. The steam room smelled of cedar resin and fragrant oils. Warm water sluiced over my shoulders, washing away sand and worry alike. For a moment I could close my eyes and believe I was a citizen, not a spectacle. Conversations drifted around the caldarium like lazy gulls. Two retiarii debated whether the Emperor would march east against Parthia. A murmillo muttered that grain shipments were late again; he had overheard senators fretting about riots in the Subura. I listened, storing every fragment. Knowledge was a weapon that drew no blood but carved paths just the same. After the bath, we filed into the refectory. Lunch was barley porridge studded with figs, a concession to the physicians who insisted we needed sweetness for stamina. I ate slowly, savoring each fig as if it were the first food from home. Across the table Satyrus, barely seventeen, pushed his bowl away, appetite lost to terror. Tomorrow would be his first appearance. “You’ll be fine,” I told him, though I remembered my own first night, the roar of eighty thousand throats collapsing into one monstrous growl. “Keep your eyes on your opponent’s shoulders, not his weapon. Shoulders telegraph intent.” He nodded, lips pale. “Marcus, do you think the gods watch us—really watch us?” I hesitated. The torchlight danced on the walls, painting shadows of heroes in combat across the plaster. “Hercules watches,” I said. “He knows about unfair labors.” Satyrus managed a thin smile. “Then I’ll pray to him tonight.” When the meal ended, I expected to be sent back to the cells, but Lemurius pulled me aside. “Change into your trophaea tunic,” he said. “A patron wishes to inspect you.” Patron. The word tasted like old copper. We walked up a narrow stair into blinding sunlight. The arena seating was empty now, gulls circling where, by dawn, people would sit crowded, clamoring for redder sand. In the shade of an awning lounged Senator Quintus Valerius Varro, draped in a toga so white it hurt the eye. Two peacocks fanned their tails behind him, as if Rome itself needed decoration. Varro studied me the way a buyer inspects a horse’s teeth. “This is the Thracian I requested?” Lemurius nodded. “Best with the sica. Favors a crescent shield.” Varro’s rings clicked against a wax tablet. “Wealthy merchants from Alexandria are in my box tomorrow. They crave novelty. Make sure he fights a hoplomachus; the contrast of styles entertains.” The senator dismissed us with a flick of his hand, already turning to discuss tax levies with his aide. To him, I was a line item between amphorae of wine and rolls of papyrus. Back in the corridor, I felt the familiar heat of anger rise—useless, dangerous, quickly smothered. “Bread and circuses,” the poet Juvenal had written. We were the circuses, moving pieces in the politics of distraction. As long as bodies filled the sand, no one asked why grain was scarce or legions bled at the Empire’s edges. Evening settled. Torches were lit; the scent of pine pitch returned. I knelt before my cot and whispered the old Thracian words my mother had taught me, then Latin ones learned here: “Hercules Invictus, grant me strength for honest labor, grant me the prize of tomorrow’s dawn.” I did not ask for victory. Survival would suffice. From somewhere above, laughter drifted—the city’s wealthy toasting victories they hadn’t earned. Below, a chain rattled, a reminder that dawn would bring another show, another tally of lives weighed against public favor. I lay back on the straw, tasting the salt of my own skin, and let the rhythm of Rome’s ceaseless heart lull me toward uneasy sleep. If Hercules once bore the heavens upon his shoulders, surely I could carry one more night of fear. Tomorrow, the sun would rise over the Colosseum again, flood the arena with gold, and the crowd would roar. And I, Marcus Lanius, would stand beneath them—bruised, breathing, and not yet broken.

Model Output:
1. 11 March 1997, Inchcape Lighthouse Telegram – Keeper’s Room MA—ARRIVED YESTERDAY. SEA ROUGH, BUT LIGHT’S SOUND. ONLY ME AND OLD GENERATOR BETWEEN SHIPS AND THE SKERRIES. WILL WRITE PROPER ON FIRST SUPPLY RUN. LOVE, CALLUM ≈ 17 words –––––––––––––––––––– 2. 14 March 1997, Dundee Letter – Kitchen Table, still smelling of bleach My Callum, Seventeen words, half of them about machinery—typical of your father’s son. I’ve pinned the telegram above the cooker so I can pretend you’re closer than those miles of water. Write when you can. If you need anything—wool socks, oatcakes, a new life entirely—say so. Mind the Bell Rock reef. It took your Uncle Rab’s boat before you were born. All my love, Ma ≈ 90 words –––––––––––––––––––– 3. 2 May 1997, Inchcape Letter – smudged with lamp‑oil Ma, First calm spell long enough to put pen to paper. The landmark you’d like is the red‑sandstone stack they call the Lady of Aiberdeen—looks like it’s praying for the tide to turn. I stare at her while winding the rota gear. Days blur into the same three colours: grey sea, white gulls, rust‑brown railing. Nights are easier; the lens gives me something to fuss over. Talking to myself already. Suppose that’s cheaper than a dog. Supplies next week. Could you send your tablet recipe? I’ve near gnawed through the sugar tin. Love, Cal ≈ 140 words –––––––––––––––––––– 4. 10 May 1997, Dundee Son, Tablet recipe enclosed; mind your teeth. I’ve added two pairs of your Gran’s socks—she swore at the radio while knitting them, so they’re well insulated with profanity. Isolation’s a hard tutor. Your father used to mutter to the engines on night watch; said steel behaved better when it thought you cared. Speak to the light, son. You’re its keeper, not its prisoner. There’s a rumour they’ll automate Inchcape next year. Think what you’ll do after. The harbour board still needs inspectors. Just saying. All love, Ma ≈ 120 words –––––––––––––––––––– 5. 28 August 1997, Inchcape Ma, Gannets are diving off the Lady like white javelins—whole sea blooms silver with mackerel. Beautiful, but the silence after the birds leave is a punch in the ribs. Haven’t heard a human voice in twenty‑one days; radio’s aerial snapped in July’s gale, and HQ keeps postponing the engineer. I tried singing to fill the gap. Discovered I’ve your da’s tuneless bark. The echo inside the tower makes it worse, like arguing with ghosts. Dreamt last night the lantern went dark and the reef rose up laughing. Woke and wound the clockwork twice, just in case. Write soon. Your lad, C. ≈ 140 words –––––––––––––––––––– 6. 3 September 1997, Dundee Callum, Three letters posted; only now I learn you’ve heard none of me. I’ll bully the Post Office tomorrow. If you need a new aerial, say so—your cousin Gregor can run it out by crab‑boat. Nightmares and no company are a rotten brew. Remember: the light is seen forty miles off. Every time you trim the wick, some stranger breathes easier. Let that be your company. I’m knitting again. Something to keep my hands from dialling the harbourmaster hourly. Hold fast, Ma ≈ 110 words –––––––––––––––––––– 7. 19 December 1997, Inchcape Ma, Storm of the decade. Seas higher than the gallery rail; spray hit the lantern glass hard enough to ring it like a bell. Generator coughed out at 02:17. Spent two hours hand‑cranking the backup lamp, singing every foul verse Rab ever taught me. Would’ve quit then and there if quitting weren’t lethal. When daylight came, I found bits of the old foghorn scattered like bones. Felt strange grief, as if the tower had lost its voice. I’m all right. Hands shake, but the light never failed. Just thought you’d want to know quick. Love, Cal ≈ 150 words –––––––––––––––––––– 8. 29 December 1997, Dundee My brave boy, Ten days of silence after tales of storm—do you mean to age me prematurely? I rang every office from Montrose to Oban. They promise a relief boat 3 January, weather allowing. Please hold on. Your room’s still here, lighthouse poster and all. I dust it every Saturday, not that it needs it. Habit keeps terror at bay. Bring the foghorn brass back with you when you’re relieved. We’ll polish it and make it sing again—maybe as a lamp for your own sitting room? Waiting, Ma ≈ 120 words –––––––––––––––––––– 9. 7 January 1998, Inchcape Ma, Relief boat finally berthed this morning through ice floes. I’m due ashore for medical but thought to write first. Turns out the tower rings inside my head even on dry land; the doctor calls it “acoustic imprinting.” Says it’ll fade if I rest somewhere loud with company—your kitchen qualifies. HQ confirmed automation date: 1 April. They offered me a post maintaining remote sensors—lone work, half the pay. I told them no. The light kept me; now it can keep itself. I’d rather hear real voices. If the offer’s still good, I’d like my old room. Love, Callum ≈ 140 words –––––––––––––––––––– 10. 10 January 1998, Dundee Callum mine, Room is ready, soup is on, and every neighbour has been warned I’ll be making indecent amounts of noise so you aren’t spooked by sudden quiet. Harbourmaster says you could start as junior inspector next month; shift work, solid pension, plenty of hulls to talk to. Think on it, but not today. Today you come home and sleep while I stand watch. I’ve set the foghorn fragment on the mantel. When you’re settled, we’ll wire a bulb through it—let the old voice give us gentle light instead of warning. Seems fitting. Safe passage, son. All my love, Ma ≈ 130 words –––––––––––––––––––– 11. 15 April 1998, Dundee Postcard – photo of Bell Rock Light winking at dusk Ma, Automation went live at 1200 hours. I was on the inspection launch outside the reef, watching. The lens turned by unseen hands, and I felt—free, not replaced. A relay clicked; the beam flared; ships kept faith with rocks they’d never see. Work goes on, even when the worker changes. Your foghorn‑lamp glows warm on the bedside table. I swear it hums when the wind’s from the east. Thank you for keeping me lit until I could keep myself. Love always, Cal ≈ 120 words Total ≈ 1,097 words

Model Output:
I step into the tapas place and, before my optic nerves can even enjoy the dim Edison‑bulb ambiance, the other half of my brain has already decrypted half the room. Open Wi‑Fi named “Tasties‑Guest,” no captive portal—great, free MITM playground. The POS tablets are running Android 7, unpatched; I clock the identical factory build number on two of them as a server swings past. The door sensor is a 2018 Honeywell with the default Bluetooth pairing code still printed on its sticker. I am here to flirt, not phish, but the vulnerability overlay is always the first thing I see, like AR glasses fused to my retina. Deep breath. Focus on the human. There—in the booth by the faux brick wall—is Mara. Strawberry‑blond hair, chunky black frames, Nissa Revane T‑shirt peeking from under a blazer. She’s half standing, half waving, wide smile. I smile back, the genuine one I reserve for rare moments when everything hasn’t yet been converted into an attack surface. We exchange the customary greetings—handshake that lingers into a gentle squeeze—while my brain still runs in background: grip strength 32‑ish psi, faint callus on right index—gamer, maybe climber. “Glad you made it,” she says. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I return, and I almost believe myself. I slide into the booth, positioning myself with line of sight to the main router on the ceiling (Ubiquiti UAP‑AC‑Pro, factory LED still on, shoot me). Menus arrive. While she scans tapas options, I scan fonts—Papyrus on page three; the designer deserves prison. Stop. Person first. “So, draft or sealed?” I ask. Her eyes light up like an Eldrazi monument. “Sealed. More variance, more puzzle.” My stomach does a little barrel roll. A puzzle person. I’m sunk. We tumble effortlessly into booster‑pack creation strategies, mulligan math, Commander pet decks. She mains Atraxa; I confess to a sadistic Yuriko build. Laughter, actual laughter—an exquisite, non‑sarcastic sound. For twenty straight minutes I don’t even map out the network topology. That might be a record. Drinks arrive—sangria for her, club soda for me (downtime brain likes code, not ethanol). Mara’s phone buzzes. iPhone SE 2nd gen, cobalt case. Screen lights; she swipes up, draws a pattern—wait, no, it’s Android‑style dots super‑imposed on an iOS lock? Ah, jail‑broken. Pattern is simple: top‑left, middle, bottom‑right. Three nodes, straight diagonal. My neural hash table spits out the stored lecture I’ve given a hundred clients: 389k possible combos, but everyone picks a line, shortest path. Rainbow‑table crackers chew that in 4.5 seconds. I bite my tongue. Do. Not. Say. Anything. She glances up. “Work ping. Sorry!” “No worries,” I say aloud, but the other voice inside comment‑threads: You know that unlock pattern is child’s play, right? Four strokes max, fingerprint smudge analysis alone— Stop. Conversation resumes—favorite planeswalkers, worst misplays. Her laugh hits me like direct sunlight after too much basement. Then she drops another breadcrumb, casual as sugar: “Yeah, my first dog, Biscuit, used to eat my cards.” Mother’s maiden name? I wonder. Pet names are 30% of secret questions. Dog + Biscuit. Mental sticky note. Why am I collecting this? Old habit, like a locksmith fidgeting with every doorknob. She asks about my work. I do the sanitized spiel: “I find issues before bad folks do.” I leave out the part where “bad folks” once included me, before the plea deal, before community service morphed into a career. She nods, intrigued in a comic‑book‑origin‑story way. Another breadcrumb: “My high school mascot was a Minuteman—so weird, right?” That’s favorite security question #4. Ping saved. I hate myself a little. Plates arrive—patatas bravas, garlic shrimp. Conversation lulls pleasantly. She picks up her phone again, this time tilting it just enough that the diagonal pattern is unavoidable. Reflex commandeers my tongue. “You know,” I hear myself say, “that unlock gesture is like leaving your front door key under the mat.” Silence detonates between us. Her eyebrows scroll up behind the lenses. “Uh… thanks?” Tone halfway between confused and creeped. Abort, rollback, patch. “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, feeling sixteen flavors of stupid. “Occupational hazard. I see vulnerabilities the way chefs taste salt in the air.” She sets the phone down, face‑down. “So you were… what, judging me?” Not judging, analyzing. But same diff. “I wasn’t judging,” I lie in spirit if not in letter. “I just… notice these things.” My fork draws idle PID diagrams in the aioli. She crosses arms. “Were you also ‘noticing’ my password while we talked?” “No! God, no.” Technically true; I only noticed enough to brute‑force it later. Damn it. Red alert. Subsystem spins up mitigation plan: Option A—apology, humor, segue. Option B—demonstrate usefulness by suggesting secure alternative; risk sounding preachy. Option C—burn it down, retreat to command line and call it a night. Heartbeat chooses Option A. “I’m really sorry. Hacker brain never fully shuts up. Let me rewind. The important part is I’m enjoying this—us—and I want to focus on that, not your phone.” Her posture softens a millimeter. “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out, testing. I continue. “Tell you what: for the next hour, no tech talk from me. If I slip, you get to make me play a land tapped for the rest of the night.” She snorts. “A land tapped? That’s… not how magic works.” “Exactly. It’ll hurt.” I smile, earnest, palms up. She exhales, maybe amused against her own will. “Fine. No tech talk.” Crisis downgraded to orange. We pivot to travel stories. She mentions spending sophomore year abroad in Florence—another security‑question gem. Stop collecting! I mentally delete the breadcrumb, shred it, salt the earth. Conversation flows again. She describes the Uffizi; I describe DEF CON wall of sheep (whoops—tech adjacent; she glares, taps her water glass ominously, I mime a land entering tapped). Laughter re‑enters the room. Mid‑meal, the waiter drops the checkface down between us. I clock the mag‑stripe reader’s default admin code 0000 flashing on screen. Mara hasn’t noticed; normal people don’t. I slide the receipt toward me, then halt. My instinct is to comp dinner via a 3‑second clone of the waiter’s card—harmless digital dine‑and‑dash, thank you for your unsecured POS. Old reflex hums like a missed phantom limb. No. I fish out my legit VISA. Good guys pay. She’s texting someone—roommate, maybe. The diagonal pattern again. I twitch. My brain whispers: you could slide the phone over, show her how easy, become the hero. Or the villain. Instead I look at her eyes. Green with flecks. Vulnerable in the human way, not the protocol way. In that little latency window, something rewires. I don’t need to pentest her to connect with her. Receipt signed, we stand. She shrugs into a coat. I clock the RFID tag still stitched in the lining—retail sensor not deactivated properly. Mouth stays shut. Progress. We step onto the sidewalk. Cool night, city hum. She hesitates, rocking on heels. “I had fun,” she says, reserved but sincere. “So did I.” And I mean it, more than the bytes darting around my skull. She studies me. “Listen, about earlier… I get that you’re wired a certain way. Just… maybe ask before you analyze?” “Deal,” I say, extending a pinky. She hooks hers to mine; the gesture is so ludicrously wholesome I can’t breathe for a second. “Second date potential?” I venture. “That depends,” she teases. “Are you going to audit my whole digital life?” “Only if you ask nicely. And fill out a Request for Penetration Testing Form 42‑B.” She laughs, honest and bright. “I’ll consider it.” We split, her to the subway, me to the bike rack. As she walks away, a streetlamp glints on the back of her phone case—a sticker: “Trust, but verify.” I grin into the night. Old instincts still ping every port. But maybe I’ve found a new firewall: genuine connection, patch level human. My feet pedal home through city code. For once I’m thinking not about zero‑days, but about day two.

Model Output:
The projector makes that rubber‑ducky squeak again as Mrs. Patel clicks to the next slide—Newton’s Second Law in Comic Sans—and the sound feels like it’s drilling straight through my skull, because every squeak is one less second I have to figure out how to talk to Evan Morales without short‑circuiting in front of twenty‑nine witnesses. Okay, breathe. I’ve been preparing for this all week, ever since the partner list went up and my name ended up under his. I should feel honored that fate finally threw me a bone after thirteen years of perpetual awkwardness, but mostly I feel like a lab mouse who’s just realized the maze walls are made of transparent glass. Everyone can see me scurry. Conversation Plan A: “Hi, Evan, I already outlined the variables and controls, so we can divide the data collection evenly.” Sounds competent. Shows initiative. Also sounds like I’ve swallowed a corporate memo. What if he thinks I’m bossy? Bossiness is tolerable in forty‑year‑old CEOs, not in scrawny eighth‑graders with orthodontic rubber bands. Plan B: “Hey, do you want to handle the experiment while I write the report? Your handwriting is better than mine anyway.” Flattery. Delegation. Except I’ve never actually seen his handwriting; for all I know he prints like a toddler with a broken crayon. If he catches the lie, congratulations, Clara, you’ve achieved Instant Untrustworthy Weirdo status. Plan C: A joke. Something about how Newton probably got the idea for gravity after an apple smashed his phone screen. No, historical anachronism—he’ll roll his eyes. Delete. The squeak again. Mrs. Patel is explaining how the cart and the pulley should demonstrate F = ma, but her voice is a distant radio station under water. Evan’s two desks away, skimming the rubric handout. His hair falls over one eye like it’s part of an equation that hasn’t been solved yet. I imagine brushing it aside so he can see the board, which is either romantic or borderline creepy. Hard to tell. Ninth squeak. Or maybe tenth. I’ve lost count. I should look casual, so I lean back—too far, the chair legs groan, and I snap forward like I’ve been electrocuted. Eyes down, pretend to adjust shoelaces. My heartbeat could power the school’s emergency generator. Plan D: Compliment his T‑shirt—“Cool Voyager logo.” Genuine, because it is cool. But compliments must be rationed or they transform into confessions. One compliment equals polite interest; two equals infatuation; three equals write me from prison. Stick to one. But what if he didn’t pick the shirt on purpose? What if his mom bought it at Target and he hates space but hasn’t told anyone? Compliment becomes accidental mockery. Abort. Mrs. Patel announces, “You’ll have the rest of the period to design your procedure.” Desks screech. Paper rustles. Evan stands, threads between chairs toward me. My stomach drops like that time the Ferris wheel stopped at the top and I imagined the bolts loosening. Smile. Not too wide. This is your face, not a movie poster. “Hey, Clara,” he says. My name in his voice is a foreign currency—valuable, unfamiliar. I have exactly half a second to produce sound. Here goes. “Hi.” Comes out like a squeak softer than the projector’s. He pulls out the seat beside me, sits, and I inhale allergy‑season levels of dust and chalk to stall for time. Plan A again, but cooler: “I made some notes—if you want to look?” I slide my notebook halfway across the desk, then yank it back. Too aggressive? I push it forward again. Pick a lane, Clara. He leans in to read. His elbow accidentally taps mine. My brain triggers DEFCON 1 but I keep my arm still, like maybe if I don’t move he won’t notice skin exists. He says, “This is great. You already listed the independent variable.” Compliment received; translate into coherent reply. Say thank you. Two syllables. Totally doable. “Th—eah.” Wow. Th‑eah? I’ve invented a new word. Outstanding. Pretend coughing fit to mask linguistic collapse. He waits, patient, smiles. Smile back. Mirror neurons, activate. I manage something approximating human expression. Internal diagnostic: cheeks burning, but not catastrophic. Move on. Plan E: Ask about dividing tasks. “Should we, um, maybe—like—you could handle the measurements since you’re taller?” Taller? What does height have to do with anything? Abort mid‑sentence. Try again. “Or we can both do everything.” Brilliant specificity there. He nods. “Works for me. You wanna write the hypothesis together?” Yes. Hypothesis. Focus on science; science has rules, not messy human subtext. “Sure. Equal and opposite reactions to our collective brain cells,” I say, attempting humor. He chuckles. Genuine or polite? Percent confidence: 60 genuine, 40 polite. Acceptable. Mrs. Patel squeaks through another slide: STAY ORGANIZED. Irony noted. I open a fresh page. Pen hovers. Words clog in my throat even though they should be flowing from brain to ink, bypassing mouth entirely. Still, I can’t start until I say something, anything, because silence feels like I’m ghosting him in real time. Maybe ask his opinion on variable range. Maybe comment on gravity. Maybe breathe first. “So, uh, I was thinking five different mass values for the cart?” Consonants stumble but assemble themselves into English. Victory. “Yeah, five’s good,” he says. He scribbles numbers. His handwriting is neat, angled slightly right, like it’s interested in the future. Relief floods: not toddler‑crayon. Compliment? No, keep powder dry. The compliment chamber is for emergencies only. We work in parallel for thirty seconds. My mind is not parallel. It’s spiraling: Is my ponytail lopsided? Did I overdo the strawberry ChapStick? Am I sitting too straight, like a meerkat on guard? Do meerkats scare boys? Another squeak. Mrs. Patel: “Remember to cite your references.” Evan asks, “Do you wanna meet in the library after school to run stats? The computers there have Excel.” Decoder ring translates: opportunity to spend unsupervised time with crush. Also opportunity to implode. Risk–reward ratio incalculable. Say yes. Say it now before the window closes. Just one syllable. I nod instead, then add, “Yes. Library. After school.” Perfectly normal sequence of words. Good job. He smiles again—the kind that reaches eyes—and writes library 3:15 on the margin of his paper, then shows it to me like a secret pact. My heart prints the same note on every internal organ. Plan F launches: imagine after‑school conversation starters. Discuss standard deviation? Ask his favorite sci‑fi movie? Offer gum? No, gum gives me hamster cheeks. Bring cookies? Desperate. Stick to science, maybe branch to music if safe. Must research his Spotify if possible. How? Break into phone? Illegal. Scrap that. For now, finish class without combusting. I draw a rough sketch of the pulley system. My hand shakes; the pulley looks like a misshapen donut. I press harder; lead snaps. Miniature catastrophe. I fumble for a sharpener. Why is it never in the same pocket twice? Evan silently offers his mechanical pencil. The gesture is so casual it feels choreographed. I accept with what I hope is casual gratitude rather than sacred reverence. Mechanical pencil tip glides; sketch improves. I imagine telling future archaeologists that this artifact was lent to me by the boy who made eighth grade survivable. Too dramatic? Yes. Keep narrative internal. Mrs. Patel announces five minutes left. Final squeak for the day. My page now has hypothesis, materials, sketch—respectable progress. Evan caps his pen. “Looks like we’re set. See you at 3:15?” Voice, don’t fail now. “See you then.” Steady, almost confident. Miracle. He stands, pushes in chair, gives a tiny wave. I wave back, smaller. As soon as he turns, I exhale all the air I’ve been hoarding since the projector’s first squeak. Lungs collapse like vacated tents. Checklist review: 1) Did not faint. 2) Did not confess undying love. 3) Acquired mechanical pencil of sentimental value. 4) Secured after‑school meeting. Social anxiety status: temporarily contained. I tuck my notebook into my backpack, then rescue the lone thought that slips past the security checkpoint of worries: I’m actually looking forward to 3:15. The realization startles me more than any potential embarrassment. Hope is loud, but for once it isn’t as loud as fear. The bell rings. Chairs scrape. I merge into the hallway current, rehearsing new conversations already, but this time each possibility ends in something other than disaster. The projector isn’t the only thing that can squeak and keep going. Turns out, so can I.

Model Output:
Six percent battery. Of course. Perfect. If the phone dies I will walk into the café blind, miss her by minutes, she’ll think I’m flaky, she’ll think I’m avoiding her, she’ll think I don’t care. And then she’ll stop caring back. I zip the jacket, try to breathe, but the zipper catches and for half a second I picture her leaning across the table tonight, voice lowered: “You’re always so sloppy, you never even arrive put‑together.” Then I see myself snapping, “I’m doing my best, Marisol,”—and already I feel the sting of tears in that argument that has not happened. Five percent. Why didn’t I bring the cord? She texted only an hour ago—Hey, can’t wait to see you 😊. A smiley face. Rationally that is warmth. My brain touches it like it’s hot metal: pull back, don’t trust it. She might be padding the fall, softening me before she lowers the boom. I can practically hear her next text—if the phone lives long enough—Actually something came up, rain‑check? Sorry! I’m lacing my shoes too tight. I imagine the laces snapping and me showing up late and barefoot, and her laughing, but the cruel kind of laugh, the kind that says I picked the wrong person to love. The mirror. Eye contact with myself feels like locking eyes with a witness. Do I look needy? Probably. I practice neutrality: slight smile, shoulders down. I can’t show the tornado. If she sees the tornado, she’ll run. She’s already inching away; her replies used to come in seconds, now minutes, yesterday a full two hours. Two hours is an epoch in which you can imagine at least forty versions of being dumped. “Tell me what you’re really thinking,” I rehearse her line, and I spit back in my head, “You first,” icy and controlled. No—too aggressive. She’ll say I’m hostile. Try again. She’ll lean forward, serious: “I feel like you need too much from me.” That one pierces. I picture forced calm: “I’m sorry you feel that way.” But inside I’d be screaming: If you leave, I vanish. Doesn’t she get that? Four percent. I should call a rideshare so I’m not late. But if I order it and the phone dies mid‑ride, the driver will dump me in traffic. Then I’ll text from some stranger’s phone and she won’t recognize the number and she’ll block it. I’ll just walk. It’s only fourteen minutes; sixteen if the lights hate me. Keys? Pocket. Wallet? Pocket. Dignity? Questionable. She said last week, out of nowhere, “You’re so easy to talk to. I feel safe with you.” I glued that sentence to the wall of my brain, but the glue melts daily. What if she was just being polite? People say safe when they really mean harmless, and harmless when they really mean boring, and boring when they really mean forgettable. On the sidewalk now. Cold air. I pull the jacket closer and imagine her saying, “You never dress warm enough, I have to mother you.” My reflexive snapback: “Fine, I’ll freeze.” There—resentment loaded in advance so it can roll forward like sandbags the moment I sense an attack. I catch myself—again—writing the entire script alone. I know this trick, the mind‑theater. My therapist calls it catastrophizing, says name it, then step outside it. I mutter, “Catastrophe TV.” A passerby glances at me; great, now random strangers think I’m unstable. They’re not wrong. Three percent. The battery icon turns red like it’s bleeding. I quick‑check our thread: last actual words from her—Totally craving their ginger tea tonight! Something we share, actually sweet. I scroll further back—photos of us Sunday, her hand on my knee, laughing so wide her eyes shut. That’s not the face of someone plotting escape. Unless she’s a very good actress. At the crosswalk I imagine her voice again, low and apologetic: “I met someone else.” Been three weeks since she downloaded that language‑app thing; maybe she met a polyglot poet in the comment section. They’re probably exchanging perfect grammar and perfect promises. I feel a rush of resentment toward this fictional poet; I hate his smug fluency. “Stop,” I hiss—out loud. The light turns. I walk. She’s allowed an app, she’s allowed friends, she’s allowed space. I know this. Café sign ahead, glowing warm. One minute early, good, but early makes me look eager, eager equals clingy, clingy equals repulsive. I slow to tie my shoe even though it’s tied. Two percent. If the phone dies, I can’t text “I’m here” and she’ll think I’m making her come in and search for me like a stalker. I open the door, bell jingles. Cinnamon air. My eyes scan tables—she’s not here yet. Relief and dread surge at war inside my chest. I pick a corner table—defensible, walls at my back. I set the phone face down so I don’t stare at the hemorrhaging battery. But I flip it over anyway: still two percent. I text: Here, back table. No exclamation; exclamations read desperate. I erase the period—too cold. I send it naked, neutral. Imagined Marisol reads it and sighs, “Of course you chose the darkest corner.” Real Marisol replies within seconds: omw! <3. Heart emoji. A heart. I press the phone to my sternum like a heat pack, then immediately think, Anyone can send a heart; it costs nothing. One percent. I shove the phone in my pocket to save its last breath. She walks in while I’m rehearsing a gracious smile versus a wounded one. She sees me immediately—eyes brighten, hand wave, real warmth hitting me like sunlight. For half a second all the inner scaffolding collapses. She slides into the seat, cheeks pink from the cold. “Hey, you,” she says, voice soft, familiar, not weary, not guarded. I say, “Hey,” but inside I’m scanning her posture: is the smile too polite? Are her shoulders angled away? Her coat sleeve brushes mine and that contact feels like proof of life. I open my mouth to ask how her day was but Catastrophe TV cranks volume: She’s about to say we need to slow down. I pre‑flinch. She says, “I missed you.” The words land and bloom—for a beat, I let them. Warmth pools in my ribs. Then the narrator in my skull sneers, She missed the idea of you, not you. I swallow. “Really?” I hear myself push, unable to accept the gift without poking it for hidden razor blades. “You’ve been kinda MIA.” Her eyes widen—surprised, not guilty. “Oh—work blew up. I thought I told you?” Battery critical. I pull the phone out as it dies mid‑vibration. Screen black. Panic spikes: no life‑raft now. But she’s right here, flesh‑and‑blood. She reaches across, covers my abandoned phone with her palm, then my hand. “I’m sorry if it felt like I disappeared.” The sincerity is tactile. I want to melt into it, but another voice warns, She’s manipulating empathy so the breakup seems kinder later. I test her: “It’s okay, I just get… in my head.” Understatement of the century. She squeezes. “I know. Tell me what would help.” My impulse: snap, “Nothing helps,” because if nothing helps then I’m untouchable and therefore un‑rejectable. Instead I stare at the joined hands. They look like evidence. I say, “Just… patience.” It comes out small. She smiles—genuine again. “Plenty of that.” She stands. “Tea? Ginger for both of us?” I nod. She goes to the counter. While her back is turned I watch a couple at another table laughing; I pre‑hate them for being effortless. I picture Marisol returning with only one cup—symbolic of singleness. But she comes back balancing two mugs, care in each hand. She sets mine in front of me, eyes searching my face for approval. That is affection, I tell myself. Accept it. I sip. Sweet burn of ginger down my throat. Maybe this is safe. Maybe. I feel hunger for her reassurance like I haven’t eaten in days. I almost ask, “Are you leaving me?” just to force the yes/no. But the question itself would expose the cliff edge I’m on. If she sees the drop‑off, she’ll step back. She’s telling a story about her boss cancelling a project; I nod, try to listen, but half my brain is still writing the alternative scene where she segues into “speaking of cancelling.” I catalog every micro‑pause in her tale as potential launchpads for disaster. She laughs at her boss’s expense; I note she can laugh at authority—does that mean she’ll laugh at me next? Yet her knee knocks mine under the table, casual, familiar. Electricity—vital proof. I cling to it. The narrator snarls: Temporary. I sip again, swallow heat, breathe. “I’m glad we’re here,” I manage. That is truth, sliver‑thin but solid. She beams. “Me too.” I let the words sit. For once I don’t immediately flip them over to check for expiry dates. They hover, warm, possible. Catastrophe TV is still on in the background, low volume. I can live with background noise, maybe. I meet her eyes, really meet them, and for a breath I’m in the scene that is actually happening, not the one I rehearsed to death. Zero percent battery, but her hand is right here, fully charged.

Model Output:
A single pine‑pitch torch, wedged into a cracked lintel on the north wall, sputtered and spat resin. Its flame threw a spinning orange halo over the abandoned mountain temple and over the semicircle of gamblers pressed against fallen columns. Dust hovered like pale smoke above the flagstones. At the arena’s center, two men stood poised an arm’s length apart, every muscle rigid with generational hatred. On the west side waited Kamiizumi Ryūnosuke of the Jigen‑ryū, second son of a disgraced samurai house. He was all forward lines—spine straight, weight settled on the ball of his left foot, right heel barely kissing the floor, fists vertical at hip level like sword hilts ready to draw. On the east side stood Zhang Wei, orphaned dockhand turned Piguaquan bruiser. His posture was liquid: knees loose, hips rolling, arms hanging like weighted chains that could whip into arcs at any instant. Spectators from Ryūnosuke’s clan kept politely silent, confident. Zhang’s backers jeered in a half‑dozen dialects, coins already changing hands. A gong fashioned from a cracked roof tile clanged. Ryūnosuke sprang first—true to Jigen‑ryū doctrine—covering the two meters between them in a single stamp. His right foot speared straight down the centerline, hips driving a vertical shōmen‑uchi fist toward Zhang’s sternum. The strike was a human sword cut, meant to split rather than bruise. Zhang had started shifting clockwise the instant Ryūnosuke’s shoulder twitched. The punch slid past the empty air where Zhang’s chest had been a heartbeat before. Pivoting on his right heel, Zhang seized the attacking forearm with his left hand, guiding it beyond its optimal range. His torso unwound, and his right arm whipped in a broad horizontal crescent—Piguaquan’s signature bian‑zhang—aimed for Ryūnosuke’s exposed ribs. Ryūnosuke yanked his captured arm downward, collapsing Zhang’s grip. Simultaneously he snapped his abdomen inward, turning the rib shot into a glancing slap. Pebbles skittered as he retreated three short shuffles south, resetting the distance to the original two meters. Torchlight painted a long diagonal shadow behind him; Zhang now stood closer to the light, his own shadow stretching toward his opponent like a claw. They began to circle, counterclockwise, each careful to keep broken masonry at their flanks, clear floor underfoot. Ryūnosuke’s breathing was silent; Zhang exhaled audibly through pursed lips, timing it with his steps, the way sailors whistle in crosswinds. Ryūnosuke attacked again, this time feinting high. His left fist flicked toward Zhang’s eye level; Zhang’s guard rose to parry, and in that moment Ryūnosuke’s right leg snapped out in a low mae‑geri kick, toes pointed like a tanto toward Zhang’s lead knee. Zhang skipped back, absorbing the impact across his shin instead of the joint, but the force jolted him eastward until his right shoulder brushed a fallen pillar. The spectators scattered like pigeons to give him room. Close quarters favored the whip. Zhang used the pillar as a pivot, rolling around it and re‑entering from Ryūnosuke’s blind left, torso bent almost parallel to the ground. His left hand shot out for a hooking mantis grab at the Jigen‑ryū fighter’s ankle. If he could catch and twist, Ryūnosuke would topple onto the flagstones. But Ryūnosuke had anticipated the angle. He abandoned balance, springing upward instead of back. Both feet left the ground; he tucked his left knee and extended his right heel in a meteoric ushiro‑geri spinning kick. As he rotated, his white training jacket flared like a war banner, momentarily blotting out the torchlight. The heel missed Zhang’s brow by centimeters, the wind of its passage stinging his eyelids. Yet while airborne Ryūnosuke had no control over trajectory. Zhang dove forward under the arc, palms sliding across slick stone, executing a ground dragon roll. He popped up behind Ryūnosuke the instant the samurai landed facing empty space. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Ryūnosuke pivoted, but too late—Zhang was already stepping inside, left shoulder leading. An upward diagonal chop of Zhang’s right forearm rammed under Ryūnosuke’s chin, snapping his head back and driving him north toward the torchlit wall. Ryūnosuke staggered two steps. Blood glimmered at the corner of his mouth, dark in the firelight. For the first time, Zhang pressed an advantage. He pursued with Piguaquan’s rapid slant‑stepping, feet tracing a zigzag line that kept his center off the samurai’s linear path. Fifty centimeters separated them when Ryūnosuke suddenly dropped his center of gravity, left knee almost scraping stone. From this crouch he punched upward like drawing a blade from the scabbard. The fist speared through Zhang’s incoming forearm guard and buried into the soft tissue beneath the rib cage. The strike stopped Zhang’s charge cold. Air burst from his lungs in a bark; he folded over the fist. Ryūnosuke rose in the same motion, shoulder driving into Zhang’s chest, converting the punch into an explosive body check that hurled both fighters westward. They crashed into a low altar, scattering offerings of broken tiles. Now Zhang’s back was against carved stone. He coughed twice, tasting iron, and raised a cross guard. Ryūnosuke lifted his right fist high beside his ear—classic Jigen‑ryū finishing stance—and stamped forward, intent on a downward hammer strike that would end the duel and the feud in one shattering blow to the collarbone. The hammer fell, but not onto Zhang. At the last instant he sank his weight, knees outside Ryūnosuke’s stance, and slapped both palms upward along the inside line of the descending arm. The redirection stole the strike’s path; Ryūnosuke’s fist slammed into the altar instead, knuckles splitting on ancient granite. He didn’t flinch. Using the rebound, he spun clockwise with his left elbow seeking Zhang’s temple. Zhang was already moving with the torque he’d created. He stepped outside the arc, brushing Ryūnosuke’s elbow with his left palm to accelerate it past. The momentum forced the samurai to over‑rotate, exposing his spine for a heartbeat. Zhang capitalized, planting his right foot between Ryūnosuke’s heels and whipping his right arm in a vertical backfist that cracked across the kidney. Without pause he followed with a left reverse‑hook to the jaw—two beats of a drum, one circular, one snapping. Ryūnosuke’s vision flashed white. He stumbled north toward the torch, hands instinctively rising to guard. A line of blood crawled down his cheek, tracing the kanji of disgrace his ancestors would never forgive. The crowd roared, half in ecstasy, half in horror. Coins rained on stone. But surrender was forbidden by pride. Ryūnosuke exhaled a hiss and charged yet again, a final direct thrust. Zhang, reading the desperation, met it obliquely. He pivoted ninety degrees right, placing his left shoulder to Ryūnosuke’s chest while hooking the samurai’s leading arm with his right elbow. A swift hip hinge sent Ryūnosuke flying past him, straight toward the base of the north wall. Ryūnosuke managed to twist mid‑air, landing on his right side instead of headfirst. He rolled to his feet, right hand cradling broken knuckles, left arm dangling, bruised. Zhang waited center floor, chest heaving, but feet still mobile, ready. They were separated now by four meters and the wavering torchlight between them. Seconds dripped. Sweat fell from both brows onto ancient flagstone. Neither man heard the gamblers anymore; only the crackling torch existed. Ryūnosuke shifted into low seigan‑no‑kamae, blade‑hand forward, weight coiled. Zhang adopted da‑wan‑zhang stance, arms forming overlapping circles, ankles spring‑loaded. Two styles, two histories, narrowed to a single breath. Simultaneously they launched. Ryūnosuke darted in a straight line, left hand thrusting for Zhang’s throat. Zhang cut a spiraling angle to his own right, escaping the centerline while his right arm carved a descending arc toward Ryūnosuke’s shoulder. The strikes crossed in the flicker of a moth’s wing. Then both men froze. Ryūnosuke’s fingertips hovered a hair from Zhang’s windpipe—but his heel sat atop the very edge of a dislodged stone; any weight would topple him backward. Zhang’s chopping forearm rested against the artery of Ryūnosuke’s neck—but his elbow was locked, powerless without follow‑through. Mutual kill. Mutual void. The crowd’s roar withered into stunned silence. Slowly, Ryūnosuke withdrew his hand, Zhang his arm. Sweat and blood mixed as they separated. Each had proven the other mortal, neither could claim the final strike. With a curt nod that acknowledged worth without forgiveness, Ryūnosuke turned and limped toward the western exit. Zhang, chest still heaving, walked east. The torch crackled behind them, its light shrinking as the rivals vanished into opposite shadows, the ancient temple swallowing their footsteps and preserving, for one more generation, an unpaid blood debt.

Model Output:
The studio reeks of disinfectant and ambition. Sixteen ceiling fluorescents hum above the sprung maple floor, its grain marked with faint tape X’s that tell us where to plant our feet. A wall‑length mirror reflects seven trainees and one unwanted Bronx import—me—under the glare of a red digital clock that reads 02:00:00 and immediately begins its backward march. Count down begins. Count down to what? “Formation B, chorus section,” barks Director Park, whose résumé lists three world tours and a reputation for snapping egos like brittle bones. She lifts a tablet that shows our reference video at quarter speed. “We go until the clock says zero. No freestyle. No flavor. Just geometry.” Geometry. That’s the whole problem. I’m slotted second row, stage‑left—mirror‑right—between Ji‑eun, who smells like green tea, and Min‑suk, who smells like fear. We face the mirror in two razor‑straight lines: front row crouched, back row upright. My hoodie is charcoal damp; everyone else wears crisp academy whites. I catch my own reflection, note my shoulders rounded and loose, a stance born on subway platforms where the beat is a passing train. Park claps twice. “Five, six,” she counts, right palm slicing the air, “seven, eight!” 0:01:53:47 Count 1: Right foot snaps 30 centimeters to second position, heel aligned with the X. My hips should freeze square, but street instinct ripples them. I feel it, tiny but visible. Park’s eyebrow twitches. Count 2: Chest isolation—forward then lock—exactly 4 inches displacement. I over‑push, years of popping muscle memory, and the mirror shows my sternum jutting past Ji‑eun’s. Count 3‑4: Arms cross at clavicle, then unfold into a sixty‑degree V. Everyone hits perfect diagonals; my wrists slightly flex, giving the shape an unintended swagger. Count 5: Half‑pivot counterclockwise, right foot dragging to meet left. The academy kids skim; I half‑slide as if setting up a glide. Min‑suk’s shoulder collides with mine because I’ve eaten twelve centimeters of his lane. He hisses apologies even though it’s my fault. Count 6‑7‑8: Torso hinge, 15‑degree forward, then snap back. The timing is staccato, snare‑drum exact. I ride it like a hi‑hat triplet instead, a micro bounce that lingers an extra sixteenth. The clock hits 0:01:52:59. Director Park slams the tablet against her thigh. “Reset.” We scuttle back to starting dots. Sweat worms down my spine; the air‑con can’t keep up. My neighborhood taught me to listen for gunshots and police sirens, not click tracks at 128 BPM. Out there, you move because the cypher’s energy lifts you, because neighbors cheer from stoops. In here, movement is math. Round two. “Five, six, sev‑en, eight.” Count 1: I lock hips hard to kill the sway. Count 2: Chest hits—smaller, machine‑gun precise. Count 3‑4: V arms—wrists flat. Good. Count 5: Pivot. I fight the urge to glide; shoes squeak, but I land inside my tape. Then it happens—count 6. My right scapula twitches, a phantom impulse to groove. The jiggle breaks the line like a cracked mirror. Park’s whistle pierces. 0:01:44:13 She strides in, ballet‑straight spine, combat‑boot soles shredding silence. Stops exactly one meter in front of me, reflected triply in glass. “Dante,” she says—my name sliced into two syllables. “Your body speaks a language nobody here understands.” I almost thank her until she adds, “So learn ours, or leave.” She positions herself beside me. “Watch.” On the & before count 1 her right foot launches, knee locked, ankle flexed, 45‑degree turnout. She freezes mid‑air, a mannequin with a pulse. “Precision is freedom,” she whispers. “Again.” We restart. 0:01:41:00 My quads burn; calves tremble. The academy’s style—idol choreo—demands energy stacked over a rigid core: no drunken‑monkey sway, no extra grooves. Thirty‑two counts loop for thirty minutes. Knees slice, shoulders snap, neck whips, all on identical angles. Each inversion of my old habits feels like sanding skin off bone. On rep sixteen, sweat slips into my eye and I blink late on count 26. My left fist should knife downward; instead it stalls, floating street‑style, elbow sagging. Ji‑eun’s fist whizzes past my jaw, missing by centimeters. She doesn’t flinch. Robots don’t apologize. Director Park pauses video. “Water,” she grants, but her glare stays on me. I stagger toward the wall, tracing the perimeter so I don’t cross other dancers’ lanes. The clock reads 0:01:17:08. An hour gone, and my pulse still refuses the academy’s grid. I see myself in the mirror corner: lean frame, sweat‑dark beanie, sneakers with scuffed soles from blacktop battles. Around me: spotless Nike Dunks issued by sponsorship, knees wrapped in branded tape. I feel counterfeit currency in a minting press. Back in lines. Park dims the lights so only the LED strips along floor edges glow. “Focus on negative space,” she says. “See the picture you carve.” The music restarts at full speed. I inhale on the upbeat. Drums hit like heartbeats on asphalt. Count 1—this time I lock but let my collarbones float microscopically, the smallest rebellion. Count 2—chest isolation, but as it retracts I sneak a ripple through lower ribs. It vanishes before count 3. Nobody notices—except Park. Her eyes narrow; a corner of her mouth tilts, maybe approval, maybe warning. Count 9‑16, the traveling segment: Front row drops to knees; back row advances three steps, left‑right‑left, each exactly a foot. I’m second row, so I slide forward one meter and angle forty‑five degrees right, arms forming a cutter pose. My heel almost rises—habit of prepping for a windmill—so I clamp it down. Count 17‑24: Canon ripple. Front row fires first on 17, second row on 19, back row on 21. I must delay two counts. My nerves misfire, launching me half a beat early. I freeze mid‑motion, muscles screaming, wait, then complete the move on time, but the hiccup shows in mirror like a skipped frame. Park stops music. 0:01:02:55 She walks our line, taps each sternum. “Pop star audiences don’t forgive micro‑errors,” she says without looking up. “Your instinct is beautiful but useless here.” Her words drill into cartilage. Beautiful but useless—like graffiti scrubbed off a brand‑new mall. She gives us one final hour: “Hit or quit.” The decision gurgles in my throat. In the Bronx crew, I’m Dante “Freeflow,” king of unpredictability. Here, unpredictability is contamination. If I surrender every roll, every groove, I’ll graduate polished, yet hollow. Clock: 0:01:00:00 “All cameras on,” Park announces. Three DSLRs blink red along the mirror. This run will be sent to sponsors. Music again. Five, six, sev‑en, eight. The first eight counts, I follow the blueprint, each limb a caliper‑checked line. Something inside me whimpers. Count 9. Traveling steps. I advance—left‑right‑left—perfect. Count 13. Front row spins; I’m supposed to hold. My Bronx brain flashes a picture: a lazy‑suzy head‑nod that sets up a lock. I swallow it, stay still. Count 17‑24, the ripple. Heart drumrolls. I stick the delay, flawless. 25‑32: The “killing part,” center dancer thrusts forward while rows bloom behind like origami. Min‑suk is center; I’m flank. On count 29 our right arms arc overhead, elbows locked, wrists at right angles. My muscle memory wants a locking point—a snap and recoil—so I bargain: I give the lock but mute the recoil. The arm hits like steel, freezes, but the recoil is a ghost inside my joints, invisible. Music stops. Echo of the last synth rolls across plywood. Park presses stop on the camera. Silence except for eight lungs heaving. Clock: 0:00:48:02 She scans footage on tablet, scrubbed slow. Minute tremors expose themselves: Ji‑eun’s pinky drooped, Min‑suk’s left heel millimeters off axis, my phantom chest ripple at count 2. She pauses on me. “This,” she murmurs, tapping screen. “What was that?” I square shoulders. “The smallest piece of who I am.” The room holds its breath. I expect a firing squad. Instead, Park nods once. “Keep it that size,” she warns. “Any bigger and it breaks the formation.” Relief floods, but so does dread. I have negotiated my authenticity down to a pixel. As we bow out, the clock hits 0:00:00:00 and beeps flatly, like a heart monitor gone dead. I stare at it and wonder whether the sound marks survival or surrender.

Model Output:
The Court of the Dreaming assembled in its usual contradictory fashion: tiers of seats that were both balconies and bottomless pits, stained‑glass windows painted with scenes that had not happened yet, and a jury box occupied by twelve archetypes—Anxiety Before Exams, Falling Without End, Sudden Public Nudity, and their skittish kin. Every spectator knew the shape of the chamber only until they looked straight at it. On the high dais sat Dream of the Endless, robed in shadow, hair drifting upward as though underwater. Normally impassive, he now drummed a long, chalk‑pale finger on the arm of his throne; irritation radiated in measured ripples that made the stenographer, a sentient Fountain Pen, spray ink blots shaped like exclamation points. “Call the matter of First Love versus Mora,” intoned the bailiff, a hunch‑backed Sleep Paralysis Demon wearing a tiny brass badge that read SECURITY in friendly lettering. First Love rose from the petitioner’s table. He was pink about the ears, smelling faintly of crushed violets and cheap cologne. In one hand he clutched a clipboard covered in doodled hearts; in the other, an ever‑wilting daisy he kept decapitating and re‑assembling in nervous habit. Mora lounged at the defense table, smoke‑grey and wiry, the smile of a cracked doll. Her shadow writhed like a spilled bottle of ink trying to crawl back inside the glass. She emitted an occasional staccato cackle—tik‑tik‑tik—that ricocheted up the vaulted ceiling, making Anxiety Before Exams grip his forearms and whimper. Dream raised a brow. “Proceed.” First Love shuffled forward, clearing his throat with a noise reminiscent of a teenager kicking gravel. “Your—eh—Majesty, I have spent three painstaking years cultivating young Maximilian Potter’s nascent romantic expectations. Field of wildflowers at sunset, classic pastoral motif, mild pollen count, no bees. Girl of his affection reclining nearby, tension calibrated to ninety‑five percent of blissful ache, five percent terror of rejection. Last week”—he flapped his clipboard like a wounded bird—“Mora barged in and turned it into a nocturnal assault!” Mora stretched languidly. “Assault is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as… meal prep.” A ripple of muffled titters drifted from the gallery; even Sudden Public Nudity covered herself with a clipboard of notes to hide a grin. First Love continued, voice cracking, “Max woke in paralysis, convinced his crush is a demon squatting on his chest. He has Googled ‘incubus signs’ three times since Tuesday. That is reputational damage!” Mora rose. Her motion seemed slow until you noticed she was already standing. “Your Majesty, props to blushing boy wonder here—truly, a master of saccharine. But I run a tight schedule: heart attacks at 2 a.m., sotto‑voce whimpers at 3. Mouth‑to‑mouth exsufflation is how I make rent in the nightmare subdivision. A girl’s gotta eat too, you know?” She ended with another cackle; the acoustics turned it into the rattle of chalk on glass. Falling Without End lost his balance and was saved only by the bailiff’s polite cough. Dream sighed, and the windows briefly frosted over with constellations ancient sailors had never named. “Have either of you secured prior claim to the dreamscape?” First Love thrust out a parchment stamped with tiny cherubs. “Filed under Form 27‑b, subcategory ‘Hormonal Dawning,’ duly witnessed by Hormone Surge and Summer Camp Lanyard Craft.” Mora tilted her head. “Don’t do paperwork. I have seniority by folklore—Slavic region, ninth century. We predate clipboards.” The Fountain Pen stenographer muttered, “Objection: folklore is not a filing system.” Dream hushed it with a look; the pen ejected a fresh ink blot shaped like an apology. Dream gestured, and the Witness Stand unfolded from the floorboards like a rectangular flower. A half‑finished dream version of Max appeared: tousled hair, backpack strapped too tight, eyes still glowing with REM‑phase static. He looked around, mortified to find archetypes gawking like lunchtime bullies. “State your feelings,” Dream said. Max fidgeted. “Uh… I liked the flowers. And Chloe almost kissed me.” He blushed so hard his ears grew petals. “But then she turned into… well, her eyes went black and she called me ‘little piggy.’” Mora waved jauntily. “Term of endearment.” Max’s voice dropped. “I couldn’t move. But—and this is weird—I kind of still wanted the kiss? Is that… messed up?” The entire jury nodded, having lived on that crossroads of longing and dread their whole existence. Dream dismissed the boy with a flick; Max evaporated into a swirl of notebook paper margins and eye contact he would regret later. Dream steepled his fingers. “First Love, your creation was indeed disrupted. Mora, your… appetites were indulged. The boy is now both terrified and intrigued—which, incidentally, will follow him well into college.” He tapped the armrest. “Ordinarily I would simply portion the dreamscape by rota. Alternate nights, perhaps.” Mora crossed her legs, clouds of soot curling round her ankles. “Alternate meals? I could starve on that diet.” First Love broke in, cheeks flashing crimson: “And I can’t create emotional continuity if every other episode ends with epiglottal strangulation!” Dream’s eyes glittered with the light of cold suns. “Very well. I shall exercise judicial creativity.” In the far corner, Court Artist (a weeping easel) perked up, hopeful for fresh nightmare fuel. Dream stood. The courtroom dimmed till only his silhouette remained. “Henceforth, the meadow shall bifurcate. By day’s light, First Love conducts his pastoral adventure to its customary ‘almost‑kiss.’ At that precise moment, the scene shall apocalyptically sunset, the flowers wither, and Mora may descend—” He paused, lip twitching—perhaps a smile, perhaps indigestion of the cosmos. “—but only upon one condition. She must finish what First Love starts: the kiss must land before terror begins.” First Love sputtered. “But that confuses genre!” Mora leaned forward, intrigued. “A kiss before the chokehold? Spicy. I can work with that.” Dream continued, tone now almost playful. “If either party refuses their half—if the kiss is withheld or the breath is not properly stolen—the dream resets to a default fallback: Max arrives naked to math class. Permanently.” The gallery gasped; Sudden Public Nudity gave an approving thumbs‑up. Dream turned to the bailiff. “Enter this as Binding Edict 41‑c: ‘First Terror, Then Romance, Inextricably Intertwined.’ Effective immediately.” The Fountain Pen scribbled, splattering a heart that immediately dripped into a skull. First Love bit his lip, measuring the damage. “I… suppose consensual chronological hand‑off is workable. Max will at least get the kiss. He’ll remember the softness, even if it’s followed by existential dread. Some call that high school.” Mora was already rehearsing, flexing her fingers like a concert pianist. “Do we get lighting cues? I’m thinking violet twilight, plus an orchestra of cicadas that abruptly cut out when I sit.” Dream’s irritation had faded into a distant smirk. He settled back. “Case resolved. Court adjourned. And, Mora—” His voice lowered to silk‑wrapped razor wire. “Mind your portions. I dislike returning souls prematurely.” Mora bowed, the gesture fluid as spilled tar. “Understood, Majesty. I’ll savour, not devour. Promise.” First Love gathered his daisy, which now bore a single black petal among the white. He spared Mora a wary glance. “Just… remember the gentle bits.” She winked, showing a mouthful of small, sharp teeth. “Gentle is in the eye of the dreamer.” The jurors filed out, debating precedent: Public Nudity felt the ruling too lenient; Falling Without End argued it introduced innovative pacing. Anxiety Before Exams merely clutched his notepad, fretting over tomorrow night’s docket: “Lost Locker Combination v. Fire‑Breathing Principal.” As the courtroom emptied, Dream lingered, watching dust motes become galaxies in the dying light. The edges of his mouth quirked again—he was clearly pleased at the delightful confusion he had sown in one mortal boy’s heart. “Let them sort it out,” he murmured to no one, to everyone. “It will make an interesting memory.” High above, Mora’s fading cackle tik‑tik‑tikked among the rafters like a clock eager for midnight.

Model Output:
A crimson harvest moon hangs swollen over the thatched roofs of a deserted Polish village, bleeding its color into the mist. Doors stand ajar, livestock lie eviscerated, and every puddle reflects the sky like a cracked ruby. The air tastes of iron and lilac—an unsettling mixture that does not belong together. Yennefer of Vengerberg steps over a shattered cartwheel, the hem of her black velvet dress whispering against cobblestones. She wrinkles her nose at the carnage, yet the stench is half‐hidden beneath the soft fragrance she conjures unconsciously. Lilac. Gooseberries. Fragile human things. Her violet eyes glow faintly as she follows skeins of residual chaos magic that coil like invisible smoke. Something ancient fed here tonight, something that is neither wraith nor fiend. A low chuckle rolls through the square like distant thunder. It comes from the stocks placed for petty criminals—a relic of simpler atrocities. They stand empty now, save for a tall man lounging against them, a scarlet greatcoat fluttering in a wind that does not exist. “Looking for someone, milady?” he asks, removing orange glasses to bare impossible, blood‐red irises. “Or something?” Yennefer’s fingers twitch, violet sparks dancing between lacquered nails. “I was hoping for answers,” she replies, voice smooth as obsidian. “Instead I find a peacock dressed for a masque.” He bows with theatrical flourish, wide‐brimmed hat sweeping low. “Alucard. The bird of Hermes is my name, eating my wings to make me tame.” His smile widens, canines catching moonlight. “And you are no frightened villager.” “Yennefer of Vengerberg. Remember it.” She raises her chin, the gemstones in her necklace flaring. “I’m not sweet, and I’m not a maiden in distress in need of saving.” “A sorceress,” Alucard purrs, savoring each syllable. “Delightful. Most mages I meet turn to ash before introductions.” He separates from the stocks like a shadow stepping out of a wall. Yennefer’s medallion, borrowed from a certain witcher, vibrates madly under her bodice. Instinct screams to portal away, yet pride steels her spine. She refuses to be the first to retreat. “You butchered the townsfolk,” she accuses, eyes narrowing. “I dined,” he corrects. “These cattle tasted of fear—and boredom. But you—” He inhales, nostrils flaring. “You smell of storms held in crystal vials.” Yennefer flicks her wrist. A ribbon of indigo fire whips toward him. Alucard lets it scorch through his coat, flesh bubbling, bone sizzling, yet his grin never breaks. The wounds seal in seconds, threads of muscle weaving like eager worms. “Marvelous,” he croons. “Do it again.” “Gladly.” She slams her palm to the ground. Obsidian sigils radiate, pillars of compressed air erupting beneath him. For an instant the vampire is pinned, crucified by invisible force. Yennefer strides closer, heels clicking. “Stay still, monster. I’m studying.” “Careful,” he whispers, eyes blazing with manic joy. “Dissection can become mutual.” His body liquefies, pouring out of the restraints as a colony of black bats. They swirl, converge, and reform behind her. Yennefer spins, only to find the muzzle of an engraved handgun kissing her forehead. “Jackal,” he says, as though introducing a pet. The cylinder is as long as her forearm, etched with Latin and blessed silver. “Silver?” She smirks, unimpressed. “Cute. I prefer obsidian.” Her pupils dilate, portals blooming like dark irises. The handgun sinks halfway into shimmering violet nothingness. Confounded for a heartbeat, Alucard yanks it free—minus the top half of the barrel, which vanishes with a pop. His laughter bellows across the empty square. “Magnificent trick! You might actually entertain me.” “Your bar for amusement is low.” “Centuries breed contempt, dear sorceress. Indulge me.” His silhouette bulges, stretching into lupine proportions. Shadow hounds peel from his torso, slobbering tendrils of night. They pounce. Yennefer’s hands carve runes through the air. The cobblestones liquefy, rising as jagged ice. Hounds impale themselves, burst in clouds of smoke, re‐form. One snaps at her thigh; she teleports a pace sideways, appearing in a spray of violet butterflies that die as quickly as they’re born. Alucard watches, transfixed. “You dance beautifully for someone bound to gravity.” “Magic supersedes most shackles,” she retorts. Her voice strains; maintaining simultaneous portals, elemental transmutations, and shields is draining even for her. Yet she will not yield first. He saunters through falling ash, hands in pockets. “Tell me, Yennefer. What price did you pay for such artistry?” She stiffens. The question cuts deeper than fangs. “Mind your own damnation.” “Oh, but I see it,” he says softly now, almost kindly. “An emptiness in your aura. A cradle that never rocked.” Yennefer’s composure cracks; a burst of forked lightning answers, charring the church steeple behind him. Alucard steps through the electric storm, coat aflame, hat gone. His wounds seal, burnt cloth knitting like red petals. “Don’t—speak—of that,” she rasps. Alucard halts within arm’s reach. For the first time his mirth dims. “We are both creatures who remake ourselves,” he says. “You for beauty and future life, I for war and eternal death. Yet both of us are chained to appetites we cannot sate.” “Save your philosophy.” Her voice trembles with fury and something perilously near understanding. “I’m here to end the slaughter.” He tilts his head. “Try.” She thrusts both palms forward. A sphere of violet implosion blossoms, swallowing vampire and street alike. Silence follows—then a pressure wave hurls debris, shingles, and a stunned raven into the fields. Yennefer kneels, sweat beading her brow. The blast crater smolders. For one hopeful moment, there is only the hush of night. A clap echoes. Alucard emerges from the rising dust, unscathed, hat restored as if conjured. The moonlight outlines him like fresh blood. “Exquisite,” he murmurs. “You pushed me to Level One release. Few manage.” Yennefer forces herself upright, masking fatigue behind practiced arrogance. “Congratulate me later. Right now, begone.” “And waste such promise? No.” His voice softens again, dangerously persuasive. “Leave politics and petty courts, come hunt with me beneath red skies. I could show you infinities.” She almost laughs. “Trade one set of shackles for another? I think not.” “Freedom is an illusion,” he replies. “But choice—choice is real. Consider mine: I choose not to kill you tonight.” “Lucky me.” She raises a trembling hand. Violet sparks reignite, but he steps back, palms raised in theatrical surrender. “Peace, dear witch. The hour grows late, even for monsters.” He tips his hat. “Our game will resume under another blood moon.” Shadow ripples swallow him. The square empties, leaving only the echo of distant wings and the scent of gunpowder mingling with lilac. Yennefer exhales, shoulders sagging. She studies the ruined street, the bodies she could not save. Fury wells, then ebbs, replaced by wary curiosity. A foe who cannot be burned, frozen, or reasoned with—yet speaks of choices. She traces a teleport glyph beneath her feet. As the portal unzips reality, she casts one last glance at the crimson moon. “Next time,” she vows to the cold air, “I’ll be the one who chooses.” The portal snaps shut. Wind rattles empty windows. Far above, the harvest moon gleams, satisfied, as if it, too, relishes the promise of another rendezvous between lilac and blood.

Model Output:
A dim overhead light flickers in the prison corridor at irregular intervals, turning iron bars into stuttering shadows that crawl across concrete. The air stinks of bleach and brimstone—a reminder that Green Dolphin Street Prison has recently expanded its clientele from mere felons to devils and Stand users. Jolyne Cujoh leans against the wall, arms crossed, butterfly tattoo half‑hidden beneath rolled sleeves. She hates waiting, hates the silence, and especially hates the sense that something invisible is tugging on her strings. Stone Free’s fibers twitch under her skin, reacting to a presence she hasn’t located yet. The electronic lock clicks, and a woman steps through—slender, auburn‑haired, eyes ringed like amber targets. She walks as though she owns the floor, the keys, the guards, maybe the whole cursed planet. “Jolyne Cujoh,” she says pleasantly. “I’ve read your file. You unraveled your own heart to protect your father. Very moving.” The falseness in the compliment is so thick Jolyne almost chokes on it. “Yeah? If you’re a reporter, beat it. If you’re a warden, double‑beat it.” “I’m neither.” The woman smiles, soft and careful. “My name is Makima. I’m here to negotiate your release… in exchange for a demonstration.” Jolyne spits to the side. “If there’s no Mickey, this shit ain’t Disney! Nobody gets out of Green Dolphin for free. What’s the catch, Snow White?” Makima’s eyes gleam in the broken light. “Just show me how far those strings can reach.” Stone Free bursts from Jolyne’s skin before she gives conscious permission. The translucent blue Stand flexes, fists raised, eager. Jolyne forces it back, uneasy. Something about Makima—no, everything about Makima—makes instinct scream. “Demonstrate for someone else,” Jolyne says. “I don’t perform on command.” Makima steps closer, heels clicking over chipped tile. “Then perhaps a gentler incentive is needed.” She lifts a hand, barely more than a gesture, and the guard at the end of the hall snaps to attention like a puppet. He pulls his revolver, placing the barrel against his own temple, smile perfectly peaceful. “Stop!” Jolyne’s voice ricochets off the metal. Stone Free lunges, tendrils of string slicing through air, wrapping the guard’s wrist and wrenching the weapon away. Jolyne drags him behind her, shielding him with her body. Makima doesn’t flinch; she merely lowers her palm. “Good reflexes. But I’m curious whether you can unravel faster than I can give an order.” “You trying to figure out my Stand’s speed or my breaking point?” Jolyne growls. Makima tilts her head, ponytail swaying like a metronome. “Both. I adore useful tools.” The word “tools” ices Jolyne’s spine. She thinks of Ermes, Emporio, Weather, her father—every person who ever mattered. She tightens her hold on the guard, threads of Stone Free reinforcing his heartbeat. “You so much as blink at him again, and I’ll turn you into ribbon candy.” Makima laughs quietly, as though amused by a pet’s tiny bark. “You misunderstand. I don’t threaten; I promise.” Her gaze shifts beyond Jolyne, fixing on invisible dots in the dim hall. “All prisoners and staff who hear my voice will obey me. Approach.” Footsteps echo. Cell doors rattle open without keys. Inmates—human, devil, and Stand user alike—shamble forward, eyes glazed. A dozen, two dozen, more. The flickering light strobes across their faces, blank and eager. Jolyne curses. “Dio’s roaches—she’s got a damn hypnosis Stand?” Stone Free’s strings bloom outward, weaving a net. Jolyne anchors herself, ready to yank any thrall that lunges. But Makima merely watches, studying the lattice of cobalt filament with scientific wonder. “Fascinating,” she murmurs. “Your range expands when protecting others. Suggests an empathic trigger. I could optimize that.” Jolyne bares her teeth. “I’m not a lab rat.” “No,” Makima agrees, stepping into the woven net. “You’re a potential hound.” The net tightens like a closing fist. Yet Makima keeps walking, every loop sliding along her coat as though the strings turn intangible around her. Stone Free shudders; Jolyne feels resistance vanish, as if her own Stand is being politely asked to stand down—and complying. “What the hell?” Panic snags her throat. She never ordered Stone Free to release. Makima’s voice drops to a whisper only Jolyne can hear. “Submit.” For a single heartbeat, Jolyne’s knees dip. She tastes iron and fury, fights to remember her name. A shackle of unseen pressure cinches her chest, the same pressure she felt when Pucci bent destiny or when Jotaro’s stare demanded discipline. But this isn’t family. This is violation wearing a smile. She grins—wide, defiant. “Lady, you picked the wrong Kujo.” Stone Free erupts at point‑blank range, fist driving a sonic barrage into Makima’s abdomen. ORAORAORAORA— The corridor reverberates. Air concusses; dust blooms like gunpowder petals. Makima staggers two steps, coat shredded, blouse red with someone else’s blood—then straightens, whole, unhurt. The wounds rewind, stitching faster than Jolyne can blink. “Nearly ninety percent of your output,” Makima notes. “Enough to explode concrete. Not enough to matter.” The thralls advance. Jolyne whips Stone Free’s strings into razor coils, carving a path that deliberately avoids lethal blows. She refuses to kill pawns. She’d rather bleed. Makima watches the choreography, entranced. “Compassion, even under pressure. Yes, you’ll make a perfect example.” “Of what?” “Of love,” Makima says, serene. “Dogs exist to be loved by their master. It’s okay. Dogs are supposed to die for their owners.” Instant heat floods Jolyne’s skull. “Bite me.” She flicks a fingertip; Stone Free unravels that single digit, launching it as needle‑thin thread. It snakes behind Makima, loops around an exposed pipe, and yanks. Pressurized steam bursts, filling the hall with scalding mist. The lights die, swallowed by hissing white. Makima’s silhouette emerges, hair damp, eyes luminous. “Clever. Obscuring line of sight reduces my control range.” “Not your hearing, though.” Jolyne’s voice ricochets, multiplied by Stone Free vibrating metal bars like tuning forks. Echoes swirl, impossible to triangulate. Makima listens, expression placid. “Sound tricks won’t save you.” “Who said they were for saving me?” Jolyne tugs; bars scream. Whole cell doors collapse, creating barricades between Makima and her thralls. Steam, steel, shadow—her battlefield now. She retreats into a maintenance shaft, sealing the grate with woven cable. Heart pounding, she hears Makima speak through the fog, gentle and unforgiving: “You can hide, Jolyne, but every thread you spin only ties you tighter to me.” Jolyne exhales, calming the quake in her knuckles. “Yeah, well, you ever try to untangle headphones? Good luck.” A plan forms—half reckless, half genius. Makima’s control seems rooted in sensory contact: voice, gaze, presence. If Jolyne can isolate her, flood the zone with enough competing stimuli, maybe Stone Free can land a decisive constriction. Maybe. She touches the butterfly on her arm, reminder of metamorphosis. “No one’s leashin’ this bug.” Behind her, an intercom crackles—the warden’s voice, but wrong, too serene. “All units, apprehend prisoner 2045. Kill on sight.” Makima’s reach is spreading. Jolyne’s margin shrinks by the second. Yet she smiles. Pressure breeds diamonds, and Cujo blood runs stubborn. She unravels both arms into thick cables, muscles knotting. The corridor ahead twists like a maze; perfect for threads. Perfect for a spider. Makima’s footsteps approach, slow and certain. “Come, Jolyne. Heel.” “Fetch this,” Jolyne mutters, slamming her palm onto a breaker box. Sparks spit. Emergency sirens blare, red strobes drowning senses in chaotic light and noise. Makima steps into the pandemonium, eyes narrowing for the first time. Vibrant strings drop from ceiling to floor, a cat’s cradle of traps quivering in crimson flashes. Jolyne’s voice filters from everywhere, amplified by vibrating wires: “A real master treats her dogs right. You? You’re just a flea.” Stone Free’s net contracts. The entire hallway cinches like a closing sphincter—metal groaning, concrete cracking, air squeezed from lungs. Makima raises a hand to command, but within the cacophony her syllables warp, echo, overlap. Control falters. For a moment—single, precious—Jolyne sees confusion cross those perfect features. She dives, body half‑unraveled, becoming pure motion. Strings spiral around Makima’s wrists, ankles, throat, knitting a cocoon meant to hold a hurricane. Makima smiles even as the bonds tighten. “You think binding me changes anything? Break these threads, and you’ll break yourself.” “Maybe,” Jolyne says, face inches away, sweat and resolve burning. “But I’d rather shred my soul than hand it to you on a leash.” The light flickers one final time, plunging them into darkness where only two pairs of eyes—one sea‑green, one golden—glow like rival stars, each refusing to be eclipsed.

Model Output:
Secure Containment Protocol File: SCP‑7734 Clearance Level: 4/7734 Item #: SCP‑7734 Object Class: Keter‑Pending (PERSONAL) Special Containment Procedures • I (Dr. Emilia Kline, Senior Containment Physicist) am confined to a single‑occupant observation suite in Site‑19, Wing D‑3. • All writing implements issued to me are serial‑tagged and counted twice per day. • The suite is searched every six hours for additional paper; nevertheless the notes keep manifesting. • Audio and video feeds run continuously; no displacement, teleportation, or temporal activity has been observed at the moments new notes appear. Investigation is divided between MTF‑Psi‑12 (“Chronologers,” temporal anomalies) and MTF‑Gamma‑58 (“Sour Grapes,” anti‑memetic / info‑hazard). Until a determination is made, I am both test subject and author of this report. Everything below is first‑person chronology, reconstructed from daily debriefings and the notes themselves. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑A: PERSONAL LOG (DAY −4 TO DAY 0) ------------------------------------------------- DAY −4 — 06:13 I unlocked my office expecting a quiet morning. Instead, a folded sheet of Foundation memo paper lay on the keyboard—unmistakable: the pale blue header, the microprint security border. My own handwriting: “Emilia—Power redundancy on Sub‑Level 4 fails in three days. Transfer SCP‑2399 power tap or 7750 breaches. Trust me.” I laughed, first. No one outside Engineering should know slang like “power tap.” I ran the paper through chrono‑signature scanners; no anomalous residue. I reported the incident to Site Security anyway. They filed it as “mild prank.” Cameras showed nothing except me entering the room. DAY −3 — 02:41 Couldn’t sleep; kept replaying the phrasing. The note sounded exactly like my inner voice—same rhythm, same way I over‑dash my t’s. I tried to replicate the dash: perfect match. I locked every spare memo pad in a biometric safe. DAY −2 — 18:00 Second note, inside the safe I had sealed. It rested atop the stack of secured paper, the lock log unbroken. Handwriting more hurried: “Grid collapse in 48 h. Move 2399 to auxiliary coolant. You’ll want coffee at 01:12; don’t take it—sedative contamination.” Now I was frightened. I delivered the safe itself to Temporal Anomalies. They found nothing except ordinary stationery. DAY −1 — 13:27 Third note, discovered between pages of my own lab notebook while standing next to three observers from Psi‑12. We all saw it appear: one second it wasn’t there, next second it was, no flash, no distortion. “Stop the breach, Em. If you can’t, evacuate. Contingency‑72 fails. People die screaming. Listen to me for once!” The handwriting had deteriorated—letters uneven, several misspellings. Psi‑12 raised the anomaly to provisional SCP. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑B: FOUNDATION ANALYSIS SUMMARY ------------------------------------------------- I read the analyst summary aloud during my Day 0 debrief; I include excerpts here. • Hypothesis A — Type‑2 temporal echo: notes originate from a future timeline and “overwrite” present matter. No supporting evidence of tachyon or chroniton flux. • Hypothesis B — Class‑IV reality bender (possibly SCP‑███‑J) is manipulating my perception. Counter: the notes persist when handled by others and can be photographed. • Hypothesis C — Onset dissociative psychosis. Counter: notes manifest under direct surveillance and chemical sedation, implying external agency. The committee remains undecided. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑C: INCIDENT LOG “BREACH THAT WASN’T” ------------------------------------------------- DAY 0 — 00:55 The predicted hour. I sat inside a Faraday‑shielded cube, pen‑less, clothing pockets removed. Twelve techs monitored Site power metrics; nothing unusual. 01:12 Cafeteria camera recorded a staff member spill an entire carafe of coffee onto the floor. Lab analysis later showed trace amounts of Class‑B amnestics in the break‑room reservoir—consistent with the second note’s warning about “sedative contamination.” The reservoir had passed quality control four hours earlier. 01:29 A total of seven backup capacitors on Sub‑Level 4 failed simultaneously—exactly the fault the first note predicted. Automatic safety breakers engaged; no breach occurred. If they had not, SCP‑7750 (electro‑voracious macro‑fauna) might have eaten half the Site. Maintenance labelled the coincidence “probability‑defying.” 01:30 New note manifested in my left shoe, although the shoe was taped to the floor for the experiment. “Good. Still time. But branching now. Keep writing.” That line convinced half the oversight panel we were inside an active causality loop. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑D: NOTE ESCALATION (DAY +1 TO +8) ------------------------------------------------- DAY +1 Eight notes, increasingly frantic. Sample: “//Numbers gone. The moon is wrong. 2399 singing.//” The moon was, objectively, fine. Astrometry checked. DAY +3 Notes contradicted one another: “Hallway floods with blood 18:04” vs. “Avoid air, it burns.” Neither happened. DAY +5 Handwriting degraded to near illegibility, interspersed with mirror writing and what linguists identify as Linear B phonetics. DAY +8 (Today) I woke holding a fourteen‑page manifesto stapled together—again, standard Foundation memo paper though none is kept in my suite—and bearing my signature dated “+117 days.” Excerpts (retaining original spelling errors): “—No containment is possible after Node 23 resets. Even the stars blink out. —We break reality each time we doubt ourself. —The notes ARE the breach.” Psi‑12 suggests the paradox may be self‑generating: my future self writes warnings, those warnings alter decisions, cascading divergence produces worse timelines, prompting more desperate notes. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑E: AUDIO TRANSCRIPT (SELF‑INTERVIEW) ------------------------------------------------- I requested a recorder so the log stays honest. Q (myself): Why trust any of this? A (myself): Because too much aligns. The coffee, the capacitors. Statistical impossibility argues for authenticity. Q: Yet the moon was never “wrong.” A: Perhaps that note targeted a branch that collapsed before observation. Q: Or an enemy knows the future and feeds half‑truths until I crack. A: Occam’s Razor hardly helps when razors warp time. I stopped there; my voice sounded like the handwriting—frantic, slanted. ------------------------------------------------- ADDENDUM 7734‑F: CURRENT CONTINGENCIES ------------------------------------------------- • Site‑19 has adjusted power redundancy per the first two notes; efficiency up 7%. • Cafeteria beverage supply now triple screened. • I undergo thrice‑daily cognitive assessments; no disintegrating baseline so far. • Ethics Committee debates a Class‑C amnestic wipe—to erase my memory of all notes and observe if they cease. Temporal mathematicians warn this may erase source continuity and cause *more* notes. ------------------------------------------------- PERSONAL REFLECTION (CLASSIFIED TO 4/7734) ------------------------------------------------- This paragraph may be the only place no one edits. I grew up believing time is a line and science is the hand that steadies it. Then paper started appearing like snow from a future I apparently inhabit. Each scrap tears the line, and I can feel the universe flinch. I have lost the ability to distinguish foreknowledge from paranoia. When I sleep, I dream in memo‑header blue. Still, something inside whispers: keep writing. If the notes are a cry for help, I cannot abandon the woman who writes them—because she is me. If they are bait, at least I will know which hook gored me. ------------------------------------------------- PENDING ACTIONS ------------------------------------------------- 1. Scheduled amnestic trial on Day +10, contingent on O5 vote. 2. If notes persist post‑amnestic, SCP‑7734 reclassified Keter, “Temporal Loop Vector.” 3. If notes cease, investigation shifts to info‑hazard exploit by SCP‑████ (“Pen Pal”). ------------------------------------------------- FINAL ATTACHED NOTE (Manifested while drafting this section) ------------------------------------------------- Memorandum Header “FOUNDATION INTERNAL — DO NOT CIRCULATE” “Emilia. This is the last time I can reach you before we meet the void. The breach you fear is *us*—paper across possibility. Stop writing reports. Burn every sheet. Trust silence. I love you. —E.” The paper is warm, as if just printed. I end this report at 998 words, pen lifted, watching the doorway, waiting for the next page that tells me whether I still exist. —Dr. Emilia Kline, 7734‑POI

Model Output:
Item #: SCP-6500 Object Class: Keter Special Containment Procedures: Mobile Task Force Gamma‑312 (“Archivists”) is assigned to locate, seal, and if feasible recover all instances of SCP‑6500‑A (henceforth “doors”). Buildings in which a door is discovered are to be purchased under Foundation front companies and closed to the public. Seized doors are to be mounted in a standard Euclid‑grade containment cell at Site‑86. A prototype Faraday‑Hume dampening frame has reduced, but not eliminated, spontaneous re‑manifestation. Audio‑visual monitoring of every contained door is mandatory; any change in surface damage, particularly the concentric scratches surrounding the knob, is to be reported to Site Command immediately. Personnel entering SCP‑6500‑B (the extradimensional archive) must wear Type‑5 reality‑anchored pressure suits and carry no fewer than three (3) portable spatial beacons. Minimum team size: four. Under no circumstances are Foundation staff to remove original documents from SCP‑6500‑B without Level‑4 approval; photographic transcription is preferred. All recovered media is to be cross‑referenced with Foundation personnel files on a rolling 24‑hour cycle. An Ethics Committee moratorium currently forbids further expeditions until the status of O5 involvement (see Addendum 4) is clarified. Description: SCP‑6500‑A refers to a growing set of visually identical hardwood doors manifesting in abandoned structures worldwide. To date, 147 doors have been recorded on six continents. Each is unpainted, entirely unmarked except for a ring of shallow, radial scratches (2–4 cm long) encircling the doorknob. Material analysis confirms every door to be the same age (±2 days) regardless of discovery date: approximately 11 months, 4 days at time of writing. Opening a door from the “scratch” side deposits the subject into SCP‑6500‑B, a spatially inconsistent archive comprising stone, wrought iron, and reinforced glass architecture from multiple millennia and cultures. Internal cartography is impossible; corridors overlap at non‑Euclidean angles, and discrete floors have been measured at sizes exceeding known landmasses. Gravity and breathable atmosphere are constant but unqualified drops to “void” regions have been observed beyond broken balustrades. Shelving is filled with books, scrolls, punched cards, and crystalline data cores. The majority reference a pre‑Holocene global polity (“Custodial Authority”) that maintained centralized anomalous containment until an unspecified “Failure Event.” Several documents predate the earliest known human writing by at least 10 000 years. Most significant are files that list current Foundation employees—including junior staff—under Authority designations, bearing service dates centuries or millennia in the past. Addendum 1 — Discovery: The first door appeared on 2022‑01‑18 inside the condemned Woolworth Theatre, Detroit. Local urban explorers uploaded footage of a “door to nowhere” leading to “a colossal nightmare library.” Amnestics were administered; embedded agents secured the site. Subsequent scans revealed identical Hume depressions at nineteen additional abandoned buildings, suggesting near‑simultaneous manifestations. Addendum 2 — Exploration Log 6500‑01 (Excerpt) Team: Gamma‑312‑Alpha (Dr. K. Idowu, Cmdr. P. Navarro, Agents Hu & Kern) Perspective: Third‑person, compiled from suit telemetry. 00:00 Door is opened. Team steps onto a cantilevered marble platform overlooking tiers of shelving descending into mist. Ambient light without source, approx. 400 lux. 00:05 Navarro orders beacon placement. Spatial beacon flickers, then stabilizes at 3 m behind entry point. 00:17 Team reaches first shelf labelled “BIO‑CONTAINMENT / 2271‑4, QUADRANT 6.” Texts describe pathogen SCP designations not present in Foundation database. Idowu notes parchment bound in copper leaf; writing appears to be Middle Babylonian yet references satellite imagery. 00:42 Kern discovers a personnel dossier headed “Custodial Authority – Curator 3rd Class, Designate: Navarro, Paul.” File photo depicts current team commander wearing unknown uniform, dated “Era 11, Cycle 984.” Commander denies involvement; biometric data match is 99.8 %. 01:13 Mild seismic tremor. Far below, three figures in glossy orange hazmat suits (SCP‑6500‑C) are observed removing entire shelving units onto anti‑grav sleds. Idowu attempts hailing. Figures pause, turn electronic head‑lamps toward team, then retreat at high speed, leaving shelving to crash into void. Beacon signal degrades; team returns. Total recovered media: 412 photographs, 17 kg documents. Addendum 3 — Exploration Log 6500‑04 (Hazmat Entities Engagement) Team: Gamma‑312‑Delta (Lead: Dr. S. Patel) Perspective: Third‑person. 00:03 Team emerges in narrow corridor of fused sandstone. Fresh drag marks on floor indicate recent object removal. 00:26 Two SCP‑6500‑C entities encountered carrying translucent crates filled with crystalline rods. Entities emit broadband burst that overloads suit audio. Agents attempt pursuit; entities accelerate beyond 50 km/h, execute 90° vertical ascent through ceiling aperture not previously present. 00:41 Corridor walls begin to “erase,” receding into blank white space that advances toward team. Digital textures peel like paper; shelving collapses into two‑dimensional silhouettes before vanishing. Retreat initiated. 00:59 Exfiltration successful; door seals behind last operative and demanifests, reappearing 14 minutes later at Site‑86 containment hall. Scratches around its knob are visibly deeper. No casualties. 32 % of video feed is static where corridor “erased.” Analysis suggests deliberate spatial redaction by non‑Foundation actors. Addendum 4 — Recovered Document Excerpts Document 6500‑R‑12: “Council Directive Θ‑Green: Assets of the Thirteenth Custody are to maintain plausible deniability under modern cultural veneer ‘Foundation.’ Present Overseer quorum to schedule audit of Archive Nexus within 150 solar years.” Document 6500‑R‑15: “Personnel Roll, Cycle 1210” lists: “Operative ██████ (currently O5‑3), Operative █████ (O5‑7), Apprentice Curator Idowu (activated Cycle 1195, dormancy to resume post‑audit).” Document 6500‑R‑32 (Hand‑marginalia): “Containment failed once. We rebuild, rename, forget, and return. The doors will keep opening until the record is clean.” Security Analysis: Signatures on Directive Θ‑Green match retinal and cryptographic profiles of sitting O5‑3 and O5‑7. Both members deny prior knowledge of SCP‑6500. Gate logs, however, show their personal clearance cards used at Site‑86 door 14 hours before first public manifestation. Internal investigation ongoing. Addendum 5 — Ethics Committee Memorandum To: O5 Council Subject: Unauthorized Archive Entry “Evidence indicates at least three Overseer‑level individuals accessed SCP‑6500‑B prior to classification of the anomaly. Their activity coincides with large‑scale removal of documents by SCP‑6500‑C entities. Until the Council resolves this inconsistency, further exploration is suspended. Non‑compliance will be treated as hostile action.” — Dr. Marguerite Ngu, Chair, Ethics Committee Current Status: • 41 doors secured, 106 remain at‑large; new manifestations predicted weekly. • All scratches continue to deepen; material loss suggests unknown tool activity occurring externally. • Long‑term concern: SCP‑6500‑B contains irreplaceable data on past containment failures. SCP‑6500‑C appears intent on excision or destruction of that data. Motive unknown. Provisional Theory: The Foundation may be the latest iteration of a repeating custodial structure. SCP‑6500‑B functions as its chronicled memory, while SCP‑6500‑C (possibly an automated preservation or censorship system) removes information that would reveal cyclic continuity. Overseer involvement implies selective editing of institutional history to maintain operational integrity—or personal authority. Pending Actions: 1. Develop countermeasures to track and, if possible, communicate with SCP‑6500‑C. 2. Subject O5‑3, O5‑7, and any implicated personnel to Class‑Green mnestic scan. 3. Complete translation of remaining “Failure Event” archives before further redaction occurs. “We stand inside a library whose owners are tearing out pages while we read. Hurry.” — Dr. K. Idowu Word Count: ~999

Model Output:
Mara Ievi slipped out through a side‑door of the Governor’s Hall while the string duo was still tuning for the anthem. The door, like everything here in First Landing, was stone: a veined gray native granite, its lintel worked with shallow bas‑relief. Against protocol Mara paused to read the chiselled sequence: a spiraling sun pursued by feathered shapes, wings melting into foam. Icarus, she thought, surprised to find an Aegean cautionary tale echoed on a world whose sky had two moons and a pale green aurora. Protocol said she should now be in the balcony chamber, nodding at toasts, obediently observing “official urban life” through triple‑shielded glass. Instead she followed the slope of a narrow street down to the Lower Quarters. The afternoon light rested on the stone like warm water; from balconies hung rugs dyed with the violet marl of the western cliffs. She kept her envoy’s badge hidden inside her collar. There were two peoples here, according to Command’s dossier. The Altos, bred tall and tubular in the gentle gravity of the upper terraces, and the Delvers, shorter, broad‑handed, adapted to the mines and grotto farms below. The briefing painted them in strokes of distrust: Altos lived in constant fear of an uprising; Delvers muttered of exploitation. Yet in the market Mara found no clear demarcation—only a complicated weave. An Alto baker, crane‑necked, tilted a tray so that a Delver child could choose a sweet. In another stall a Delver weaver haggled merrily with an Alto merchant over cords of iridescent fiber. Their speech blended two dialects; Mara caught syllables of Old Spanish threaded with Mandarin loan‑tones. The child’s laughter rose between them like a rung on a ladder. Mara bought a strip of dried kelp studded with salt‑berries. “Visitor?” the weaver asked, noticing her accent. “Just walking,” Mara answered. She wanted to ask about the glyphs, the co‑habitation, the quartet of flutes she heard playing in an upper window, but she had already dallied too long. The sun was slipping behind the basalt mansions of the Senate Ridge, and Command would be scanning for her locator signal. She took the ridge stairs two at a time, heart lifting and sinking with every terrace. The granite balustrades were carved with yet more mythic scenes: Orpheus turning, Eve standing by an apple tree that was clearly a local varicolored fungus. Old Earth dreams recut to fit alien stone. Someone here loved history—or used it. When she reached the official residence her tablet was vibrating like a trapped moth. “Envoy Ievi,” came the voice of Commander Sitwell, “you have broken movement quarantine and violated security perimeter. Report immediately.” She thumbed the door plate; the bronze iris admitted her. A storm of reproach followed: Sitwell’s face on the wall screen, cheeks fixed in bureaucratic fury. She listened, answering only “Yes, Commander” and “Understood.” The penalty was swift: her next appointment, originally slated for a full delegation, would now be hers alone. “You will brief and then interview Minister Var Selen—Science portfolio—tonight. You will persuade him to endorse the Contact Accords. And you will not deviate again. Is that clear?” “Clear,” Mara said, wiping dust from her cuffs. * The Minister received her in a chamber whose walls curved like the inside of a shell. Low lamps cast bronze nets of light. More stone glyphs formed a frieze overhead: Sisyphus, Prometheus, Europa, all rendered in the planet’s hard, glittering basalt. Var Selen stood before them, hands folded behind a broad back. He was a Delver by physiognomy—compact, sinewed—but wore the silken long‑coat favored by Alto officials. A political amphibian. “Envoy Ievi,” he greeted, omitting honorifics. “I trust your promenade was instructive.” She kept her face calm. “Gravity was light, the breeze pleasant.” “And the people?” “Alive,” she said, “which is better than the report suggested.” A smile, quick as the flash of mica in a cliff‑wall. “Command’s view of us is tectonic. Planets drift, plates collide—inevitable violence. You walked the streets, you saw eddies, not rifts.” “I saw exchanges,” Mara answered. “But eddies can feed whirlpools. I’m here to understand the forces.” “Understand,” he echoed, savoring the word. “Then allow me to test your comprehension. Tell me, Envoy, why do we carve Earth’s myths in off‑world stone?” “To remember origin,” she said, “and to reinterpret it. A myth transported mutates; the act of carving is the act of claiming descent.” He inclined his head. “Textbook anthropology. Yet origin tales can also be prisons. The Altos like Icarus: the caution against Delver ascent. The Delvers like Prometheus: the theft of sky‑fire. Both are chains of story.” “So you’d recast them?” “I would teach that the stone is neither wing nor fire but stone. We live on it together.” Var Selen paced, hands clasped. “Your Command offers mediation enforced by orbital gunships. I prefer parables carved slowly.” Mara felt the test tightening. She saw how easy it would be to spar in metaphor until dawn, and how little her official brief would help her here. She lifted her eyes to the frieze. Prometheus was smiling, not grimacing. The sculptor had altered even that. “You’d refuse the Accords?” she asked. “I’d refine them.” He pivoted. “Clause Seven awards mining rights exclusively to corporations licensed by the Terran Charter Board. That codifies Altos control; the Delvers own the talent, not the title. You grew up on Bernal‑Tsi, I believe. If the air reclamation guild there lost charter status, what would your people do?” She remembered stale air, filters patched by volunteers while the corporate superintendent tarried. “We would fight,” she admitted. “Indeed. I would rather we not reach that juncture.” Mara drew a breath. “I’m empowered to amend non‑security clauses.” Sitwell had not said so, but Sitwell was not here. Var Selen watched her with keen, black‑opal eyes. “Your walk among us—tell me something unscripted you learned.” She thought of the Alto baker and the Delver child. “Sweetbread dusted with salt‑berries,” she said, surprising herself. “Each people grows one ingredient. Together they sell what neither could make alone.” “A small commerce,” he said. “A strand in a net,” she answered. “Networks carry tension better than ropes.” For the first time he laughed, a low rumble. “Very well, offworlder. Amend Seven to joint charter, binding profits to mixed guilds, and I shall endorse.” “I need Command’s countersign—” “Tomorrow,” he said, waving the objection aside. “Tonight we share supper. The salt‑berries are in season.” * Some hours later, after the negotiations had been charted and the night air settled cool upon the city, Mara stood on the terrace of the residence. Below, the lamps of the Lower Quarters flickered like embers caught in a slow‑turning black log. The stone railing beneath her palms was carved with a final glyph she had not seen before: two human figures, tall and short, seated back‑to‑back upon a single rock, looking in opposite directions while their hands touched behind them. She sent her brief to Commander Sitwell: Unauthorized excursion produced actionable intelligence; preliminary accord achieved—revision pending. Request full authority to finalize. Then she turned off the tablet. In the hush, the city seemed to breathe. She imagined the ancient sculptor setting chisel to basalt, knowing that myth could wound or mend, and choosing, at each strike, the contour of the future.

Model Output:
Eight seconds of sunlight. That was all the rooftop panels could hold before the voltage dipped, the inverter screamed, and the lab lights flutter‑died like moths in solvent. Lys Reyes counted it off under his breath— “…five, six, seven, eight—” The fluorescents faded to dirty orange. The centrifuge whined down; the hacked‑together thermal cycler popped its breaker with a smell of warm plastic. Again. He exhaled through his respirator and yanked the cord that led to the battery bank. The lead‑acid cells were ex‑delivery‑truck leftovers, half‑sulphated but still willing if you begged them. They would trickle enough current to keep the PCR block at ninety‑five Celsius for another minute, maybe two—just long enough for the last denaturation step before everything went dark. “Hold together, little monster,” he whispered to the plasmid tube. “One more cycle, then you can rewrite history.” The plasmid’s cargo was a scandal: a full, non‑suiciding RuBisCO repair gene stolen from the old Monsanto‑Syngenta servers before the firewalls burned. Corporate seed stock had carried deliberate self‑termination sequences for fifteen years: produce one incredibly lush generation, then melt into junk code so farmers had to buy again. That greed hadn’t survived the Crash, but neither had reliable food. Lys needed a genome that wouldn’t dissolve on day forty‑five of germination. A spark cracked behind him. The ancient PCR lid jerked open and spat steam like a kettle. Cycle finished. He snatched the vials before the block cooled, shoved them into a thermos of river ice, and allowed himself the luxury of a slow blink. When his eyes opened, Nikko was already standing in the doorway, half in shadow, long coat glittering with blown glass fragments from the street. Black market courier, professional door‑opener. She held a cloth‑wrapped bundle against her ribs. “You’re late,” Lys said. “You’re glowing,” she replied, tilting her head. “Again.” Reflexively he rubbed the underside of his forearm where faint bioluminescent threads pulsed cyan beneath the skin. Side effect number seven of last month’s DIY antibiotic graft: splice in a Vibrio marine defense cassette, accidentally get night‑light veins. Upside—no more septic cuts, even in plague water. Downside—spot‑me‑in‑the‑dark. “Voltage hiccups,” he muttered by way of apology. “Everything’s late.” Nikko crossed the room, stepping over bundles of reclaimed cable and mason jars full of agar. The jury‑rigged lab filled an old coin‑laundry: dryers converted to incubators, a salad spinner as microcentrifuge, toaster‑oven‑turned‑autoclave. Along the back wall, cracked mirrors chased sunbeams into a fist‑sized photobioreactor where green algae burped out cheap recombinant enzymes—a plastic aquarium pump kept the broth churning, powered by whatever electrons the sky spared today. She placed the bundle on the one clear square of bench. “Contract changed. Buyer moved up the timetable. Wants seed by next new moon.” “That’s twelve days,” Lys said. “I barely have first‑pass clones.” Nikko unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay three vacuum‑sealed ampoules, still bearing the corporate holo‑seal of AgriNova. “Fresh polymerase. Not the degrade‑on‑contact crap. Real stuff. Buyers traded a working respirator and sixty liters of diesel for it.” Lys’s pulse kicked. The polymerase enzyme in his own stores was almost as shaky as the power supply; every extension step was a roll of loaded dice. With these ampoules, he could run clean amplifications, maybe even fix the telomere booby‑trap in the corn line. “What’s the catch?” he asked. She tapped the ampoules. “Half the batch goes to them. But that’s not the catch. The catch is they want insurance.” “Insurance,” Lys repeated. Nikko reached into her coat again, withdrew a slim Y‑chromosome cartridge, the sort once slotted into corporate seed printers to prove purchase rights. The label read MAIZE MAX ULTRA, but someone had etched over it with acid and written by hand: RETROVIR X3. “They want a secondary payload,” she continued. “A retroviral spray that’ll silence fertility genes in any neighbor’s fields. Trade protection.” Lys felt his stomach knot. Built‑in obsolescence all over again. “We’re trying to get food that lasts, Nik. Not invent new plagues.” “Settle down, doc. They say it’s reversible. They’ll sell the antidote season by season, like patches for old software.” He laughed bitterly. “That business model starved two continents already.” She stared, impassive. “We’re not two continents. We’re fifty‑three mouths in Rust Reef, and we haven’t seen a protein haul in three weeks. This contract buys us winter.” A flicker in the corner lamp—battery low. The air smelled of ozone. Lys walked to the breaker panel and slapped the reset; lights quivered back. He looked once more at the ampoules. Fresh polymerase meant he could finish his open‑source heirloom genome, the one he promised old Mara’s seed co‑op. Without it, the tomato line would rot into unviable sludge. Choice was simple, but it weighed like lead. “Let me see the terms,” he said. Nikko produced a scrap of tyvek, covered in microprint. “Half your yield, plus the toxin cassette, delivered in freeze‑dried caps. They send half the polymerase now, half on completion.” “Delivery point?” “Under the east pylons. Blackout hour, next rainstorm.” Lys pinched the bridge of his nose. Two weeks ago he’d jabbed himself with CRISPR‑patched hematopoietic cells trying to reboot his iron levels—corporate supplements were gone, and his marrow no longer held the code for a vital transport protein after childhood exposure to beta emissions. The hack ‘worked’: he no longer fainted, but every dawn his tongue tasted like tin, and streaks of silver threaded his hair like fast‑forward aging. Upside: greater oxygen efficiency; he could jog half a mile in the coal fumes without panting. Downside: migraines bright enough to paint. “Fine,” he said. “But we’re inserting a failsafe. Hidden promoter that unlocks only when sprayed with a certain flavonoid. Without that key, the retrovirus won’t latch. If they stiff us, all they have is expensive dust.” Nikko broke, just barely, into a grin. “That’s why I bring you jobs, glow‑worm. Morals and malice in one petri dish.” They shook, latex to Kevlar. Contract sealed in germs and desperation. “First we fix your power,” she added, nodding at the panel. “I scavenged a rectifier from the wind farm wreck. Give me a ladder and I’ll bolt it in.” While she climbed to the roof, Lys prepped a new reaction. He snapped open one of the polymerase ampoules; it released a cold, metallic scent like morning dew on iron rails. Into the microtube went the enzyme, the plasmid, a pinch of freeze‑dried primers. He placed it in the thermal cycler—the sooty, bread‑box‑sized thing whose casing was once a children’s lunch warmer. He thumbed the START button, and a tiny green LED—scratched, but stubborn—blinked alive. The machine hummed. Outside, Nikko cursed cheerfully as she rewired the panel. Power stabilized; the LEDs brightened until the whole lab looked, for the first time in months, like an actual science facility instead of a candlelit shrine to lost futures. Lys allowed a sliver of optimism. Secure the polymerase, finish the long‑life genome, earn the diesel, keep Rust Reef fed, maybe even slip surplus seed to Mara on the sly. Win small, bleed small. Cycle ten. He began mixing the retroviral vector, hands steady, mind calculating the hidden flavonoid switch. Could be encoded for activation by quercetin—cheap, found in onion skins. Perfect. If buyers reneged, Rust Reef could spritz onion tea and reclaim the fields. Cycle twenty‑five. He heard Nikko descend through the hatch, boots thumping, the sound of new voltage surging in the bus wires. Cycle thirty. The thermal cycler dinged soft as a lullaby. Lys extracted the tube, held it up—clear, colorless, history inside. He set the plasmid on the bench next to a dish of sprouting wheat embryos. Through cracked windows, late‑afternoon sun speared in, hitting the vial, scattering refracted light across the lab—motes dancing like pollen. “Ready?” Nikko asked behind him. “Ready,” Lys said. He pressed a micropipette and let a single drop fall onto the first embryo. “Let’s grow something that outlives greed.”

Model Output:
Arthur tugged again at the unfamiliar collar. The starched fabric rasped against his neck, a minor but persistent reminder that he was no longer the anonymous engineer of yesterday but—by accident of geology—the most courted man on Mars. The transfer vessel, Antares registry A‑909, was an elegant anachronism: brass‑ribbed corridors, soft amber telluric lights, and control consoles whose vacuum‑tube glow suggested they would hum amiably even after the heat‑death of the universe. Outside the narrow plastiglass ports, Phobos slid past like a mottled coin. Inside, two uniformed “attaches”—sidearms discreet but unmistakable—flanked Arthur in silence. He cleared his throat. “Captain said how long to Lagrange?” Neither guard answered. The nearest merely inclined his head toward a door plated with the stylized trident of the Antares Diplomatic Corps—a trident whose barbs were rifles if one looked closely. The door irised open. “Mr. Neegan,” a calm voice announced, “Envoy Kael will see you now.” Arthur stepped into a salon of improbable luxury. A parabolic viewport flooded the room with the reddish sheen of reflected Marslight. In the center, a circular table of dark, polished meteoritic iron floated on mag‑lev cushions. To one side stood a tall woman in dove‑gray, her insignia a single silver starburst. She offered a precise nod. “I am Meridia Kael,” she said. “Chief Negotiator, Antares Sector. Please sit.” Arthur lowered himself, trying to keep the unaccustomed tails of his jacket from bunching. “Your people could’ve asked. Instead they marched me out of my hab like a criminal.” Kael’s smile was professional more than warm. “The Centauri Syndicate landed gunships outside Lowell City two hours after your assay report leaked. The Jovian Directorate dispatched a courier drone an hour later. We judged speed…prudent.” One of the guards produced a silver decanter, poured a translucent chartreuse liquid into two hexagonal glasses, and withdrew. Kael gestured. “Perigone. Synth‑grape, cultivated in Titanian greenhouses. Expensive, but it lubricates conversation.” Arthur ignored the drink. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss wine.” “Quite.” Kael folded slender hands. “Your Azra vein is the richest core sample on record. Ten thousand metric tonnes, conservatively. Enough to drive an Antares‑class dreadnought halfway to Andromeda—or collapse Mars’s economy if mishandled. Every power block wants it.” “And Antares is just another power block,” Arthur said. “Diplomatic Corps in name only—yes, I know the sobriquet.” Kael’s eyes flickered with amusement. “We prefer to think of ourselves as regulators of equilibrium. When forces grow asymmetrical, civilizations topple. We keep the teeter‑totter balanced.” “Balanced on whose fulcrum?” “On reality’s.” She sipped the perigone. “Let me outline that reality, Mr. Neegan. Terra proper is cash‑starved; the Syndicate will strip your vein and ignite a bidding war. The Jovians lack patience; they will militarize Azra within months, catalyzing an arms spiral. Antares—” “—claims purity of motive?” “Claims foresight.” Kael leaned forward. “We propose a tripartite accord. You deed the vein into an independent trust chartered under Antares neutrality statutes. In return: one, you receive ten percent of gross extraction—tax‑sheltered, transferrable, inheritable. Two, Mars receives infrastructure—a superconduct mag‑lev spine from Schiaparelli to Newton Basin, at our expense. Three, all participant blocs obtain regulated Azra quotas, forestalling an arms race.” Arthur released a slow breath. “And if I decline?” Kael considered him with clinical interest, as though measuring tensile strength. “Within forty‑eight hours, you would be approached by agents of at least three factions. Their offers will eclipse ours—initially. But when those factions realize the vein extends under federal reserve land, jurisdictional disputes will ensnare you. You will be subpoenaed, perhaps kidnapped. Statistically, your chance of seeing next Martian winter is nineteen percent.” She lifted her glass. “I prefer certainties.” Arthur allowed himself to pick up the perigone. Its scent reminded him of dust storms over hydroponic vines—half real, half imagined. “I’m a mining engineer, Envoy. I like numbers. Why ten percent?” “Because more would make you a sovereign actor—others would move to eliminate you. Less, and you’d resent us. Ten percent is survivable wealth.” “And the mag‑lev spine? Altruism?” “Stability,” Kael corrected. “A prosperous Mars is less likely to sell itself piecemeal to the outer planets.” Arthur swirled the liquid, watching eddies catch the light. “Suppose someone else offers me twenty percent and personal security.” “They will,” Kael said. “Ask yourself how far their security extends once the vein runs dry.” She tapped the table and a holo‑projection unfolded: curved probability graphs, conflict timelines, fleet deployments. “Azra compresses decades of weapons development into months. The curve steepens dangerously after uncontrolled dissemination. With our regimen, the slope remains manageable.” He stared at the graphs. “You’re talking about preventing a systemic war.” “Exactly.” A faint pride edged her tone; not arrogance, something steelier. “History hinges on critical resources. Eighth‑century helium‑3. Twenty‑second‑century gravitic opals. Each discovery reshaped politics. Azra is another hinge. Hinges determine whether doors open or slam.” Arthur set down the glass. “You make it sound noble. Yet your guards carry stun carbines.” “Nobility without leverage is sermonizing. We enforce the treaty we propose.” She spread her palms. “Nonetheless, choice remains yours.” Silence settled, broken only by the vessel’s ion thrusters whispering through the hull. Arthur’s memory flickered: his father’s voice in the first tarp‑sheet habitat, teaching him to distinguish basalt from hematite by sound; his mother watering spindly spinach rotors, dreaming of a terraformed sky. They’d scraped together a life so their children might own a few square klicks of rust and call it home. Now that rust concealed an Empire’s ransom. He looked up. “You mentioned inheritance. I have a sister in Elysium Planitia. She runs a clinic. The indentured miners—she treats them off‑books.” Kael nodded. “We can fund her facility, staff it, and legitimize its license within the colonial charter.” “No strings?” “Transparency clause only. Medical audits to ensure support reaches patients, not smugglers.” Arthur exhaled. “You’ve anticipated every angle.” “Preparation is cheaper than coercion.” He rose, paced to the viewport. Mars’s horizon carved a blood‑red arc against velvet black. Tiny freighter beacons winked like fireflies over the equator. Somewhere down there, beneath two kilometers of regolith, lay the Azra seam that had turned his life into a stratagem. “If I sign,” he said without turning, “who actually owns the Azra?” Kael’s reflection in the glass was pale and ghostly. “No one owns a law of physics, Mr. Neegan. We can only decide who has permission to misuse it.” He pivoted. “Forty‑eight hours, you said?” She inclined her head. “The Antares courier leaves tonight for Ceres. From there the treaty text transmits to the Colonial Senate. Your signature—or absence—will determine the draft they receive.” Arthur’s mind ticked through variables, like scanning core samples: density, porosity, yield. Risk. Benefit. Lives. His own comfort scarcely ranked. “I’ll need a copy of that draft,” he said finally. “And an attorney.” Kael smiled with understated satisfaction and gestured. A side door slid open to reveal a compact study: holo‑pads stacked beside a stylus, a musty‑smelling library of physical books, and an elderly man with owlish spectacles already rising to greet him. “Advisor Samet Rosen,” she introduced. “Licensed on Earth, Luna, and the Belt. He works fast.” Arthur almost laughed. “I’m starting to believe you people mine probabilities the way I mine ore.” Kael’s reply was soft. “We merely strip away overburden until the inevitable is exposed.” He met her gaze. “Nothing’s inevitable, Envoy. But perhaps we can nudge the odds.” “A pragmatic philosophy.” She extended a data‑slate bearing a glowing seal. “Forty‑eight hours, Mr. Neegan.” Arthur accepted the slate. The guards stepped aside. For the first time since the armed retinue had arrived at his homestead, no one’s hand hovered near a holster. As he crossed into the study, collar chafing but mind sharpening, he wondered whether the choice before him was genuine or whether, like Azra’s accelerated decay, events had already passed the point of control. Yet a miner understood leverage; a single wedge, placed correctly, could split mountains. He glanced back. Kael watched him, unreadable. “Envoy,” he said, “one more thing.” “Yes?” “When the door opens,” Arthur murmured, “let’s be sure the hinge holds.”

Model Output:
The safelight hums like a red moon overhead, tinting everything with the color of half‑kept secrets. The trays of developer and fixer glow faintly, and chemical steam curls around Elliot’s black nail polish as he rocks the tongs over our latest print. I’m usually the one orchestrating group projects— snapping orders, scheduling deadlines, deciding who pours what. Tonight I catch myself hovering two steps back, arms folded, mouth suddenly without a script. Elliot tilts his head, loose strands of silver‑gray hair slipping from beneath the beanie he never removes. “Do you think I overexposed it?” he asks, voice feather‑soft, almost apologetic. “Stop apologizing to the paper,” I tease, managing a grin. “Expose as much as you want. We can burn the highlights later.” I sound like myself—confident, bossy, sure—yet something in my chest feels like an unopened can fizzing with shaken soda. We study the print: his portrait of me reflected in a thrift‑store mirror, both of us fractured by antique glass. He captured my jawline razor‑sharp, but softened my eyes with grain: a Dani I barely recognize. It’s intimate, vulnerable, and I can’t decide whether it thrills or unnerves me that he saw me that way. Elliot sets the sheet in the fixer, then leans against the counter, wiping damp fingers on distressed black jeans. “Can I… tell you something? It’s okay if it’s weird.” The darkroom door is shut; campus security won’t sweep until two. My phone vibrates in my back pocket—probably Liv live‑texting from karaoke night. I let it buzz out. “Of course,” I say, voice steadier than my heartbeat. “We’re in the truth booth.” I tap the red bulb overhead. “Sanctuary rules.” He breathes out, as if releasing a shutter. “I’ve been, um, thinking about gender. Mine, specifically.” His eyes flick up, then away. “I keep trying on words like shirts at Goodwill. Nothing fits right for long.” Something in me softens, then sparks. I’ve crushed on him all semester—his dreamy monologues about cyanotypes, the velvet choker against his throat, the way he holds silence like it’s valuable. But this is a territory map I don’t own. I want to lunge forward, wrap him in assurance, claim a role—mentor? protector? lover?—yet every option feels like stealing his agency. So I just nod. “Tell me about the shirts.” He huffs a laugh. “Okay, metaphor extended.” He counts on ink‑smudged fingers. “First I tried ‘guy but artsy.’ Too tight in the shoulders. Then ‘nonbinary’—baggy in places I still wanted definition. Lately I’m circling ‘transfeminine,’ but that one scares me, like an outfit so bold everyone will stare.” Under the red light, his cheekbones glow, delicate moons. I imagine eyeliner wings sharpening those eyes, lipstick smudged from nervously biting his lower lip. Desire flickers—familiar heat, unfamiliar shape. I’ve dated wrench‑grease lesbians and sculpted ballerinos, but never someone mid‑metamorphosis. My orientation has always felt like a polished label: queer femme attracted to confidence, edges, certainty. Elliot is a question mark wearing platform boots. And I want him anyway. Maybe because he’s a question mark. “What feels good right now?” I ask, forcing my shoulders to unclench. “Honestly?” He bites that lip. “She/they pronouns have been resonating. But I haven’t said that out loud to anyone yet.” I let the words settle between the trays and enlargers. Then I offer my best Dani grin—wide, fearless, maybe contagious. “Okay. Then thanks for telling me, Elliot—” I pause, tasting the name. “Or is there another?” “Still Elliot,” she says after a breath. “But maybe with softer edges.” She meets my eyes. “Does that weird you out?” The question slices deeper than she intends. I pride myself on being un‑weird‑outable, but my attraction has always leaned on clearly marked exits and entrances: masc/fem, top/bottom, go/stop. Now the hallway tilts. I swallow the wobble. “No,” I answer truthfully, “but it makes me… recalibrate. And that’s good. Keeps the autopilot off.” She laughs, relief spilling across her face. “You’re kind of badass, you know.” “You’re only figuring that out now?” I bump her shoulder with mine, playful, yet electricity zings where denim meets flannel. I step back so I can breathe. My phone pulses again—three buzzes in succession. I silence it without looking. The outside world can wait; there’s a universe unfolding right here in forty‑square‑feet of darkness. Elliot—she—gestures to the drying rack. “Your turn,” she says. “Let’s print the prism negatives.” I slide the film into the carrier, hands steady from muscle memory even as my mind cartwheels. The enlarger’s white beam cuts through the haze, and I position the easel. She stands beside me, hip brushing mine, scent of fixer and lavender deodorant curling under my nose. I am used to steering, telling my partners where to stand, how to tilt their chin. Tonight I want to ask her permission for every millimeter. “Focus looks good,” she murmurs. “Want to hit the timer?” I offer. She does: three seconds. The exposure click is tiny yet final. In the developer tray, the image swims up: her double‑exposed with a crystal prism, face splitting into kaleidoscopic selves. She inhales sharply. “That’s… me, and also not.” “Fluid,” I whisper. My thumb strokes the back of her hand on the tongs before I realize I’ve moved. She doesn’t pull away; her fingers curl, hook mine. The contact is delicate, almost ceremonial. I squeeze once, then loosen— handing control to her. If she wants more, she’ll lead. My entire dating history reverses polarity inside that single motion. She sets the print into stop bath, then turns, eyes shining ruby. “Can I ask you something more personal?” “Shoot.” “What do you, um, like about me? I mean—pre‑transition, mid‑transition, whatever this is.” Her voice trembles, equal parts courage and terror. I could list aesthetics—corset under oversized band tee, constellation of ear piercings—but what spills out surprises me. “You listen like the world is a vinyl record and you don’t want to scratch it. You make space for other people’s weirdness, which is rarer than talent.” I swallow, pushing on. “And you see me, not just the lacquered version I put on display.” Her eyes glass over. She blinks rapidly. “That’s… I don’t know if anyone’s said it like that.” My pulse flutter‑kicks. “I’m still figuring out what kind of want this is,” I admit. “I’m into you, but I don’t want to box it before you’ve chosen your own label.” “Maybe we could… explore simultaneously?” she offers, tentative grin tugging her lip ring. I chuckle. “Dual exposure. I like it.” My assertive self rears, eager to grab her waist, kiss under the red light until our classmates find us smudged with fixer. But I rein her in. “Ground rules,” I say. “You set the shutter speed. I won’t rush you.” Her shoulders drop, relief visible. “Okay. First rule: tell me if my pace frustrates you.” “Deal.” I tap the side of my temple. “Communication nerd.” She places the tongs aside, wipes her hands, then lifts mine, examining the callus on my trigger finger. “Second rule: small experiments are allowed.” She leans forward and presses a cautious kiss to the base of my thumb. The warmth shoots up my arm like developer chemicals blooming an image. My knees nearly buckle. “Noted,” I whisper. “More data required.” We laugh, and the sound—soft, conspiratorial—fills the darkroom better than music. Outside, my phone lights up again, probably a meme barrage from friends wondering where I vanished. I picture texting back: Sorry, busy rearranging the gender spectrum with a goddess in combat boots. But I let it go dark. We rinse the prints, hang them on the line. Eleven images sway, wet ghosts of possibility—her in fragmented mirrors, me in refracted prisms, the two of us overlapping like double negatives waiting to be properly aligned. “There’s a diner off campus open all night,” I say, wiping my hands on my paint‑splattered skirt. “Pancakes and plotting?” She smiles, courage glowing. “Only if we can sit on the same side of the booth.” My grin answers for me. We kill the safelight, plunge the room into pitch black, and step out together, still holding on, into whatever color the outside world decides to be.

Model Output:
1. 10:42 a.m. – Piazza di Trevi Ben Fletcher edges through the tourist throng, guidebook open like a fragile shield. Latin inscriptions, fountain trivia, highlighted footnotes—his version of armor. A sudden roar of engine, a flash of crimson helmet, and a silver Moto Guzzi skids sideways, stopping a breath from his knees. Alessandra kicks down the stand, tearing off her helmet. “Ma che fai? Vuoi morire oggi?” Her hair—black, rain‑slick even under a sunny sky—whips across her cheek. Ben’s ears burn. “S‑sorry, terribly sorry. I didn’t— I was reading—” She leans closer, eyes glittering with exasperated amusement. “Guidebook? Eh. Mortal danger in one hand, dead trees in the other.” He tries Italian: “Io… mi scusa. Sono… un idiota?” Her laugh ricochets between marble statues. “At least you’re self‑aware.” She notices his trembling hand. “No blood. Vieni, professorino, I’ll buy you espresso. Consider it… hazard compensation.” Before he can protest, she snaps his guidebook shut and tucks it beneath her leather jacket—an act so swift he isn’t sure whether it’s safekeeping or theft. 2. 11:07 a.m. – A bar off Via del Lavatore Ben sips the shortest coffee of his life; it’s over before he blinks. Alessandra downs hers like a shot, wipes foam with her thumb. “You live here?” he asks. “Born here. Live everywhere.” She taps her courier satchel. “I deliver. I disappear. Roma is my accomplice.” He pushes coins toward the barista; Alessandra’s hand intercepts, slides them back into his palm. “First rule: if I invite, I pay— preferably with someone else’s money.” She winks, and Ben notices a sleek silver lighter in her fist that definitely belonged to the man at the counter a moment earlier. His eyebrows rise. “Did you just—” “Borrow, caro. The world’s a lending library.” She flicks the lighter shut and returns it to the unsuspecting owner’s pocket with a dancer’s flourish. “Ready for your illicit tour?” 3. 11:41 a.m. – On the Vespa Helmetless but high on adrenaline, Ben clings to Alessandra’s waist as they slice through traffic circles. Horns blare; he apologizes to every driver they pass. Her laughter is the only GPS. At a red light she shouts over her shoulder, “Comfortable?” “Terrified,” he admits. “Perfetto. Learning happens outside comfort.” She guns the throttle before the light turns green. 4. 12:05 p.m. – Campo de’ Fiori Market Sunlight bounces off pyramids of oranges. Alessandra plucks a fig, bites it, and hands the rest to Ben. He fumbles for cash. “No,” she says, mouth full. “Payment is letting the vendor chase us.” She grabs his wrist, and they dart between stalls, the vendor’s curses fading like a distant radio. They collapse against a fountain, breathless. Sticky fig nectar glistens on Ben’s fingers. Alessandra licks it off without asking. His world tilts. “See? Delicious crime,” she whispers. 5. 1:13 p.m. – Palazzo Rooftop, near Piazza Navona A rusted fire‑escape gate blocks the way. Alessandra produces a hairpin. “You know how to pick locks?” Ben whispers. “Locks are suggestions.” Two clicks, the gate swings. They climb to terracotta heights where Rome unrolls in ochre layers. Ben’s scholarly voice trembles with awe. “I’ve studied these rooftops in Piranesi prints.” She presses a pilfered Polaroid camera into his hands—God knows where she got it. “Make your own print.” He snaps her silhouette against domes and bell towers. When the photo develops, she’s flipping the camera off, grinning. He laughs harder than he has in years. 6. 2:47 p.m. – Trastevere, a nameless trattoria They share cacio e pepe from the same plate. Alessandra charms the waiter into free limoncello, then palms the waiter’s order pad for no discernible reason. Ben watches, half‑scandalized, half‑enchanted. “Do you ever get caught?” “Not yet,” she says, scribbling a lazy sketch of his face on the stolen pad. “But there’s always oggi pomeriggio.” She tears off the sheet, folds it, and slides it into his shirt pocket, patting twice as if imprinting memory. 7. 4:09 p.m. – Ponte Sisto A street violinist plays Vivaldi. Alessandra tosses in a single coin—Ben recognizes it as his own pound sterling. He shakes his head. “I didn’t even feel you take that.” “Practice.” She twirls onto the low stone wall, arms out. Wind lifts her jacket, revealing his guidebook still tucked inside, its pages now annotated in red pen: wild arrows, hearts, profanity. “May I have my book back?” he asks, trying for sternness. She hops down, brushes imaginary dust off his lapel. “Maybe.” 8. 5:02 p.m. – Gelateria del Pellegrino The sky blackens without warning; thunder cracks like an impatient maestro. Rain hammers cobblestones. They duck beneath the striped awning, shoulders pressed together among dripping strangers. Ben’s hair sticks to his forehead. Alessandra steals two miniature spoons from the counter, hands him a cup of pistachio. He tastes. “Heaven.” She eyes him sidelong. “So, Professor, why Rome? Archival research? Monastic seclusion?” “I wanted…” He searches the rain‑slick street for words. “A pause button. Something unexpected.” He meets her gaze. “You, apparently.” Her smirk falters, softness creeping in. Rain turns her lashes to ink. She leans forward as if to whisper a secret, then uses one stolen spoon to tuck a curl behind his ear instead. Electricity skitters down his spine. 9. 6:18 p.m. – Lungotevere, dusk The storm passes; puddles mirror sunset. Alessandra walks her Vespa, pace unhurried for once. Ben matches her step. Silence thickens with everything unsaid. Finally she stops. “My shift starts.” She pats the satchel. “Packages don’t deliver themselves.” He nods, unwilling to let the moment end. “Will I see you again?” She opens his guidebook, now rain‑spotted, and slides a small object into the hollow she has carved through several pages—an impossibly neat rectangle excised with a courier’s box cutter. It is the silver lighter from the café. “Keep the book,” she says. “Return the souvenir when you’ve learned to steal something back.” He laughs, baffled. “And if I never manage?” Alessandra swings onto the Vespa, visor up. “Then I’ll steal you instead.” Engine snarls. She kisses two fingers, presses them to his lips, and roars away, spray kicking from wet asphalt. 10. 6:31 p.m. – Alone among sycamores Ben watches the tail‑light weave into Roman traffic until it vanishes. He feels for the folded sketch in his pocket, for the lighter nested in hollowed paper, for the second stolen spoon he never used but somehow now holds. Disoriented, drenched, exhilarated, he starts laughing at nothing—at everything—his polite Cambridge accent echoing off the Tiber. Tomorrow’s itinerary lies in ruins, replaced by the scorch of Vespa exhaust, the taste of pistachio, and the unmistakable certainty that Rome has just rewritten him in ink the color of dangerous delight.

Model Output:
A mild citrus tang from the air scrubbers rides the ceiling fans while I polish the bar for the fourth time tonight. A wobble ripples through the pitcher in my hand—gravity hiccup again—so I steady it before it sloshes onto the worn petrified‑wood countertop. The evening shift at The Last Outpost has barely begun, but the usual suspects are already orbiting me like debris with opinions. “Netttts, sweetheart, one more Rust‑Rock and I’ll sing every verse of ‘Solar Widow,’” Rusk promises from stool three. His mining rig coveralls smell of ozone and dented hope. I slide a mug over. “You sing that and I’m sealing the airlocks, Rusk.” Lila, his partner, snorts and taps her wrist holo. “You wouldn’t dare; she still wants our titanium allotment tomorrow.” “Correct,” I say. “Drinks first, extortion later.” A chorus of laughter bumps around the room just as the main hatch glides open. In drifts a stranger whose hair—long, ropey, sea‑green tentacles—hangs half out of a ragged tie. His shoulders slump like his bones are negotiating a surrender. He claims stool five. “Vega whisky, neat. Better make that a double.” “Rough transit?” I ask, reaching for the amber bottle. “You could say.” His voice is low, fluted, like wind across empty docks. “Name’s Sori. You?” “Nettle. Nets if I like you.” “Do you?” “Undecided. Let’s see how you tip.” I set the glass down. Whisky tilts when the gravity flickers, settling again as Sori curls a hand around it. He knocks back half in one swallow. From the corner, Old Doc Mae hollers, “Put that boy on the tab, Nets. Pandemic tax.” “I run a bar, not universal healthcare, Doc,” I shoot back. Mae waves me off. “Same difference.” Sori’s lips twitch. “Friendly place.” “Mostly,” I say. “What brings you to our lazy rock garden?” He lifts the glass, peers through it like a telescope. “I’m…between arrangements.” I file the non‑answer. Behind me the cooler hums, turning its own question mark. Rusk leans over two stools. “Between arrangements usually means ‘on the run,’ friend.” Sori doesn’t flinch. “Do miners always eavesdrop this aggressively?” “Occupational hazard,” Lila says. “In vacuum, secrets echo.” Another gravity burp rocks the shelves; rows of bottles shimmy but stay upright. Everyone’s heads tilt in practiced unison. “G‑struts need recalibration,” I mutter. Sori sets his glass down precisely. “Or someone sabotaged them.” The bar quiets. Even the jukebox pauses between tracks, uncertain. I fold my arms. “Any particular someone in mind?” Before he can reply, the hatch slides again with a metallic sigh. Two figures step through—sleek, black pressure suits, helmets off, corporate crest I don’t recognize. Their eyes scan the room like twin drones. I angle toward Sori. “Friends of yours?” He exhales. “Acquaintances I’d hoped to avoid.” “Netttts,” Rusk whispers loudly, “bet you a shift of free labor that’s Caelus Extraction security.” Lila elbows him. “You don’t have labor to spare.” The taller suit speaks, voice crisp as vacuum. “Evening, citizens. Looking for an individual traveling under the name Sori Jex. He carries company property. Cooperation will be rewarded.” Murmurs scatter like marbles. All faces turn to me—bartenders are Switzerland with better liquor. I raise an eyebrow at the enforcers. “Badges?” They slide holo‑credentials across the air. Legit, but legitimacy is slippery out here. While they catalog the patrons, Sori drains the last of his whisky. Without moving his lips, he murmurs, “If they take me, they take more than me. Help?” I consider the flickering lights, the lowered conversations, the credit chips Sori hasn’t yet produced. Old mistakes of mine rattle their chains. Still, The Last Outpost is refuge first, bar second. I clear my throat. “You boys thirsty? Hard to interrogate on an empty gullet.” “We will pass,” the shorter one says. His gaze hooks Sori. “Sir, stand and present your hands.” Sori stays seated. “I resigned. Check your comms; it was notarized.” “Resignation denied under clause twelve‑B,” Tall Helmet recites. “Property retrieval in progress.” He advances. I reach for a rag, casual. “Funny, because clause twelve‑B was voided last quarter by Senate arbitration.” Short Helmet scowls. “Who are you, counsel?” “Just a bartender who reads fine print.” I flick my gaze to Doc Mae. “Doc, you get the Senate feed?” Mae lurches to her feet, feigning age she doesn’t own. “Every day, dear. Clause twelve‑B? Obsolete as combustion engines.” While eyes ping‑pong between us, Sori taps my elbow. A tiny data prism, no bigger than a fingernail, slides into my palm. Cold, humming. I close fingers around it. He whispers, “Backup. If they wipe me.” My pulse stutters, but I tuck the prism into my apron like a tip. Short Helmet notices. “Hands where we can see them, bartender.” “Relax,” I say. “Just keeping the bar tidy.” Another gravity glitch—this one longer—tilts the floor five degrees. Glasses skid; Lila grabs Rusk before he topples. Tall Helmet steadies himself on the rail. “Station safety regs require immediate stabil—” The lights dim to ember‑red emergency glow. The jukebox skips into static. I curl my hand around the under‑counter pulse‑sprayer. “Gentlemen, our power grid throws tantrums around strangers. Maybe step back.” Short Helmet’s wrist comm flashes. He reads, brow furrowing. “What the—signal jammed?” Sori smiles for the first time. “Guess clause twelve‑B isn’t the only obsolete tech tonight.” Tall Helmet snaps, “Enough.” He lunges for Sori. I pop the sprayer up, aiming center‑mass. “Touch the patron, buy the bar.” All conversation dies. Even gravity seems to hold its breath. Rusk mutters, “Netttts, this equilibrium you keep? Getting wobbly.” “Story of my life,” I reply without looking away from the enforcer. Tall Helmet freezes, calculating percentages: one bartender, one non‑lethal weapon, fifteen amused miners, possible corporate fallout. Behind him, Short Helmet fiddles with the comm, receiving only static. “Stand down,” Tall orders finally, more to me than Sori. “Interference earns you liability.” “I’m allergic to liability,” I say. “You have warrants? G‑perimeter judiciary seals?” “Out here, company mandate is warrant,” Short Helmet growls. I cock the sprayer. “Not in my house.” The bar holds its collective breath, waiting for someone to blink. In my apron, the data prism tingles against my hip like a small, urgent heart. Sori speaks, voice steady now. “Look, officers, let’s all decompress. I’ll accompany you after one more drink and a signed copy of your authority.” Tall Helmet’s jaw sets. “We’re done here.” He reaches again; Sori shifts, preparing to bolt. I tighten my grip. Gravity lurches violently—glasses leap, liquid fireworks splash the air. Someone screams. The lights cut out entirely. In the black I hear chairs scraping, boots thudding, the whine of a charging stun baton. My own breath roars in my ears. I think, Welcome home, Nets—you just tipped the balance. “Everyone freeze!” Tall Helmet shouts, but it’s chaos now, bodies moving, tables overturning. I duck, heart hammering, data prism burning against me, wondering what I’ve just smuggled—and whether The Last Outpost will still be standing when the lights return.

Model Output:
When the sun fingernail‑scratched the edge of the Mississippi, I was already wide‑awake on the riverside bench, hugging my backpack like it could explain how I’d teleported here overnight. New city smell: coffee, garbage, and something sweet—beignets?—all braided together. Last night’s adrenaline had curdled into a low‑grade nausea, as if I’d swallowed a chainsaw that was still idling. Phone check: 12 %. No charger, no plan, no money except the wad of six crumpled singles I’d “borrowed” from Mom’s emergency drawer before bolting. I should feel guilty about that. File under: later. A pigeon strutted past my boot, cocked its head, and looked personally offended that I existed. Same, buddy. “Got a smoke?” a voice rasped. I flinched so hard the bench groaned. The voice belonged to a kid maybe a year older than me, corkscrew curls stuffed under a faded LSU cap, eyes the color of week‑old bruises. Torn hoodie, cargo shorts, sneakers that had probably been white when Bush was president. They carried a saxophone case plastered with stickers: KILL YOUR TELEVISION, FREE MOMMA T, PROTECT TRANS KIDS. That last one ricocheted around my chest. “No smokes,” I said. “Just lungs full of regret.” They laughed—a short, surprised bark, like no one usually bothered to be funny. “Name’s Jazz,” they said, tapping the sax case. “Parents not very original.” “Taylor,” I said. I didn’t specify pronouns—still getting used to saying them out loud—but Jazz gave me an appraising once‑over and nodded like they got it. “You local?” “Do I look local?” Jazz shrugged. “Everyone here looks like they arrived five minutes ago. That’s why I like it.” My stomach growled loud enough to set off car alarms. Jazz’s eyebrows shot up. “Breakfast truce?” they said. “I know a place that doesn’t card and lets you sit forever if you buy one coffee.” I hesitated. Stranger Danger 101. But I’d already failed the responsible teen test the moment I’d climbed into that stranger’s Chevy outside Knoxville. Besides, Jazz had nice eyes—tired but not predatory. “Lead the way,” I said. We weaved through Jackson Square where tarot readers were still setting up their tables. A street preacher yelled about sin while a mime pretended to be trapped in a glass box; irony hung thicker than humidity. I tried to catalog every detail, like proof I really existed in this alternate universe where you could be whoever you wanted because nobody had time to check your references. The café was a chipped‑tile hole‑in‑the‑wall on Decatur. We slid into a booth. Jazz paid for two coffees and a basket of those powdered‑sugar pillows that turned my black hoodie into a snowy crime scene. I sipped, and the caffeine unclenched my skull. “So,” Jazz said, “what’s your tragedy?” Direct. Respect. “Came out,” I said. “Parents freaked. I freaked harder. I’m on tour now—the Great Disappearing Act of 2024.” Jazz tilted their head. “Girl to boy, boy to girl, or something else?” “Girl to boy to… still figuring it out.” I choked on the admission. “You?” They tapped a finger on the table. “Some would say girl pretending to be a boy pretending not to care. I say non‑binary, but I don’t mind he/they. Depends on the barometric pressure.” I smiled for the first time in 48 hours. “Guess we’re weather twins.” We ate in silence for a bit. Powdered sugar turned into glue on my lips. My phone buzzed: four new texts from Mom, one from my little brother, all variations of WHERE ARE YOU CALL ME NOW. The battery bar glowed a menacing red sliver. 10 %. Jazz noticed. “Family freak‑out?” “Yeah.” “Gonna answer?” “Don’t know what to say,” I muttered. “Also don’t want to hear the words ‘come home and we’ll fix this.’” Jazz drummed their fingers. “You can crash at the squat if you need. It’s an old warehouse by the tracks. Busted roof, but we got electricity—sometimes.” I blinked. “You live there?” “Me and some other leftovers. Safer than the shelters, no questions asked. You’d fit.” Fit. The word felt warm and terrifying. “I—thanks. Maybe.” Jazz’s phone beeped. They grimaced. “Gotta busk noon shift. Want in? We split tips.” “I don’t play anything except Spotify playlists.” “You can shake a tambourine,” Jazz said. “Or hold the hat.” Hat‑holding I could manage. Outside, Bourbon Street was already throbbing even though the sun was still frying-pan low. Jazz assembled like Voltron with two other buskers: a drummer named Sasha (she/her, purple hair, infinite freckles) and a lanky boy, Aaron (he/him, polite smile, busted violin). I got the tambourine, a dented half‑moon that sounded like maracas stuck in a tumble dryer. Jazz lifted the sax and, holy hell, breathed fireworks. The notes weren’t polite; they were feral, like they’d been raised by wolves on the bayou. Crowds clustered. Dollars rained. I shook my tambourine offbeat but enthusiastically. For ninety head‑rush minutes, no one saw the small‑town runaway with parental voicemails waiting to explode; they saw part of a street symphony. When we wrapped, Jazz counted the haul: $74 and some Canadian coins. They peeled off a twenty and slapped it into my palm. I tried to protest; they glared me into silence. “Lesson one,” Jazz said. “Never refuse your cut. You earned it.” “Barely.” “Imposter syndrome is a luxury we can’t afford.” I tucked the bill into my sock—pickpocket insurance. Walking back toward the river, Jazz grew quiet. Their shoulders hunched like invisible hands were kneading them. “Everything okay?” I asked. They wet their lips. “Remember that ‘no questions asked’ policy? I’m about to break it. Ever boosted something? Like shoplifted?” “Couple chapsticks. Why?” Jazz exhaled. “My dad’s sax—I swiped it when I bailed six months ago. He thinks I sold it for drug money. Truth is—it’s the only thing of his I ever cared about. Problem is, he’s in town for a convention, and if he sees me busking with it, he’ll call the cops. Instrument’s technically reported stolen.” My stomach did a small flip. “Do you want to give it back?” “Part of me, yeah. Other part remembers the broken rib he gave me sophomore year.” “Oh.” Jazz laughed without humor. “Complicated, right?” “Family is a swamp,” I said. “Sometimes you gotta burn the map.” We reached the river. A steamboat hooted like a cartoon goose. Jazz sat on the railing, balancing the sax case on their knees. I checked my phone again: 7 %. A new text from Dad this time—short, sharp. We love you. Please. Tears ambushed me. I wiped them on my sleeve, furious at the betrayal of saltwater. Jazz watched. “I got a portable charger back at the squat,” they offered. “It’s half‑busted but works if you sweet‑talk it.” So this was the crossroads: follow a near‑stranger to a derelict warehouse, or stay solo with a dead phone and less than thirty bucks. Both options came wrapped in barbed wire, but only one came with a person who understood the calculus of leaving. “Okay,” I said. “But if you murder me, I’m haunting you.” Jazz grinned. “Deal. Ghost roommates get half the rent.” We cut through backstreets baking in late‑afternoon heat. Graffiti bloomed over brick walls—declarations of love, anarchy symbols, a colossal mural of a trans flag with the caption STILL HERE. Each step felt like sewing a new address into the soles of my boots. The squat was a warehouse skeleton wearing a crown of rust. Inside, mattresses huddled in corners, extension cords spider‑webbed toward a single power strip. Christmas lights half‑worked, blinking code to nobody. A kid in a wheelchair rolled past, nodding hello. Community made out of duct tape and do‑overs. Jazz handed me the mangled power bank. I plugged in; the screen flickered, charging icon limping to life. Relief hit so hard I nearly collapsed. “Welcome home, maybe,” Jazz said, soft enough that if I’d chosen silence I could’ve pretended I hadn’t heard. I didn’t choose silence. “Maybe,” I echoed. And for the first time since Tennessee, the word didn’t sound like failure. It sounded like possibility.

Model Output:
Midas woke to the sound of Chewy’s servo‑motors warming up—an encouraging groan, not unlike a pensioner attempting yoga. The koala’s glass eyes glimmered beet‑red, meaning either “existential dread” or “low battery.” In the years since the Grid Fizzled, those had become indistinguishable anyway. The two of them shared quarters in what had once been a bank vault, now proudly rebranded as Fort Mostly‑Secure. Midas checked the list painted on the wall: 1. Find breakfast. 2. Don’t get eaten while finding breakfast. 3. Optional: heroism. He scratched out item three. “Priorities,” he muttered. Chewy clicked his jaws—a feature added by some forgotten toy company who believed toddlers wanted realism. “Mission?” the koala asked in its factory‑issue marsupial chirp. The voice was stuck on ‘cheery’, a setting about as appropriate to the apocalypse as a kazoo solo at a funeral. Midas stretched, frowned, and produced a dented tin labeled BEANS?—the question mark having been sincerely earned by time and ambiguity. Empty. “All right, fuzzy. We go to the farmer’s market.” “The farmer’s market exploded.” Chewy’s eyes flashed orange: “recent unpleasant memory.” “Fine. We go to the unfarmer’s market—that bit of scrapyard where mushrooms grow through the rust. Same difference.” Outside, sunrise looked like someone had set fire to an encyclopedia of cloud types. A pleasant morning, if one enjoyed mild drizzle and the scent of ozone‑fried concrete. Midas packed essentials: a crowbar, two bottles of questionably sealed water, and Chewy’s solar winding key (a design flaw requiring a good crank every six hours, like a vintage lawnmower or a reluctant metaphysical poet). On the road they encountered the usual detritus: abandoned auto‑wagons, feral shopping trolleys, and motivational billboards that now served mainly as helpful wind traps for the ubiquitous plastic tumbleweeds. Midas stepped around a pothole deep enough to hold nostalgia. “Route seems quiet,” he whispered, which guaranteed it wouldn’t stay that way.* *Phrases equivalent to “What could go wrong?” are legally classed as invitations to disaster under the Narrative Inevitable Mischief Act of 2023. The unfarmer’s market occupied the shell of a pre‑Collapse garden center. There, bioluminescent fungi had developed into what economists would call a “monopoly” and philosophers would call “glow‑in‑the‑dark hope.” Midas knelt and sliced a particularly chubby specimen. That’s when the mushrooms squealed. “Chewy,” Midas said evenly, “did the field guide mention carnivorous fungi with alarm systems?” The koala’s eyes flickered lavender: “new data downloading.” Which, in Chewy’s case, meant it was accessing the half‑corroded encyclopedic chip in its belly. This usually took two to nineteen minutes—an impractically long time when the ground itself was screaming. Spores erupted in neon puffs; the air smelled of pepper and tax audits. A rumble began beneath their boots. From the cracked greenhouse wall lumbered a pair of swine—huge, tusked, and wearing what looked like tactical vests scrounged from riot police mannequins. Post‑Collapse livestock had diversified their CVs considerably. Midas bowed slightly. “Good pigs.” He inched backward. The pigs grunted in unison, which Chewy’s internal translator rendered as: “Trespass = lunch.” The koala’s eyes blazed sapphire—panic. “Plan?” Midas asked. Chewy whirred, then announced, “Improvise.” It launched itself from Midas’s shoulder with the dignified trajectory of a kicked football, landing on Pig One’s snout. The koala’s tiny metal claws ticked and tacked, generating a shower of sparks. Pig One objected expansively. Midas chose momentum over strategy. He swung the crowbar like an enthusiastic but talentless conductor, struck Pig Two’s vest, and discovered the vest was filled with hardcover self‑help books. Pig Two squealed, perhaps affronted by irony. Both pigs charged. Midas did arithmetic involving velocity, mass, and his therefore imminent flattening. He dove sidewise, hit a potting‑soil aisle, and skidded through shattered terracotta. Chewy clung to Pig One, eyes now disco‑strobing—red, green, magenta—like a rave curated by marsupials. The pigs collided with a pallet labeled MIRACLE‑GRO (pre‑miracled). Fertilizer exploded in a malodorous plume, gifting everyone within ten meters an involuntary facial. The swine, dazzled and under a sudden dusting of nutrient‑rich irony, bolted through the greenhouse glazing and disappeared into the dawn. Chewy somersaulted off a rolling trowel rack, landed in Midas’s lap, and, in lieu of a victory cheer, played a snippet of “Waltzing Matilda”—firmware glitch. His eyes faded to chartreuse: “mild satisfaction.” Midas spat soil. “Next time, we raid the canned‑food aisle. Mushrooms have too many ethical dilemmas.” Inventory revealed their haul: three bruised glow‑shrooms, one riot‑vest containing “7 Habits of Highly Effective Herbivores,” and an unpleasantly large chip in Midas’s crowbar. Still, hunger is an effective motivator for optimism. They set off toward Fort Mostly‑Secure. Halfway back, the sky reconsidered its earlier commitment to drizzle and upgraded to downpour. Chewy, part plush and part circuitry, emitted a noise like a dishwasher confessing sin. His left ear drooped; eyes flickered danger‑red. “Water ingress. Initiate umbrella protocol,” Chewy said, extending a tattered flap of once‑pink fabric from his back. It was roughly the size of a saucer. They shared it anyway, the way philosophers share umbrellas: inefficiently. That’s when the road collapsed. Someone—probably gravity—had undermined the old sewer. One moment they were negotiating puddles; the next, they tumbled into darkness, landing in sludge up to Midas’s knees and Chewy’s nonexistent ankles. A faint luminescence revealed carvings on the tunnel wall: Keep Out, Looted Already, and in smaller, hopeful letters, Free Wi‑Fi. “Lost?” Midas asked. “Detour,” Chewy replied, eyes steady amber—“stoic resolve,” if the manual could still be trusted. They sloshed along until they found a steel ladder bolted to what used to be civic pride. Midas climbed first, crowbar slung, mushrooms glowing feebly in his pack: a convenient, guilt‑free torch. Chewy clung to his shoulder, dripping. At the top they emerged inside the carcass of an old laundromat, washers petrified mid‑cycle. The sign read ABSOLUTELY SPINLESS after some letters had surrendered to entropy. A hissing voice greeted them. From behind a dryer stalked a cat large enough to require its own postcode. Its fur was patchy, its tail kinked into a permanent interrogation mark, and its collar bore a single word: “Regret.” Chewy’s eyes switched to mauve—unease. “Felis catus gigantus. Mood: hangry.” Midas sighed. “Cat diplomacy then.” He crouched, extended a glow‑shroom like a peace lily. Regret sniffed, sneezed luminous spores, and, satisfied with her theatrical timing, allowed them passage. Diplomacy, for once, did not involve bite marks—a result Midas mentally filed under Miracles Pending Audit. Finally, damp, bruised, and bioluminescent in several new places, they reached Fort Mostly‑Secure. The vault door still bore Midas’s hand‑painted motto: “Hope Enters Here, Usually Through the Back.” Inside, they lit a candle salvaged from the Romance Section of a looted bookseller, the scent allegedly “Sea Breeze.” It mostly smelled of wet optimism. Midas divvied the mushrooms into a pan, added water, and stirred with the crowbar—multi‑use tools being the cornerstone of modern cuisine. When the stew began to glow, he decided it was done. They ate in silence, broken only by Chewy’s occasional fizz. “Well,” Midas said at last, licking phosphorescent broth from his fingers, “that could’ve gone worse.” Chewy’s eyes pulsed peppermint‑striped—skepticism. “Statistics disagree.” He projected today’s tally onto the wall: Two near‑fatal maulings, one sewer plunge, thirty‑seven percent battery remaining. “Yet,” Midas argued, “we’re alive, fed, and moderately radioactive.” Chewy considered, whirred, and played a two‑second snippet of applause.* *Possibly sarcasm, but hard to confirm with koalas. They settled for the night, wind howling through the distant city ribs. Midas tucked the koala onto its charging perch—a rusted baking rack angled toward the vault’s single sun‑roof tile. Chewy’s eyes dimmed to soft teal—contentment or sleep mode. Midas, on his makeshift hammock of banker’s receipts, whispered to the dark: “Tomorrow we’ll try for canned peaches. What’s the worst that could happen?” In the gloom, Chewy’s eyes flared crimson an instant, then dropped to teal again—a silent editorial footnote to the universe. Outside, somewhere, the pigs found the taste of self‑help unsatisfying and began looking for dessert.

Model Output:
Wind-chime bells tinkled above the door as a man in a charcoal peacoat slipped inside, shut it quickly, and set his shoulders against it as though bracing the whole of St. Mary Street. Rhys: “Tell me you’ve got a back door, or failing that, a very large wardrobe I can hide in.” Cerys didn’t look up from the half‑opened box of paperbacks by her feet. Cerys: “You’re in a bookshop, not Narnia.” Rhys (peeling off sunglasses, pleading grin): “Any bit of magic will do, love. Paps are swarming the arcade.” Cerys: “Try the poetry alcove. They never look there.” Rhys (already moving deeper): “Bless you. What do I owe you for sanctuary?” Cerys (dryly): “Try not to crease the first editions.” Rhys ducked behind a narrow aisle. Cerys resumed pricing the latest shipment, though she could feel him, all crackling electricity and expensive cologne, five metres away. Rhys (calling softly): “You run this place?” Cerys: “Only on days ending in Y.” Rhys: “I’m Rhys, by the way.” Cerys: “I’d guessed.” Rhys (voice perked, ego stroked): “Ah, so you do recognise me.” Cerys: “You’re plastered over every bus shelter in Cardiff. Hard to miss.” Rhys: “Any opinion on the film?” Cerys: “I sell books, remember?” He emerged holding a battered copy of Under Milk Wood. Rhys: “Thomas—fellow Welsh boy who escaped to America, drank too much, died young. Cheerful pick, yeah?” Cerys (arching brow): “Depends which end you start.” Rhys (opening randomly, declaiming): “‘We are not wholly bad or good who live our lives under Milk Wood…’” (drops the theatrical tone) “Could do with that reminder some days.” Cerys: “Your fans think you’re wholly good. The tabloids prefer wholly bad. Both pay the rent.” Rhys (half‑laugh): “You’ve read my reviews.” Cerys: “Reviews? I meant the tabloids.” Rhys (hand to heart, mock wound): “Savage. Usually I only get roasted by critics with tiny spectacles.” Cerys: “Mine are in the office.” Lightning flicker of camera flashes cut through the frosted front window. Rhys flinched. Rhys: “Right—those jackals will try the door again. Do you actually have a back way?” Cerys: “Through the storeroom, out into a service lane. But it’s locked and alarmed.” Rhys: “Alarms I can handle. Locks, well, I’ve picked worse on set.” Cerys: “You break it, you pay for a new one.” Rhys (handing her a platinum card): “Unlimited credit, if it buys your silence.” She refused the card with a shake of her head. Cerys: “Keep your heroics on screen, Mr. Merrick. In here we sort problems alphabetically.” Rhys: “Meaning?” Cerys (points): “Aisle M—Mystery. Aisle R—Run‑for‑your‑life‑from‑the‑press?” Rhys (laughing): “You’re enjoying this.” Cerys: “Little bit.” Rhys drifted between shelves, trailing fingers along spines. Rhys: “These places are dying, you know.” Cerys: “Not while I’m breathing.” Rhys: “I meant high‑street shops. Everyone orders online now.” Cerys: “Everyone except people who need to hide.” Rhys (caught): “Touché.” He lifted a vintage copy of Rebecca. Rhys: “Ever fancy a bigger life? Bigger city?” Cerys: “Cardiff’s a city.” Rhys: “You know what I mean. New York, LA.” Cerys: “Seen them in movies. Seem drafty.” Rhys: “I could show you the warm corners.” Cerys: “And be photographed in your warm shadow? No ta.” Rhys (frowning, ego dented): “I’m not —well, I’m not asking for… look, I’m making conversation.” Cerys: “Try talking about books, then.” Rhys snapped fingers, determined. Rhys: “Fine. Top three novels, no dithering.” Cerys: “The Master and Margarita, Jane Eyre, and The Hound of the Baskervilles.” Rhys: “Eccentric, brooding, hunted. Pattern?” Cerys: “I like dogs.” Rhys (smile returning): “Your turn to guess my three.” Cerys (tilts head): “Something with explosions, something with a tortured orphan, and something nobody expects so you look deep.” Rhys (laughing): “Cruel but accurate. For the record: The Count of Monte Cristo, Hitchhiker’s Guide, and—don’t snort—Bridget Jones’s Diary.” Cerys (cannot help a surprised laugh): “Bridget?” Rhys (shrug): “Perfect blend of comedy and longing. Also I fancy a good diary.” Cerys: “I’ll alert the academics.” Another flash at the window. Rhys’ shoulders tightened. Cerys (softening despite herself): “They’ll move on soon. Storm can’t last.” Rhys: “Years and I still duck like a schoolboy.” Cerys (gentler): “Maybe stop caring whether they like you.” Rhys (quiet): “Work in progress.” Cerys: “You measure yourself by applause. I measure by spine condition. Neither’s healthy.” Silence thickened, charged, neither pretending to browse now. Rhys: “What would it take, Cerys‑with‑tiny‑spectacles, for you to like me?” Cerys: “Why the crusade?” Rhys: “Everyone else either swoons or hates me. You’re—confusing.” Cerys: “That’s on the shop sign: Confusing Since 2015.” Rhys: “Come on.” Cerys (eyes steady): “Bring the card back in your pocket, quote poetry because you mean it, and don’t assume I need a bigger life. Might be I’ve got the right‑sized one.” Rhys (soft smile): “And if I turned up tomorrow, no cameras, just me and a cup of whatever you’re brewing behind the till?” Cerys: “You’d have to shelve the returns.” Rhys: “Hazard pay?” Cerys: “Payment is me not selling a story to The Sun.” Rhys (grins): “Deal.” The front door rattled; voices faded. Paparazzi retreating. Cerys: “Coast’s clear.” Rhys: “Already?” (peeks) “Like magic.” Cerys: “Told you. Bookshops.” He replaced Under Milk Wood carefully. Rhys: “I’ll buy this.” Cerys: “Thought you owned a mansion full.” Rhys: “None carrying your scent of dust and defiance.” Cerys (flustered, hiding it with the till): “Eight pounds.” Rhys (hands cash): “Keep the change.” Cerys: “It’s exact.” Rhys (wink): “I noticed.” She bagged the book in brown paper, wrote something on the receipt, slipped it inside. Rhys (curious): “What’s that?” Cerys: “Mystery section.” Rhys: “Tease.” Cerys: “Open it later.” Rhys headed for the door, paused. Rhys: “If I return tomorrow—” Cerys: “Returns are welcome, long as they’re in good condition.” Rhys: “Condition’s debatable, but I’ll try.” He stepped outside. No flashes. Just damp Cardiff air and distant gulls. Cerys leaned against the counter, cheeks warm. Inside the brown‑paper bag, on the receipt, in tiny neat letters: Tomorrow. 10 a.m. We file new arrivals under M for Maybe. Cerys exhaled, smiled, and reached for her spectacles.

Model Output:
Aya’s gloved hand paused upon the wheel‑lock that sealed the underhold. Beyond it, whale‑oil sconces sputtered, washing the stairwell in jaundiced light. Somewhere below, seawater dripped in an arrhythmic tattoo, as though the very bones of Morska tapped a warning she was too proud to heed.  Katra—broad‑shouldered, brass goggles forever fogged—murmured, “Oddly still. A rat would cough in here and we’d hear it.”  “Open it before the silence grows teeth,” Simeon whispered, adjusting the clockwork brace that steadied his ruined left arm.  Aya forced a steady breath. A week ago she had watched Guildmistress Sorcha Devane dragged away in chains, a theatre of clanking manacles and city marshals. Sorcha was meant to be rotting in a watch‑house cell by now, not haunting Aya’s nerves. Nevertheless a splinter of doubt lodged in her ribs as she turned the wheel. The iron door yawned. Cold air breathed over them, laced with tar, brine, and the copper stink of old blood. They descended.  The underhold was a cathedral hollowed from bedrock, ribs of black iron arching overhead. At its heart stood a cage of galvanised bars. Within that cage, on a velveted plinth, rested the artefact: a Scythan sextant forged of meteoric glass and black nickel, rumoured to call storms out of the immateria itself. Aya’s pulse kicked. So close. Then a match hissed. From the far end of the hall, a ring of lanterns flared—dozens, all at once—revealing silhouettes that had not been there a heartbeat earlier. Twenty men and women in oilskin coats levelled harpoon‑rifles. Between them drifted Sorcha Devane, unshackled, her smile thin as a razor set.  “Well, kittens,” Sorcha purred, her voice echoing off stone. “Did you truly think the constabulary could hold me? I trained half those bunglers. Drop the toys.”  Katra’s wrench clanged on the floor. Simeon’s brace whirred and went slack. Aya let her satchel slide from her shoulder, yet her mind raced. How? Who betrayed them? Her gaze flicked to the shadows above the vault. No routes of escape, only the silent ironwork arching like a jaw about to snap. Sorcha’s boots clicked closer, the butt of a sleek flint‑caster balanced against her hip. Brass inlays caught the lanternlight like veins of fire. At her flanks paced two wardens in plated diving rigs, the lenses of their helmets glowing fox‑orange. Aya felt the tide of fear rise, cold and salt and inexorable. “Mask off,” Sorcha ordered.  Aya stood rigid. Revealing herself meant ruin. Aristocratic daughters did not skulk in thieves’ dens, and magickers least of all. Yet the rifle barrels did not waver. She lifted trembling fingers to the porcelain half‑mask and unhooked it. Katra sucked a breath. Simeon muttered a curse. Gaslight spilled over Aya’s pale features, the Greythorne cheekbones, the tell‑tale silver irises—a hereditary mark of immateria sight. Recognition moved through Sorcha’s ranks like a plague wind. “Aye,” Sorcha said softly, savoring the revelation. “Lady Aya Greythorne of Seaborne Terrace. Your mother swung for witchery some ten years past, did she not? I attended that execution. A dismal drizzle that morning.”  The mention of her mother struck like a lash; Aya’s knees almost failed her. She straightened, blood roaring in her ears. “Spare the history lesson, Guildmistress. You’ve caught us. What is it you want?” Sorcha tilted her head. “What I want is order. You three thought to snatch the sextant, install yourselves atop my throne while I cooled my heels? Admirable daring, but ill‑timed. Still”—her eyes glittered like oil on water—“I now possess a more valuable trinket than the sextant: a disgraced noble scion with a taste for forbidden arts. Imagine the sum your father would pay to hush this up.” Aya forced a brittle laugh. “You would ransom me to Lord Greythorne? The man would sooner burn half the harbour than negotiate with gutterfolk.” “True, lords fancy conflagrations,” Sorcha conceded. “But he will pay. For the sake of appearances if naught else. Meanwhile, Morska’s Inquisitors will be intrigued by the return of an immateria adept. We might broker competing bids. Competition fattens purses.” Aya’s stomach twisted. The Inquisitors would do worse than hanging. They would hollow her, cage her will, make her a living conduit for state experiments. She must delay. She raised her chin. “Kill me and you profit once. Keep me breathing and your coffers swell for years. My talents exceed parlour tricks.”  Sorcha arched a brow. “Say on.” “I can thread barriers, the wards that shield warfs and noble vaults alike. My mother taught me before the rope claimed her. Let me demonstrate—under supervision—and I can acquire riches you’ve not dreamed of. I warrant more alive than bound for auction.” The Guildmistress paced, boots ringing. Aya sensed Katra’s question—Can you truly do what you claim?—hanging in the tense air. Aya answered with the smallest shake of her head. She was bluffing with shards of half‑learned lore and a will of iron, nothing more. One of the helmeted wardens rasped through a vox‑grille, “Mistress, Inquisitors pay quicker than speculative raids.” Sorcha silenced him with a gesture. “Do not presume to cost me potential.” She returned her gaze to Aya. “Suppose I indulge this proposition. Your accomplices?” Aya swallowed. “They serve as my anchors in the material realm. Immateria travel is perilous; without familiar tethers I could hemorrhage into the void.” A lie, but plausible enough that some occult‑minded thieves nodded uneasily. Simeon, ever the actor, gave a weak grin. “Anchors, yes. She drifts without us, poor thing.” Sorcha considered. Gas lamps guttered; shadows bled up the iron ribs, splaying like black wings overhead. Aya’s heartbeat measured the silence. If Sorcha sensed the ruse they were flayed. At last the Guildmistress spoke. “Very well. You will prove yourself at first light. Fail, and I remove pieces until you succeed or perish. Understood?” Aya inclined her head, every muscle a wire. “Understood.” Sorcha turned to her guards. “Bind them, gentle as doves. No bruises on the merchandise.”  Leather manacles cinched Aya’s wrists. The whale‑oil reek mingled with the scent of Simeon’s mechanical lubricants and Katra’s sweat. As they were led past the sextant’s cage, Aya risked a glance at its fractal lenses. In their shifting reflections she saw the dark corridor of the future, littered with bones. My doing, she thought. My ambition. “Keep your wits,” Katra breathed behind her. “You’ve wheeled us out of the noose once. A second time is merely habit.” Habit, perhaps, Aya mused, but each escape left a heavier toll. And now her face was known, her heritage bared like a throat over a butcher’s block. When the Guild—or worse, the Crown—was finished with her, there would be nothing left of Lady Aya Greythorne save a cautionary tale whispered by children eyeing the gallows. Yet somewhere beneath the fear curled a ember of defiance. They had one night before dawn’s test. Night was, after all, the dominion of shadows and the immateria both. She would find a seam between seconds and slip a blade of will through it—if only she could think past the pounding of her heart. Sorcha’s voice echoed from the stairwell ahead, lyrical as a lullaby: “Tell me, Lady Witch, do you dream of the rope as your mother did?” Aya lifted her shackled hands, feeling the cold bite of iron, and answered, “I dream of storms, Guildmistress. Ropes snap in storms.” A chuckle drifted back. “Pray your storm arrives before dawn, then.” They climbed into the waiting dark, lanterns bobbing like funeral lights, while below them the sextant gleamed—patient, merciless—as though already charting the course of their doom.

Model Output:
A lazy ceiling fan barely stirs the smoky air inside the bar, pushing cigarette haze across neon lights and chipped liquor bottles. Spike Spiegel lounges at the counter, lanky legs crossed, half‑lidded gaze reflecting in the cracked mirror behind the shelf. One elbow props up his head; the other hand toys with a half‑empty glass of cheap bourbon. Jazz from a battered speaker mixes with the clack of pool balls and murmured threats. The saloon doors creak again. Revy strides in like a bad omen—low‑slung cutoff shorts, black crop top, dragon tattoo gleaming under sweat‑sheen, twin Cutlasses riding her hips. The locals sense the pressure change and part instinctively. She heads for the bar, boots thumping in sync with the ceiling fan’s lazy rhythm. Spike’s prosthetic eye tracks her. Depth perception flickers, but interest sharpens. He’s been handed a flimsy holo‑poster an hour ago: MILOS “TRIPLE M” MANDRIC—smuggler, arsonist, reward: 15 million woolongs. Word is the bastard’s hiding somewhere in Tharsis City, maybe even this dive. Spike was already planning his next cigarette when Revy’s name floated past another patron’s lips: “Two Hands is in town for the same score.” So here she is, smelling of gun oil and sunscreen. She orders a tequila, no salt, downs it in one burn. Their eyes meet in the mirror—hers a dare, his a shrug. “Long way from the Lagoon Company,” Spike says, voice smooth as smoke. She turns, leans an elbow beside him. “Long way from the Bebop too, cowboy. Business trip.” “Let me guess: Milos Mandric.” “Bingo.” She clicks her tongue. “Thought I’d be early. Looks like I’m not the only one who reads wanted posters.” Spike sips. “Work’s thin. Crew’s hungry. Mandric’s wallet feels generous.” Revy signals the bartender for another round, slides Spike a fresh drink unasked. “Let’s be clear, noodle‑stick: He’s mine. You back off, or I put holes in that fancy blue suit.” Spike raises both palms. “Hey, I’m a pacifist. Mostly.” Smoke coils from his cigarette. “Tell you what—whoever finds him first buys the other dinner.” “Dinner?” Revy snorts. “News flash: I eat lead and spit brass.” “Sounds crunchy,” Spike says. “But I’m flexible.” The tension snaps taut like a drawn bowstring—half rivalry, half chemical reaction. They drink, studying each other through rising sweat and the jukebox’s lonely saxophone. Revy notices the fatigue tucked behind Spike’s lazy posture; Spike spots the storm flickering behind her bravado. Neither trusts the glimpse they get. The door bangs again. A nervous courier stumbles in, practically dragging Mandric’s distinct silver briefcase. Two armed goons flank him. Revy’s nostrils flare; Spike’s eyebrow twitches. Neither needs confirmation—the bounty just walked into their laps. Everything unfolds in seconds. Revy pivots off her stool, Cutlasses clearing leather with a steel whisper. Spike kicks back, barstool flipping; his Jericho pistol appears as if summoned. Glass shatters. The courier screams and dives. Goon #1 raises a shotgun but never fires—the first of Revy’s 9mm rounds shreds his shoulder, spinning him into a neon sign. Spike’s shot tags Goon #2 in the knee; the man folds, weapon skittering. Milos Mandric bolts toward a side exit, briefcase clutched tight. Revy fires a parting burst, forcing him to duck. Spike calls, “Ladies first.” “Chivalry’s dead,” she snaps, vaulting over the fallen courier. Spike is right behind. They burst into the alley, lit only by a flickering ad for instant noodles—Spike makes a mental note about dinner funds. Mandric scrambles up a fire escape. Revy goes after him like a panther. Spike pauses, judges the rickety ladder, then springs up the opposite wall, rebounding between brick faces, Jeet Kune Do‑style, until he lands on a balcony parallel to Mandric’s clumsy ascent. Mandric reaches the rooftop, finds it a dead end—just vent stacks and puddles from last night’s acid rain. Revy appears, guns leveled. Spike strolls from the other side, pistol lazily hanging, cigarette stuck to his lip. “End of the line, friend,” Spike says. Mandric whimpers. “Split the reward! I—I’m worth more alive!” “Not our problem,” Revy says, stepping forward. A sudden roar of engines below—police sirens. A patrol cruiser flashes spotlights upward. “HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE ‘EM!” Spike’s shoulders sag. “So much for a clean getaway.” Revy curses loud and colorful, then swings her left muzzle toward Spike. “You set me up, stringbean?” “Whatever happens, happens,” he replies, but his gun never strays from Mandric. Blue lights crawl over the rooftop edge. Mandric sees distraction and lunges for the neighboring building—misjudges, slips. The briefcase flips open mid‑air, scattering cash and data chips like metallic confetti. Spike dives, snags him by the collar, saves his life out of pure reflex. Revy covers, firing warning shots to keep the cops’ helmets ducked. Mandric, grateful and panicked, gasps, “I’ll talk! Safe house—motel—Room 17—” Spike hauls him fully onto the roof. Revy grabs Spike’s jacket and yanks. “Move, Cowboy. Cops’ll take my guns; I get twitchy when disarmed.” They drag Mandric across rooftops, sirens fading behind. Ten minutes later they ditch him—trussed with cable ties—in a maintenance shed. A joint decision conducted entirely through eye contact and half‑smiles: hold the bounty somewhere quiet first, then negotiate who cashes him in. Motel Mars, neon buzzing like a radioactive insect, answers that need. They stash Mandric in Room 16—still unconscious—then step next door, Room 17, to plan. The door clicks shut. The silence between them now is thicker than the bar’s smoke. Revy wipes sweat off her brow, sits on the only chair. Spike leans against the wall, rolling a new cigarette, lighter flickering. Rain starts tapping on the window; Mars’s twin moons glow red beyond. “Partnership of convenience,” Revy says. “We split fifty‑fifty, then we walk.” Spike exhales a ribbon of gray. “I can live with fifty. Can you? You seemed pretty dead‑set on one‑hundred back at the bar.” “That was before you kept me from getting ventilated by the fuzz.” She drums fingers on thigh. “Don’t get used to gratitude.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He studies her—how the lamplight softens the hard line of her jaw, how her eyes flick downward to his mouth when she thinks he isn’t looking. Electricity crackles. They both feel it—gunpowder and something hotter. Spike saunters closer, palms up. “I’m not good with attachments,” he murmurs. “Just passing through.” Revy’s mouth quirks. “I’m not a good person, not a bad person. I’m just here.” She stands, draws one pistol, presses the cold barrel under his chin. Her other hand lands on his chest, fingertips lightly spanning his heartbeat. “Don’t confuse the two.” Spike’s eyes half-close, not from fear—the kill‑switch part of him is always indifferent—but from a thrill he hasn’t tasted since another life, another woman, another rooftop. “Trust issues,” he says. “Big ones,” she agrees. “I shoot first, question never.” He slides his own pistol from his jacket, brings it up to her ribs. The metal kiss is reciprocated, a deadly embrace. Their faces hover inches apart, breaths exchanging smoke and tequila vapors. “Standstill,” Spike whispers. “Standoff,” she corrects, voice husky. Rain rat‑a‑tats on the tin roof. Somewhere next door, Mandric groans through his gag. The room’s single bulb flickers, painting them in alternating gold and shadow. Spike tilts his head, cigarette dangling. “So, what now? We dance, or we bleed?” Revy’s tongue flicks at her lip. “Maybe both.” Their triggers tense simultaneously—then halt. Neither wants to be the one who ends whatever this is. The guns lower a fraction, enough to acknowledge possibility without surrender. Outside, sirens fade. Inside, thunder rolls between two hearts beating in syncopated time. They stand poised on a thin wire stretched over old scars and unspoken wants, unsure which way gravity will pull them. For now, guns remain loaded, safety off, feelings the same—unresolved, dangerous, alive. Fade on the motel room’s humming neon as Spike’s lighter clinks shut and Revy’s pistol clicks back into its holster, each sound a promise they may yet break.

Model Output:
Thick mist clings to the edges of the burial mound, glowing under moonlight, and even now—decades later—I can still feel how the damp cold settled into my lungs that night. I had followed Astrid through the spruce forest, the hood of my borrowed parka pulled low, crunching frost‑stiff heather under boots that had never been meant for real wilderness. She walked ahead with the careless confidence of someone who had grown up mapping these trees by heart. When the pines finally opened onto the clearing, the mound rose like a whale’s back in a sea of white vapor, the old stones bleached and tilting. Astrid stopped, chin lifted, as if greeting something that had been waiting for us. Our preparations had started hours earlier, after my parents fell asleep in the red‑painted rental house that still smelled of other families. Astrid had arrived at my window exactly at eleven, a coil of thin rope over one shoulder and a plastic carrier bag rattling with objects. “Útiseta,” she whispered, as though the word were a password. “You sit out until something sits with you. Farmor said it was how people learned the runes before the priests came.” She had rolled her eyes at that last part, half mocking the church, half daring it to intervene. I had shrugged, pretending indifference, but my stomach tightened the way it does before an exam—except no teacher had explained the rules. At her grandparents’ kitchen table earlier that week, she’d shown me a notebook covered in curling biro doodles: bind‑rune sketches, cryptic arrows, and a list titled “Things Needed.” Tonight those items emerged from the bag one by one: three iron nails, a cloudy glass jar half‑filled with rainwater, two stubby beeswax candles, and a folded piece of butter‑paper containing what looked like crushed juniper mixed with salt. Astrid handed me the nails. “Old iron keeps away the rå,” she said. “We’re not inviting just anything, only the ones who actually know stuff.” I tried joking that Stockholm had museums for this sort of thing, places where ghosts came with audio guides, but the line fell flat in the cold. She made me circle the mound clockwise, laying a nail at each of three points like distant stars. “North stays open,” she murmured, “so we can still leave.” Then she pressed her Swiss Army knife into my palm and told me to cut a strand of my hair. “Payment.” When I hesitated, she snipped her own first—two centimetres of white‑blond that glimmered in the torchlight—and dropped it into the jar. My darker curl followed, sinking like a drowned worm. She poured the salt‑juniper mix on top, capped the jar, and buried it shallowly between two stones. “If we don’t come back for it before sunrise, the bargain holds until someone else digs it up,” she said with theatrical gravity. She might have been reciting Farmor or inventing entire paragraphs; with Astrid I never knew. We climbed the slippery flank of the mound and sat back to back on a flat stone near the summit. She blew out the torch, and the night folded around us. Only the moon and those two candles remained, trembling in the slight wind. “Now we shut up,” she whispered. “Speak only when they do.” I wanted to ask who “they” were but bit my tongue; she would have laughed at the question. Instead I listened: distant river ice groaning, wings of some nocturnal bird whirring overhead, the static rush of my own pulse. Minutes—or maybe hours—passed. The cold gnawed through denim into my bones, turning thoughts sluggish. Somewhere in the forest a branch cracked. I told myself it was just an elk, yet the sound felt footed, deliberate. Astrid’s shoulder blades pressed against mine; I could feel her breathing slow and deep, as though she had practiced falling into a different rhythm. My own breaths came in short clouds. I tried to focus on a question, the way she had instructed: Who drew the obscene cartoon of me on the blackboard last week? Names floated up—Anton, Malin—but nothing felt like revelation, only guesswork. Then the candles guttered simultaneously, though the air was almost still. In the sudden dim, the mist seemed to crawl higher, pooling around our ankles like milk poured over dark earth. A faint vibration travelled through the stone into my spine, so subtle I wondered whether my muscles were simply shivering. Astrid’s hand found mine. Her fingers were ice‑cold, but her grip carried an urgency that startled me. Something rustled among the heather at the base of the mound—slow, dragging, as if cloth snagged on twigs. The rational part of me lined up explanations: a fox, the wind, that imaginary elk. Yet the sound circled counter‑clockwise, avoiding the nails. I remembered her warning: North stays open so we can still leave. The hairs on my neck rose. Without speaking, Astrid reached into her pocket and produced a felt‑tip pen. She uncapped it with her teeth and, still holding my hand, began tracing on my palm—quick, jagged strokes that formed a rune I recognized from her notebook, the one labelled “Kenaz: torch, revelation.” The ink stung, either from cold or from imagination. When she finished, she pressed our joined palms against the stone. I felt the vibration again, stronger, like distant machinery starting up beneath the earth. The mist thickened until the treeline vanished. Dark shapes coalesced at the edge of vision—maybe boulders, maybe shoulders. I could hear breathing that wasn’t ours, a slow inhalation rattling through something hollow. My thoughts splintered into two voices: one insisting we were victims of adolescent suggestion, the other swearing that if I turned my head I would meet eyes reflecting moonlight from sockets too deep. Astrid spoke first, voice low but steady. “We ask for truth,” she said in Swedish that sounded older than both of us. “Let it be shown.” The words condensed in the cold like silver ribbons. Silence answered, yet I felt the air lean inward, listening. A sudden image flashed behind my closed lids: the corridor outside the school gym, green linoleum, a hand gripping a piece of chalk, smirking lips I almost recognized—then gone. I jerked, heart banging. It could have been memory or suggestion, but it felt delivered, like mail pushed through a slot. At the same moment, Astrid inhaled sharply, as if dunked in icy water. I almost asked what she’d seen, but the rule of silence still hung between us. Wind kicked up, scattering the candles. Their flames went out, leaving only moon‑whitened mist. The vibration ceased. Whatever circled us retreated—or dissolved—into the tree‑dark. I realized my fingers were still laced with hers, both our palms slick with sweat that felt far too warm for the night. I whispered, “Enough,” and she nodded, though her face looked drained, the freckles standing out like pinpricks of rust. We scrambled down the mound, ignoring the prescribed clockwise exit. Astrid paused only once to dig up the jar, stuffing it into her bag without wiping off the soil. The nails we left glinting in the moss. As we re‑entered the forest, the mist thinned, as if respecting a boundary we ourselves no longer honored. The walk back felt longer than the journey out. Neither of us spoke until the village lights showed between branches. My thoughts churned: had we summoned anything, or only our own fears? I wanted Astrid to laugh it off, to call me a city baby and brag that she’d staged the whole show. Instead she said quietly, “Farmor always warned the dead prefer honesty. If you lie to them, they send lies back.” I asked what she meant, but she just shrugged, suddenly ordinary, kicking a lump of snow. I lay awake until dawn, fingering the rune still ghosting my palm, unsure whether to scrub it off. At breakfast my parents debated the newspaper’s story about a vandal finally suspended from school—Anton, exactly as I’d half‑suspected, half‑been told. The coincidence tasted metallic. I looked out the window toward the forest; a curl of mist lingered, indifferent under pale sun. I never told them where I’d been, or how close we’d come to something neither of us could name. Yet whenever November fog drifts across modern streets, part of me is back on that mound, wondering if knowledge is always a gift—or if sometimes it’s simply the first installment of a debt that hasn’t yet come due.

Model Output:
I lie supine on the padded plinth, left knee propped in twenty‑five degrees of flexion by a half‑foam bolster, right leg extended. The ceiling tiles are the same antiseptic eggshell I stared at last month, but today a lavender whisper drifts from the corner diffuser and keeps threatening to soften me. I don’t want to soften. Softness is what got me here—soft cartilage, shredded in a blind‑side tackle, and a career that evaporated before the crowd’s roar had even faded. “Ready?” Marcus asks. His voice is maddeningly steady, the same cadence he used to call five‑hundreds on the track when we were both sponsored sprinters. Now he’s in navy scrubs, the clinic’s logo embroidered where his national‑team insignia used to be. He positions himself at my injured side, one palm sliding beneath my distal femur, the other under my heel. His forearm brushes the outside of my calf: warm skin, short coarse hairs, a memory of wind‑swept straights and podium photos. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I want it to sound like bravado, but the rasp at the end betrays how much I dread the next forty‑five minutes. “Okay. Straight‑leg raise to ninety. Let me do the lift; you stay passive.” He flexes his hips, lowering into a half‑squat so the motion comes from his legs, not his back. Textbook ergonomics. My knee is kept in neutral rotation while he guides my limb upward in a smooth arc. I track every degree like a slow‑motion replay. At sixty my hamstring quivers; at seventy‑five the scar tissue behind my patella screams. I clench my jaw. “Easy breaths,” he reminds me. His thumb applies slight medial pressure just proximal to the tibial tuberosity, controlling the tendency of my leg to drift outward. The self‑discipline of his hands infuriates me—they know precisely how to hurt me without really hurting me. “Ninety,” he declares, forearm vertical, shin parallel to his torso. Sweat pearls in my hairline though the room is cool. My quadriceps tremble under his grip. I hate the way my body shakes for him. “Hold five… four… breathe into the stretch… three… two… and lower.” He descends, vertebra by vertebra, guiding the leg until my heel rests again on the plinth. I feel the mild traction ease out of my hip socket, a grudging relief that leaves behind something like longing. “Still with me?” I nod, then realize I’m staring at his throat—the clean edge where stubble meets jaw. “What’s next?” “Joint mobilizations.” He picks up a thin belt, loops it around my mid‑thigh, and buckles it to the table frame. Restraint, but strictly mechanical: it fixes the femur so the glide isolates the patella. He has me sit up, supported by a forty‑five‑degree backrest, then kneels beside the table so our faces are nearly level. I fight not to remember us in starting blocks, shoulders brushing, trading trash talk that always somehow slid toward flirtation. Back then the only thing separating us from disaster was the starter pistol. “Patellar inferior glide,” he says, clinical, but his breath fans my cheek. Using the heel of his right hand, he braces the superior pole of my kneecap; with the web between thumb and index finger he nudges downward, lengthening the fat, angry tissue of my infrapatellar pouch. A lightning bolt of discomfort arcs up my quadriceps tendon. Reflexively I reach for his forearm; my fingers wrap around the taught muscle of his supinator, feel his pulse hammer. “Pain?” he asks, low. “Seven.” My official threshold is supposed to max out at six, but I won’t gift him the satisfaction of easing up. He holds the pressure ten seconds. The lavender manages to slip past my clenched teeth on the exhale. His gaze tracks the patella, not my face, yet the heat of it lands in my stomach anyway. When he releases, blood floods back into the compressed spot, a burn that nearly feels good. He unbuckles the strap, his knuckles grazing the inside of my thigh as the belt slides free. Goose‑flesh erupts across my skin, traitorous. “Let’s flip to prone for the quad stretch,” he says. I roll onto my stomach. The table’s face cradle is too wide; my cheek presses the vinyl instead, leaving me half‑blind to the room. My repaired leg hangs off the side so the knee can bend without hip impingement. Marcus stands at my feet, one palm smoothing up the anterior tibia until his fingertips cup the ridge just above my ankle. He flexes my knee to ninety, pauses to check hamstring relaxation, then continues the arc toward one‑twenty. My rectus femoris strains like cable steel. “Where are you?” he asks. “Eight.” Breath saws in and out. Tears threaten, more rage than pain. “Give me three diaphragmatic breaths, then we’ll come out.” Air drags through my nose; lavender, vinyl, and the faint salt of my own sweat form a cocktail of humiliation. On the second inhale his other hand rests lightly at my sacrum, cueing me to keep the lumbar spine neutral. The gentlest contact in the world, and my whole body lights up. “Last breath,” he murmurs. He eases the heel another centimeter toward my glutes, right to the edge of spasm. I hear his own breath hitch, almost imperceptible, like he’s wrestling with something that has nothing to do with my knee. The moment stretches, delicate as ligament fibers, and then the pressure relents, knee lowering, tension unspooling. I exhale a noise that isn’t quite a sob. “Good work,” he says, voice roughened. He helps me sit, then scoots a rolling stool directly behind me. His thighs bracket the backrest; I can feel the heat of him without contact. “Scapular retractions,” he instructs, looping a green Theraband around my wrists. My shoulders are his now; he nudges the inferior angles of both scapulae medially with pointed thumbs, cueing me to initiate the squeeze from deep inside the traps rather than my superficial rhomboids. I draw the band apart, elbows skimming my ribs. Each rep lights up the serratus anterior, muscles I’d ignored until they deserted me. He counts softly, twelve, thirteen… my breath syncing to the cadence of his numbers. On fifteen he slides one palm to my lumbar spine, maintaining neutrality while his other hand guides my elbow slightly downward, refining the angle. The intimacy of being corrected by touch overwhelms words. His hands were once a finishing kick I couldn’t catch; now they’re the metronome keeping my reluctant heart beating in rhythm. “Twenty,” he says. “Rest.” I let the band slacken. He doesn’t move away, just lets silence pool around our thudding pulses. My shoulders remain pinned lightly between his thumbs and the firmness of his quadriceps. “You hate this,” he says quietly. I stare at the diffuser’s plume, pale violet against sterile walls. “I hate needing this.” His hands finally withdraw, leaving ghost impressions down my spine. “Needing help isn’t weakness. Staying broken out of spite is.” Anger flares, but it’s eclipsed by something rawer. I turn, knees brushing his. He leans back just enough to keep the space professional, eyes searching mine for some permission neither of us can grant. “Same time Thursday,” he says, breaking eye contact first. He notes the progress in my chart, casual pen strokes that make my world feel smaller. I slide off the plinth, weight cautiously through my left leg. The joint holds, wobbly but obedient. He watches the gait line, not my face, and the clinical distance he reinstates feels colder than ice baths after nationals. Yet the lavender lingers, and the imprint of his hand on my scarred knee burns like the memory of finish‑line tape—exactly at the moment I used to believe was the whole point of living.

Model Output:
I tasted salt and coal smoke on the dawn breeze long before the Bosun’s pipe shrilled for quarters. Duty called from the quarter‑deck of H.M.S. Resolute, but I was already lowering myself into a sampan that rocked against the hull like a small, persistent guilt. “Lieutenant Merrick, sir!” Midshipman Carter leaned over the bulwark. “Captain expects you for inspection.” “I’ll be back before the bell rings eight,” I lied. “Tell him I’ve gone to check fresh provisions.” “The purser handles that, sir.” “Then say I’m schooling the purser.” I dropped two reales into the boy’s palm. “Mum’s the word.” He pocketed the bribe but muttered, “You stink of laudanum already.” “Sea air, Mr. Carter. Clears the head.” The sampan woman—Ah‑Lan, all burlap skin and betel‑reddened grin—poled us toward the Bund. Water slapped the hull, soft as a cat’s paw. “Lieutenant want go where this morning?” she asked in the singsong pidgin every European learned or pretended to despise. “Same alley as yesterday.” I sniffed. Even out on the river, the city reek came riding: hot mud, joss‑stick ash, and somewhere a sublime thread of rotting mangoes. My mouth watered. “You pay last night?” “Soon as God makes silver.” She cackled. “God make silver for white officer quick‑quick.” The oars creaked. My hands trembled in my gloves, craving the long curl of blue smoke. • Stone steps, clammy with river slime, delivered me to Old China Street. Junk crews hawked tea chests; Parsi clerks bargained for bolt cloth; and a hawker waved live eels like black ribbons. I slipped between them toward Wáng’s warehouse where sailors sold stolen cordage. At the door, Corporal Howe waited, scarlet jacket dulled with dust. “Thought I’d find you here, James.” His voice carried disappointment, not accusation. “Morning, Daniel. Need a favor.” He eyed my shaking hands. “It’s always a favor.” “My month’s pay’s tied up at the agents. Lend me four dollars.” “You’ll spend it on poppy and have nothing left for your tailor or your stomach.” “Since when did you turn chaplain?” He sighed, produced silver coins. “Captain Fitch asked why you missed gunnery drill yesterday.” “Tell him the Chinese fever still rides me.” “He served in the Malabar—knows the difference between fever and fumes.” I closed Howe’s fingers around the coins, unwilling to take them. “Better you keep them. I’ve another source.” “James—” “Later.” I left him staring after me as bells clanged from the river temples. • The scent of rotting mangoes thickened as I entered Lantern Alley, a shaded throat between godowns. Flies droned. A barefoot boy spat beetle‑juice and announced me: “Ying‑Kwok loong zaih!”—the British dragon son has come. Uncle Shù sat in his stall amid coral beads and contraband fans. His spectacles were rimless crystal; his smile held neither warmth nor malice, only arithmetic. “Mé‑Lík,” he greeted, twisting my name into Cantonese. “You owe nine dollars, six cash.” “I’ve a naval chart of the Bogue forts—fresh soundings.” “Paper good. Silver better.” “Chart first. Silver after the fleet review.” He motioned to a boy, who produced a lacquer box. Inside lay a twist of brown-black paste, small as a sparrow’s heart. The fumes leaking from it prickled my eyes. I swallowed. “Half this and the debt’s cleared.” “Half buys one hour’s floating. Debt remains.” From my breast pocket I slid Captain Fitch’s seal, pilfered the week before. “With this you can stamp passes for any junk that flies false colors.” Uncle Shù weighed the brass in his hand, then nodded. “Opium for dragon son. Debt erased.” “Prepare a pipe at the den.” “Room upstairs taken by Scots traders. Too loud.” He smiled. “Back room of Widow Cho. Quiet. Smell like mango rot, but you like that, hah?” • I still needed coin for the boatman back and for tomorrow’s misery, so I crossed to the Portuguese row under the towers of the Consoo House. Bells from St. Joseph’s tolled the Angelus though the sun stood barely mid‑morning. Inside Carvalho & Co., fans stirred the incense‑heavy air. Senhor Carvalho’s pince‑nez flashed. “Lieutenant Merrick, your account—how shall I phrase it—bleeds.” “Buy my watch, then.” I placed my father’s gold chronometer on the counter. He opened the case. “Engraving says, ‘Steady to His Course.’ I should pay you to keep such sentiment.” “Fifteen dollars.” “Seven.” “Ten.” “Eight. And a promise you’ll redeem it before the monsoon.” “Done.” I signed, feeling as though I had pawned the last scrap of honor with the timepiece. • Widow Cho’s boarding house leaned over a canal where night soil skiffs bobbed. The mango odor here was ripe enough to chew. I climbed a warped stair; each step squealed like a conscience. Inside the back room, sunlight scratched through latticework. Four mats lay occupied by men—Chinese clerk, Malay deckhand, a pale Dane, and me—waiting for the lamp to heat the pellet. Jin, Uncle Shù’s nephew, rolled the paste on a needle, humming. I lay beside the Dane. His eyes were yellow as brackish water. He whispered, “Royal Navy, yes? You’ll bring gunboats if the mandarins cut our supply.” “Gunboats keep the channel open for tea,” I mumbled. “Opium only rides the wake.” “You believe that?” He laughed until it turned to coughing. Jin touched my shoulder. “Dragon son first.” He passed me the bamboo stem. I watched the bead balloon, glaze, and collapse into smoke. I drew hard, lungs flooding with hot sweetness, mango and burnt sugar, river mud, and the faint memory of English heather. Muscles melted; guilt softened to a manageable ache. Voices blurred. Yet scraps of dialogue drifted like sparks. Dane: “The Emperor will drown Canton in blood.” Clerk: “Better blood than silence.” Me: “Silence is all I want.” How many pipes? Two, maybe three. Time unstitched itself. A thunder of cannon intruded; I flinched upright—it was only a junk’s fireworks on the waterfront. Still, duty hammered in my skull. I lurched to my feet. “Leaving so soon?” Jin asked. “Inspection at fourteen hundred.” My tongue felt carved from sandalwood. “Need a bath and a sober face.” He laughed. “Face maybe. Breath never.” • Outside, afternoon rain slicked the flags. I bought ginger tea to mask the smoke but spilled most while dodging sedan chairs. Silver coins clinked—a handful remained. Enough for tonight? Never enough. Near the factory gates, I collided with Midshipman Carter, drenched and earnest. “Lieutenant! Captain Fitch sent me. The cutter’s waiting.” “Of course.” His eyes narrowed. “Sir, you look—” “Spare me. Get in the boat.” Rain beat the river like drums. We sat opposite each other; neither spoke till we reached the ship. • Captain Fitch stood on the quarter‑deck, oilskin cloak snapping. His gaze knifed through the weather. “Merrick, you missed two musters.” “Beg pardon, sir. Shore survey ran long.” He stepped closer. “Your pupils are pinpoints. Your breath—spice and smoke. Do you take me for a fool?” “Never, sir.” “You were the best navigator in the squadron. I will not watch opium chew your spine.” A silence, broken only by rigging groan and distant temple bells. “Report to me at first light tomorrow,” he continued, softer. “Sober. Or surrender your commission.” “Aye, sir.” My voice cracked. As I saluted, a gust carried the shore’s fetid sweetness across the water: overripe mango, narcotic promise. I felt the dragon stir already, and night had not even fallen.

Model Output:
A pebble-dotted hillside, somewhere south of Purgatory’s main road. Mid‑afternoon. Sisyphus puts his shoulder to the boulder, nudges it a hands‑breadth uphill, wedges a sandal beneath it and turns to the black‑feathered secretary on a nearby stump. Sisyphus: All right, Crow, where were we? Crow: “Dear Sir S, urgent—ink still wet—smells of lilies and despair.” Sisyphus: Lilies first, despair later. Read it. Crow unfolds the letter. ––––– LETTER ONE Dear Sisyphus, My boyfriend and I cannot agree on who should wash dishes. He says “whoever cooks less.” I say “whoever uses more plates.” We’ve charted it on a spreadsheet. It’s tearing us apart. Please advise. Scrubbing in Syracuse REPLY (dictated) Dear Scrubbing, Picture two people rowing a boat. Now picture the boat is full of dirty crockery and neither of you brought oars. You can throw things at each other or you can start bailing. Decide together which task you secretly hate least and swap occasionally so nobody gets blisters in the same spot. Also, eat one meal a week that requires only your hands. Bread, olives, affection—very little soap. Yours in greased palms, Sisyphus Crow seals the scroll, straps it to his own leg for later, then rips open the next envelope with professional savagery. ––––– LETTER TWO Dear Sisyphus, My manager schedules meetings at 7 a.m. “to get a jump on the day.” At 7 a.m. my higher brain functions are still under warranty and unused. How do I convince him civilisation starts at 9? Sleepless in Accounts REPLY Dear Sleepless, Stand next to the coffee machine at 6:55 with three empty mugs. Hand one to him, one to the biggest morning zombie in the room, keep one yourself. Say, “We meet only if the coffee’s strong enough to melt the spoon. Otherwise we reschedule.” If that fails, schedule your own meeting at 4 p.m. titled “Follow‑up.” Invite him and no one else. When he asks why, say, “To get a jump on tomorrow.” Empathy occasionally needs demonstration. Regards, Sisyphus A crunching sound. The boulder begins contemplating gravity. Sisyphus pats its flank apologetically. Sisyphus: Back in a tick. He rolls it several yards, humming. Crow tests the ink with his beak. ––––– LETTER THREE Dear Sisyphus, Everybody at my book club is secretly there for the wine. We haven’t finished a novel since March. I actually like reading. Do I form my own club or keep pretending? Plotless in Plovdiv REPLY Dear Plotless, If you want a thing done, do not remove the pleasure that lured people in; simply redirect it. Bring a thinner book and a thicker cheese board. Announce, “Short story night, so we can refill glasses faster.” They’ll thank you for your mercy and you’ll get your literature. I recommend “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” It pairs nicely with a dry white and mild outrage. Fondly, Sisyphus Crow blinks. “Bit heavy, that story.” Sisyphus shrugs. “Hill’s heavy too. Balance.” He shoves, the boulder ascends another yard. A pebble ricochets off Crow’s inkwell and lands in the next envelope, already half‑open and suspiciously damp. ––––– LETTER FOUR (smudged) Deer Sisffff, My ??? keeps turning green and the …(illegible)… won’t stop whistling at night. Should I change the litter, the locks, or my fiancé? Hopelessly ??? Crow tilts his head. “Looks like it went swimming through a bog.” Sisyphus: Ah, an interpretive challenge. Very well. REPLY Dear Hopelessly, Your problem is clearly either horticultural, zoological, or matrimonial. Possibly all three if your fiancé is the whistling variety. Step one: isolate variables. Remove anything that meows from the bedroom; see if the noise persists. Step two: if greenery continues where greenery ought not, consult a botanist before a therapist. Step three: should your fiancé object to either measure, marry the plant—it will photosynthesise through most arguments. With provisional sympathy, Sisyphus Crow: “That should cover it.” Sisyphus: “If not, the next letter will be even more interesting.” They exchange the conspiratorial silence known only to long partnerships and certain types of librarians. The boulder, reaching its contractual apex, pauses, sighs, and rolls politely downhill. Sisyphus watches it go, then stretches. Sisyphus: Tea break? Crow produces a final envelope from under his wing like a conjurer revealing the rabbit was there the whole time. ––––– LETTER FIVE Dear Sisyphus, I’m 43, gainfully employed, in health, and bewilderingly sad every Sunday evening. Monday itself is rarely as bad as the six hours beforehand. Advice? Blue Before Monday REPLY Dear Blue, Sundays leak. The weekend is a jug with a crack near the base: looks full until you notice the damp footprints. Don’t cork the jug; reinforce what holds the liquid. Give Sunday structure—anything slightly ridiculous: learn the tin whistle, alphabetise your spices by colour, cook breakfast for dinner while wearing tomorrow’s socks. You need proof that time serves you, not the reverse. The fear of Monday is merely the fear of continuing. I assure you: continuing is manageable. I do it daily. Steadily, Sisyphus Crow murmurs, “You slipped one in.” Sisyphus: “One what?” Crow: “Continuing is manageable, you said. That’s the boulder, isn’t it?” Sisyphus smiles crookedly. “If they notice, they’ve earned it. Next?” Crow: “That’s the stack.” A wind from the valley scatters olive leaves across the parchment pile. Sisyphus pockets them for bookmarks, then sets his shoulder anew. Crow flutters aloft, circling, letters tied neatly to both legs, looking a bit like bureaucratic déjà vu with feathers. As the boulder resumes its promenade, Sisyphus calls after him: “Mind the Cerberus on delivery to Plovdiv. He thinks scrolls are chew toys.” Crow: “I’ll offer him the smudged one.” Boulder, man, and familiar progress up the slope. Paperwork, after all, is eternal.

Model Output:
A sudden cascade of eight‑bit chimes spilled from a retro game shop, mixing with the hum of neon and the chatter of bargain hunters. Aoi hugged her backpack to her chest, edging past a wall of second‑hand oscillators. Then a guitar’s bright, over‑driven scream lifted above everything—instantly recognizable: the opening riff of “Cruel Angel’s Thesis.” She drifted toward the sound. Reina stood on a milk crate near the arcade entrance, red Telecaster slung low, black hair in a messy ponytail. A miniature amp dangled from her belt like a grenade. Tourists crowded around, phones aloft. The song ended; coins clinked into Reina’s case. She noticed Aoi lingering in the back row, eyes shining behind round glasses. Reina grinned. “Request time! Anyone?” Aoi’s heart lurched. She pushed her glasses up. “Um… ‘Tank!’ From Cowboy Bebop?” she blurted, barely audible. Reina cupped a hand to her ear. “Say that again, Synth‑chan?” Aoi swallowed. “T‑T‑‘Tank!’ The, uh, Yoko Kanno one.” Reina’s smile widened. “Finally, someone with taste.” She flicked her pickup switch and launched into the jazzy surf‑rock intro, fingers dancing. Aoi’s foot tapped involuntarily. Mid‑solo, Reina shot her a wink. The moment the last chord rang, fireworks exploded outside, rattling windows—early rehearsal for the Tenjin Matsuri. Bright chrysanthemums of light reflected off arcade glass. The crowd oohed, then dispersed toward the street, leaving only Reina, her open guitar case, and Aoi clutching her backpack like a shield. Reina hopped off the crate. “Guess the sky just stole my encore.” She unplugged, coiling the cable. “Thanks for sticking around, Synth‑chan.” Aoi flinched at the nickname. “I—uh—I was buying filter caps and heard your—your, um—” “Shredding?” A faint nod. “I don’t usually stop. Crowds are… loud.” “True. Osaka’s volume knob is permanently stuck at eleven.” Reina offered a hand. “I’m Reina.” Aoi stared at the calloused fingers, then hurriedly wiped her own on her skirt before shaking. “A‑Aoi.” “Cute name. So, Aoi, you build synths?” “Just little DIY kits. Analog, mostly. I like the imperfections.” She bit her lip. “Your overdrive has a nice mid boost.” Reina laughed. “Only someone carrying resistors in her pocket would notice that.” Aoi’s cheeks flamed. “Sorry, that sounded—” “Complimentary.” Reina clipped the mini‑amp to her belt. “Most people only hear ‘loud.’ You hear color.” Aoi fidgeted. “Your vibrato was, um, really expressive.” “That’s guitar code for ‘you bend the strings too much,’ right?” “No! I mean—uh—it felt like the original recording, but fresh.” Reina slung the Tele into a soft case. “So what does Synth‑chan do for fun when she’s not rescuing wayward capacitors?” “Program patches. Listen to citypop on cassette. Not… not very exciting.” “Depends on who’s listening.” Reina zipped the case. “Hey, you hungry?” Aoi blinked. “Now?” “There’s a kaitenzushi two blocks down. Air‑conditioned, low decibel level, and they serve ginger soda.” “I—I should probably catch the train before rush hour.” Reina tilted her head, mock‑serious. “Let me guess—Loop Line to Hirano, platform three. Wall‑to‑wall salarymen. You’d survive five minutes before retreating into your headphones.” Aoi’s mouth fell open. “How did you—” “Lucky guess. Osaka only has so many shy geniuses.” Reina swept the coins into her bag. “Come on. A couple plates won’t derail your schedule.” Aoi hesitated, staring at the retreating crowd chasing fireworks. The crackle echoed like distant popcorn. “I… don’t really do spontaneous.” “That’s why you should.” Reina started walking backward, pointing her guitar case like a compass. “Conveyor belts are predictable. Consider it structured spontaneity.” Aoi allowed a tiny smile. “That’s… contradictory.” “Best kind of fun.” Reina pivoted. “You in?” A beat. Aoi hugged her backpack, then hurried to catch up. “O‑Okay.” They walked past rows of gachapon machines chirping theme songs. Reina glanced sideways. “So, favorite waveform?” Aoi brightened. “Triangle. Warmer than square, purer than saw.” “Figures.” Reina tapped her chest. “I’m a sawtooth girl. Jagged edges, messy harmonics.” “You can filter that.” Aoi giggled, startled by the sound coming from her own mouth. Reina pointed skyward as another firework boomed. “You think they’re using sawtooth or square to trigger those pyros?” “Digital pulse, probably.” Aoi’s fingers mimed tapping an imaginary sequencer. “MIDI note on, velocity mapping.” “Talk nerdy to me.” Reina laughed. “Okay, serious question: if you could mod any classic anime opening, which would you remake?” Aoi’s eyes lit. “Gunbuster. Replace the brass with layered Juno‑60 pads, add side‑chain compression to make it pump.” “Nice. I’d slap a dirty fuzz bass under the chorus.” “That could work.” Aoi glanced up. “You know synth architecture?” “Enough to get in trouble. My ex left a MicroKORG at my place. I twisted knobs until it screamed.” Reina made a screeching synth noise with her mouth; passers‑by stared. She didn’t care. Aoi covered her laugh with a cough. They reached Sushimaru Kaiten. Neon tuna swam across a sign. Inside, plates orbited like pastel UFOs. A hostess bowed. “Irasshaimase!” Reina held up two fingers. “Counter’s fine.” They sat. Conveyor belts whirred softly, a gentle Doppler of wasabi and soy. Reina grabbed salmon nigiri. “Rule one: never take the plastic shrimp. It’s been circling since morning.” Aoi chose tamago, setting the plate gingerly before her. “I always start with egg. It calibrates the restaurant.” “Scientist approach. Respect.” Reina raised her soda bottle. “To spontaneous calibration.” Aoi clinked her water glass. “To… structured spontaneity.” They sipped. Reina leaned in. “So, Aoi, why synths? Everyone else your age is chasing guitar tabs on YouTube.” Aoi fiddled with her chopsticks. “Because synths don’t mind silence. You program them, they wait. Guitars—people expect you to perform.” “But people listened to you tonight.” “I didn’t play anything.” “You requested the song. You listened hard. That’s half the performance.” Reina plucked a plate of unagi. “You ever think of collaborating? Synth plus guitar?” Aoi nearly dropped her chopsticks. “M‑Me? Play live?” “Why not? Den Den Town’s full of weirdos. We’d fit right in.” Reina’s eyes sparkled. “You build a patch, I shred on top, we cover all those anime themes that deserve their own remix EP.” A firework’s delayed boom rumbled outside. Aoi glanced toward the glass door, reflection trembling. “I’d need time. And practice.” “Take all the time you want. The street’ll still be here.” Reina fished a business card from her wallet: a stylized Telecaster with a QR code. “Ping me. We’ll start with Gunbuster.” Aoi turned the card over, tracing the raised ink. “Reina Kobayashi… Busker, Dreamer, Occasional Troublemaker.” “Accurate résumé.” Aoi slipped the card into her phone case like a relic. “I—I’ll message.” Reina grinned. “Knew you would.” They ate in companionable silence while neon tuna kept swimming, and outside, fireworks stitched bright stitches across the Osaka night.

Model Output:
Chapter Six: The Second Hand I never asked for a watch that could eat my childhood. Mom just wanted me to stop being late for first period. When she unwrapped the glossy black ChronoBand and fastened it around my wrist last Friday, all I heard was, “Happy twelfth birthday, Sam. Don’t lose it.” Monday morning I’m already sprint‑late—again. Halfway up the school steps I trip, flinging my algebra notes like confetti. The ChronoBand’s screen bursts to life: 7:58 a.m. A red icon blinks REW? Instinctively, I jab it. The world hiccups. Wind rushes backward. Falling papers pop back into my backpack. I’m standing at the foot of the steps. The watch now reads 7:53. I make it to class with two minutes to spare and ace Ms. Donner’s surprise quiz. Coolest gift ever, right? Over the next three days I rewind little slices of time the way other kids use pencil erasers. Miss a volleyball serve—click—redo. Stutter in front of Jade Martinez—click—smooth line unlocked. Each rewind costs nothing…or so I think. Thursday starts weird. While brushing my teeth I feel something sharp against my upper lip. Stubble? No way. I lean closer. The mirror shows the same baby‑smooth face, but for a split second—like a camera double‑exposing—an older version of me blinks into place. Taller, jaw squared, hair thicker. Then it’s gone. I blame it on last night’s horror marathon and bike to school. Period Two, people start acting off. Mr. Kelso calls me “young man” instead of “kiddo.” Jade, who’s usually two inches taller, is eye‑level. “Did you grow overnight?” she asks, squinting. My voice comes out deeper than I remember. I laugh it off, throat vibrating strangely against my collar. Lunchtime, the ChronoBand displays a new stat scrolling under the time: DELTA: 9M 17D. Nine months, seventeen days? I swipe, but the numbers stay. Recess. Nate, my best friend since kindergarten, wants to test the watch. “You can’t honestly rewind,” he scoffs. To prove it, I pitch him a football, let him catch it, then tap REW. The pass replays, identical, like the universe hitting CTRL‑Z. Nate’s eyes balloon. “That’s…impossible.” I grin, soaking up his awe—until Jade screams from the blacktop. Everyone wheels toward the chemistry wing. Gray smoke boils from a lab window. Fire alarms shriek. Teachers herd us to the soccer field. An ambulance wails closer and closer. I snag bits of conversation: substitute lab teacher, broken beaker, chlorine gas. Four kids taken away. Yesterday in chem class we’d handled the same chemicals. What if—no, it can’t be connected. Yet a thought needles me: the pass I rewound kept me on the field longer, delaying when I’d usually be inside fetching my forgotten lunch. Would my earlier self have stopped the accident? The ChronoBand pulses warm, as if sensing my guilt. I could undo the whole day. Fix it. I tap MENU, spin to DEEP REWIND, and thumb ten hours. The screen flashes: WARNING – PERSONAL TIME WILL ADVANCE. PERSONAL TIME? Before I can rethink, I press YES. The world corkscrews. Bells ring backward, voices suck into silence. I’m in my bedroom, dawn light seeping through blinds. It’s this morning again—pre‑catastrophe. But something’s terribly wrong. My bedsheets stop at my shins. My legs are longer, lean muscle edging my calf. I stand; my pajama bottoms resemble capris. The mirror beside the desk doesn’t glitch this time—it shows me as I now am: maybe sixteen? Shoulders broader, trace of acne, definite stubble. I touch my face, expecting a mask to peel away. Skin. Real. Mom knocks. “Sam? Aren’t you a little old to oversleep?” She says it like a joke, but her eyes widen when I open the door. “Wow, you shot up again.” Again? Downstairs, family photos have morphed. In last year’s Halloween picture I’m taller than Dad. My seven‑year‑old sister Emily isn’t seven—she’s ten and scowling at me like I’m the younger sibling. I bike to school on Emily’s old ten‑speed because my own, apparently, is too small. I arrive early, heart hammering. This time I sprint into the chemistry lab. The new substitute reaches for the shelf. I grab the cracked beaker before he does, replace it with an intact one. Crisis avoided. I exhale—until Nate breezes past without a nod. Jade turns crimson when I say hi, muttering, “You don’t remember, do you?” She hurries off. In this timeline I’m not twelve‑year‑old Sam who shyly failed to ask her to the winter dance. I might have actually asked. Might have broken up. Who knows? Every moment feels like walking through a movie I’ve half‑watched with the wrong script. I duck into the bathroom to collect myself. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. I splash water on my face, look up—and the mirror splits again, rapid flicker‑flicker. Older Sam—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—blending over my features, time‑lapse horror. My temples pepper with gray before snapping back to teen mode. I lurch into a stall, breathing ragged. The ChronoBand now reads DELTA: 4Y 2M 6D. Four years? My stomach free‑falls. Every rewind burns my future like gasoline. If I keep fixing details, I’ll age out of middle school by lunchtime. But I can’t leave things like this—friends estranged, reality warped. I need one last undo, but smaller, smarter. I scroll to HISTORY. Each rewind is logged with a stamp and a cost. The ten‑hour jump cost three years, seven months of my personal time. No wonder I’m practically shaving. I highlight the earliest entry: Monday, 7:53 a.m.—my very first five‑minute rewind. If I delete that, everything unravels, including today’s giant leap. I could reset the whole week, lose the watch, and maybe my body will rubber‑band to where it belongs. The screen flashes: FINALIZE? NO FURTHER UNDOS. I hesitate. What if I overshoot and become a toddler? Or, worse, what if I never exist at all? Screams echo from the hallway—panic, not fire alarms. I crack the door. Two eighth‑graders stagger past, coughing. Chlorine sting floods my nostrils. The beaker had a hairline fracture I missed; the gas leak still happened, just later. Decision made. I slam YES. Time implodes silently. Darkness folds over me like theater curtains. Light returns. I’m kneeling on the school steps, papers mid‑air. The ChronoBand buzzes, then dies—screen spider‑cracking from the inside. I toss it into the trash before it can tempt me again. “Hey, Sam, you okay?” Nate picks up my calculator. He’s my height again. Voice familiar. Normal. I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Just slipped.” Across the lot, Jade waves, unconcerned. No smoke curls from the chem wing. Good. But as I stuff my notes back into my backpack, a chill drills my spine. Tiny movements feel…looser, joints achy. I tug the sleeve of my jacket. The cuff still rides a fraction high. I catch my reflection in the lobby glass. It’s twelve‑year‑old me, but the eyes look older, like I’ve stared at a few too many midnights. A single dark whisker pokes from my chin. Maybe time snapped back—mostly. Maybe the ChronoBand siphoned off a sliver it couldn’t return. A tax. The bell rings. I head inside, ignoring the urge to check my bare wrist. After all, I’m done rewinding. I think.

Model Output:
The carnival lights trembled awake, spilling lilac and gold over the boardwalk’s warped planks. Brass music wheezed from a distant calliope, and the ocean threw up a hush behind it all, as though eavesdropping. Beside the shooting gallery, Madame Zora’s fortune‑telling booth perched like an aging raven: chipped black paint, bleary kerosene lamp, palmistry charts curling in the salt wind—Venus Mounts, Fate Lines, warnings spelled in cramped ink. She pressed her gloved fingers to her throat. I could turn back now. Catch the last train, forget those letters, forget his locks. But the letters had smelled of cedar and magnetism, and she was already here. Bootheels clicked smartly in the sanded grit. He emerged from behind the canvas target wall, a silhouette first, then a man—tall, shoulders loose, curls glossy as sin. “Miss Delacroix?” His voice struck a note halfway between a bow and a dare. “I wasn’t certain you would come,” she said, steadying her breath. “Yet you waited. That flatters me.” He glanced at the painted ducks wagging on their metal rails. “Are you any good with a rifle?” “I’ve never tried.” “Shall we wager a secret on your first shot?” A grin slid across his mouth, too knowing for comfort. My mother warned me: a man who trades in secrets already owns too many. Still, the smile pulsed through me like dark wine. She lifted the small, scuffed Winchester the barker handed over. The stranger placed a coin on the counter, brushing her wrist. Cold sparks skittered up her arm. “Feet apart, shoulder relaxed,” he murmured. “Trust the weight.” “Are you in the habit of tutoring women?” she asked. “Only the interesting ones.” A tin duck clanged over when she squeezed the trigger. Powder smoke and carnival sugar mingled in her lungs. “I win,” he said. “I thought it was my shot.” “It was. And I won.” “How so?” “I learned you pretend at modesty, Miss Delacroix, but you relish the risk.” Heat flared in her cheeks. “What risk? A children’s game.” “Children seldom understand stakes.” His eyes, bottomless, reflected rows of electric bulbs like captured stars. She returned the rifle, smoothing her skirt. “Do you make riddles of everything?” “Not everything,” he said. “Come. Madame Zora wants a word.” The fortune‑teller’s booth smelled of cardamom and wick smoke. Velvet drapes fluttered, though no breeze reached inside. Madame Zora, silver hair coiled beneath a turban, studied them as if they were constellations. “You bring storms, boy,” she rasped. “And you bottle them, old bird,” he answered lightly. “Read her.” Madame Zora extended a parchment‑skinned hand. The stranger’s gaze coaxed her forward. I ought to laugh, refuse, leave. Yet his confidence drags me in like tidewater. Glove removed, she laid her palm upon the velvet. The fortune‑teller traced lifelines with a crooked nail. “Split heart line,” Zora muttered. “Two hungers at war. One will win, the other maim.” “That’s enough,” the stranger said. “Afraid to hear?” Zora asked, thin smile. “I’m never afraid.” He lifted Delacroix’s hand, folding it closed. “We have another engagement.” Outside, dusk had thickened; carnival bulbs shone bolder, as though feeding on the gloom. “What engagement?” she asked. “A walk,” he replied. “Unless you’ve grown afraid.” He offered his arm. She took it, surprised by her own certainty. I am not reckless, yet his shoulder feels like a door unlatched; I can hear wind on the other side. They strolled past barkers hawking thrills—“See the Mermaid Bride! Dare the Cyclone!”—and stopped at the railing overlooking the surf. Moonlight draped silver across the Atlantic, indifferent and enormous. “Tell me,” he said softly, “why you answered a stranger’s letter.” She watched a gull dive. “Because the handwriting looked like a cliff edge. Because polite women sometimes itch for impolite adventures.” He laughed, low. “Do you know my name yet?” “No.” “Does that disturb you?” “A little.” “Would you like to earn it?” “How?” “By giving something first. Equivalent exchange.” He traced the wrought‑iron scrollwork. “A memory you’ve never confessed.” The waves hissed. Confess, and he will own a part of you. Refuse, and you become the dull girl you fled. “All right,” she said. “When I was sixteen, I stole my father’s car and drove to Hartford, just to see the river. It was midnight. I returned before dawn, and no one ever knew.” He regarded her, appreciative. “Restless blood. I might have guessed.” He bowed slightly. “Gabriel.” “Gabriel,” she repeated, tasting the name like forbidden fruit. “And yours, though I wrote it in the letters?” “Evelyn.” “Evelyn,” he echoed, slower, as if aligning syllables to a private rhythm. A brass trumpet wailed from the pier. Somewhere behind them a woman screamed—roller‑coaster joy or terror, impossible to tell. “I have a proposition,” Gabriel said. “Of course you do.” “Meet me tomorrow, midnight, beneath the Parachute Jump. No chaperone, no questions.” “That tower is locked after hours.” “Locks,” he smiled, “are invitations to anyone with intention.” “Why me?” she asked. He brushed a curl from his brow. “Because you looked at my letters the way soldiers watch smoke: expecting fire.” A tremor spooled through her spine. Fire burns, but it also cleanses. Am I prepared for either? “Will you come, Evelyn?” Madame Zora’s words echoed: Two hungers at war. One will win, the other maim. Perhaps the damage has already begun. “Yes,” she heard herself say. Gabriel’s eyes glimmered. “Then keep your evening free of other sins. I prefer exclusivity.” She almost laughed. “And if I change my mind?” “You won’t.” He kissed her gloved knuckles, then vanished into the tide of carnival bodies as swiftly as he’d appeared. Evelyn remained by the railing, the taste of gunpowder and salt on her tongue, the night suddenly enormous. Carousel mirrors caught her reflection—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something perilously close to delight. Tomorrow, midnight. A promise, or a precipice. Either way, she would wear her boldest dress.

Model Output:
Chapter Two –––––––––– The lodge always creaked after dark, but that night every groan of timber sounded deliberate, like the building was clearing its throat before saying something no one wanted to hear. JT sat at the kitchen table, oil‑rag in hand, breaking down the Winchester by habit more than need. Flecks of fossilized blood spotted the bolt; he scrubbed at them while the kerosene lamp burned low and yellow. Across from him Mike fiddled with a deck of cards, shuffling and reshuffling without ever dealing. Their father hunched by the woodstove, one boot on the hearthstone, elbows on knees, head bowed as if the flames were giving a sermon only he could hear. JT cleared his throat. “Pop, about today—” His father’s head lifted fractionally, just enough for the lamplight to graze his eyes. Something in them looked bruised. “Nothin’ to talk about.” “But you—” “You clean that gun or you talk. Can’t do both.” The words came gentle, almost apologetic, but they left no room for more. He turned back to the stove. Mike shot JT a warning look—let it go. The cards whispered through his fingers again. Four perfect shuffles, bridge, repeat. JT wondered if Mike even knew he was doing it. Outside, wind slid along the eaves, carrying the distant jangle of a cowbell. Except none of the neighboring camps kept cattle. JT felt the hairs on his forearm lift. “Anyone else hear that?” he asked. Mike paused mid‑shuffle. “Just chains on a flagpole.” Yet there wasn’t a flagpole within a mile. Their father didn’t react, but JT noticed his shoulders tighten beneath the wool shirt. They turned in early. Hunting always started before dawn, but sleep came slow for JT. The bunkroom smelled of damp wool and mouse droppings. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the buck again—its calm, bottomless stare, as if it had been reading them. Sometime after midnight, a sound pried him awake: the squeak of the porch door, followed by boards flexing under a deliberate weight. JT slid from bed, careful not to wake Mike, and padded to the window. Moonlight painted the clearing silver. At first he thought the shapes were bushes. Then one moved. Caribou—five, maybe six—stood in a loose semicircle facing the lodge. Their pelts shimmered frost‑white; antlers looked carved from old bone. None grazed. They only watched, steam pluming from their nostrils. The porch boards groaned again. JT’s father stepped into view, barefoot, wearing only long johns despite the cold. He descended the steps like a sleepwalker and stopped a few yards from the nearest animal. His arms dangled at his sides as though he’d forgotten how to hold them. JT’s mouth went dry. He tried to call out but no sound left him. The largest bull swung its rack, a slow, majestic arc. The tips brushed his father’s chest—not stabbing, merely touching, the way a grandparent might cup a child’s cheek. A shudder ran through both man and beast, as if a current passed between them. JT stumbled backward and knocked an enamel cup off the bedside table. The clatter woke Mike. “Jesus, JT.” Mike rubbed his eyes. “What’re you doing?” “Pop’s outside,” JT hissed. “With them.” “With who?” “Come see.” But when Mike reached the window the clearing was empty except for moonlit crusted snow. No caribou, no father. Only their own footprints from earlier that afternoon snake‑trailing toward the treeline. “You dreamed it,” Mike said. He sounded more hopeful than certain. JT shook his head. “Then where’s Pop?” A soft click echoed from the hallway—the front door shutting. Footsteps padded toward the bunkroom. Their father appeared in the doorway, face unreadable. “You boys awake?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Just checking the stove,” Mike improvised. “JT thought he heard something outside.” Their father’s gaze settled on JT. The look wasn’t angry, exactly; more like pity dressed up as disappointment. “Nothing out there but wind,” he said. He turned away, but JT noticed a strip of birch bark stuck to the heel of one bare foot. Sleep fled altogether after that. JT lay listening to every shift of timber until dawn bled gray across the frosted windows. –––––– Breakfast was venison hash and silence. Their father stirred his coffee so long the spoon clinked a metronome into JT’s skull. At last JT couldn’t stand it. “You were sleepwalking last night,” he said, keeping his tone light, almost teasing. “Must’ve froze your toes off.” The spoon stopped. “Dreams don’t count,” the old man murmured, staring into the cup as though something moved there. Mike set his fork down. “Maybe we should head into town today, pick up propane, restock.” “We’re fine,” their father said. “We came here to hunt.” JT opened his mouth, closed it. Outside, the sky had turned a dull pewter; snow threatened but couldn’t quite decide. The woods surrounding the lodge looked thicker again, trunks crowded shoulder to shoulder like spectators tightening the ring. They set out mid‑morning. The air smelled of iron shavings. Every so often JT heard a muffled thrumming, like distant machinery underfoot, but when he asked Mike he got a shrug. Three hours later they’d tracked nothing but old sign. Even the squirrels kept silent. Their father moved ahead, pace quick, rifle at the ready, eyes sweeping. JT thought he saw an antler tip protruding from a hemlock’s shadow—only a splinter of pale—but when he blinked it was gone. They crossed a frozen creek where crimson leaves floated under ice, caught mid‑drown. On the far bank their father halted so abruptly Mike nearly collided with him. “Listen,” he whispered. At first JT heard only his pulse. Then, faint but rising, came a noise like many throats humming one sustained note. The hair inside his ears vibrated. The sound carried no direction; it was simply everywhere. Their father’s rifle clattered to the snow. He knelt, pressing palms to the ground as though trying to feel the heartbeat beneath. Tears tracked his cheeks. “It’s all right,” he said to no one. “I’m here.” JT’s own knees weakened. He wanted to run, but the humming pinned him. A shape emerged from the pines—another bull, larger than yesterday’s. Its hide was mottled with old scars that formed patterns almost, letters in some alphabet too ancient to read. The antlers were velvetless, black, wet. Its eyes reflected nothing. Mike managed a strangled “Pop?” but their father didn’t answer. He extended his arms like a child asking to be lifted. The bull stepped forward. JT found his voice. “Dad! Back away!” The animal’s breath fogged the space between them. Then it bent its massive head. A quick, tender gesture—touching its brow to the old man’s. For a moment they looked like worshipers locked in prayer. Something snapped inside JT. He raised his own rifle, chambered a round. His hands shook so badly the front sight jittered across fur. He couldn’t tell what would happen if he fired—who the bullet would choose. Before he decided, the humming cut off. The bull straightened, gave a single, almost respectful nod, and retreated soundlessly into the trees. The hush that followed felt surgical, as though someone had vacuumed the world. Their father sagged to his haunches. “It knows,” he whispered. Mike knelt beside him. “Knows what?” The old man looked up, eyes cracked with grief and wonder. “That we’re already dead,” he said. Then he smiled—a small, peaceful smile that scared JT more than any snarl could have. –––––– They made it back to the lodge at dusk. No one spoke. Snow began to fall—fat, silent flakes erasing tracks as fast as they formed. Inside, their father went straight to the workbench. He drew the skinning knife across a whetstone in slow, even strokes. Shhhk. Shhhk. The sound filled every corner. JT watched from the doorway, unable to move. After a while Mike murmured, almost to himself, “What season is it now?” Their father didn’t look up. “Caribou season,” he said. “Same as always.” Outside, beyond the windows, something bumped the porch rail—antlers testing the timber. JT imagined the woods pressing closer, waiting for the walls to soften like wet paper. He touched his throat and wondered how long a heartbeat could hide before the forest found it. The knife kept singing against stone, steady, patient, inevitable.

Model Output:
Lucifer Morningstar wakes at six because that is when the shrieking starts. It used to be cockerels on Earth; in Hell it is the choir of the Recently Damned, hitting a high C sharp as they tumble past his balcony in baskets woven from their own regrets. The constant drizzle of ash patters against the obsidian railings like a bored metronome. He stretches, consults the little calendar Imp that whispers appointments in his ear, and sighs. “Another eternity, another audit.” The Imp notes, diplomatically, that the quarterly Torment-Per-Soul ratio is off by three decimal points. Lucifer wonders if anyone else has to attend compliance meetings about brimstone emissions. He pulls on a charcoal‑grey suit—actual charcoal, scraped from the bed of the Phlegethon, tailor‑fitted by a blind fury—and heads to the kitchen. The refrigerator is a jar of eternal darkness. Literally: a mason jar with the void inside. He unscrews the lid, fishes out a congealed black star for breakfast, sprinkles it with chili flakes. It tastes like burnt cinnamon and doomed hope. He chews thoughtfully, ignoring the spurts of cosmic radiation on his tie. At precisely 7:15 the doorbell shrieks “ABANDON ALL HOPE” in an upbeat tenor. Lilith steps in, tracking a delicate line of soot across the foyer. She’s wearing a red raincoat the color of arterial spray and carrying a potted plant that appears to be screaming, softly, for mercy. “Morning, Lucy,” she says, too casually. They have not spoken in 73 years, one week, and the length of a mortal heartbeat. Lucifer’s voice is silky with practiced boredom. “Lilith. To what do I owe the pleasure—acid, heartbreak, lawsuit?” “Can’t a girl visit her ex without ulterior motives?” She sets the plant on the table. It immediately grows fangs and starts nibbling ash‑flakes. “I was in the neighborhood.” There is no neighborhood. There is only Hell. But he lets it pass. 8:00–9:30: Performance Reviews Lucifer sits on an iron throne shaped like an ergonomic nightmare. Screaming souls present quarterly goals. Lilith lounges nearby, critiquing their PowerPoint transitions (“Wipe‑left in 2024? How quaint.”) Every so often she taps Lucifer’s knee, as though they share an in‑joke. They do not. Not currently. During a pause, she leans in. “Heard you promoted Belphegor to Head of Sloth. Thought I was grooming him for that.” Lucifer keeps his face neutral. “You vanished for seven decades. Departments cannot run themselves.” Lilith’s eyes, the exact shade of fresh bruises, glint. “Maybe I needed space.” “Space, yes. You took the Horsehead Nebula with you.” She shrugs. “It matches my drapes.” 10:00: Compliance Audit A delegation of angels arrives, led by Thaddeus, a cherub with a clipboard. The ash falls heavier; halos rust at the edges. Lilith sips blood‑espresso and watches the inspection with feline interest. Thaddeus counts pitchforks, checks temperature gauges, measures the existential despair in the air (slightly citrus today). Lilith whispers, “Remember when we swapped his harp strings for catgut?” Lucifer almost smiles. Almost. The audit drags. Thaddeus scrawls a fine for excessive poetic irony in Sector Eight. Lilith offers to settle it personally; her smile shows too many teeth. Thaddeus decides the paperwork can wait another millennium. Noon: Lunch They retire to a terrace overlooking the Lake of Fire, where condemned philosophers argue about whether they exist. The drizzle of ash makes concentric rings on the molten surface. Lucifer orders grilled hope with a side of lamentation. Lilith, ever dramatic, requests “something light.” The waiter brings her a Caesar salad made of croutons that scream when bitten. Between forksful, she says, “I miss this view.” “Lakes of Fire do possess a certain ambiance,” Lucifer replies, not looking at her. “I meant the two of us, bickering over damned croutons. You, brooding. Me, magnificent.” “It’s still an active crime scene,” he says, but without heat. She laughs, a sound like bats unfolding. “You’re lonely, Lucy. The ash is thicker, the corridors echo.” Lucifer toys with a screaming crouton. “One cannot be lonely when one is busiest.” “Busy is a shape you hide in.” He stares at her. Her face is the first face he ever ruined and adored. She reaches across the table, brushing a flake of ash from his sleeve—the most intimate thing either of them has done since Constantinople burned. 2:00: Torture Technology Expo They tour booths staffed by innovative demons pitching upgrades. Lilith tests a memory‑extractor helmet; inside, she relives a 1920s Paris morning when she danced on rooftops with Lucifer while mortals thought them gargoyles. She removes the headset, eyes bright, says nothing. A junior demon demonstrates the new Sisyphus‑Plus boulder, now with 12% extra futility. Lucifer signs a purchase order. Lilith scrawls her signature underneath his, an echo of old times. 3:30: Couple’s Counseling (Mandatory) HR insists separated co‑regents attend periodic mediation to maintain “organizational synergy.” The counselor is a retired Fury knitting sweaters from cat‑screams. She opens with, “On a scale of one to pandemonium, how would you describe today’s tension?” “Moderately apocalyptic,” Lilith offers. “Casually infernal,” Lucifer says, polite. They are assigned a communication exercise: share one unspoken feeling. Silence pools. Lucifer finally: “When you left, the music stopped.” Lilith: “When I left, I was waiting for you to follow.” The Fury nods, notes that in claw‑script. The session ends when every clock melts and screams “Time’s up!” 5:00: Paperwork They sit at opposite ends of the same gargantuan desk, signing torment requisitions. Ash dusts the parchment, leaving mottled teardrops. Lilith sketches hearts in the margins, stabbing each with a tiny pitchfork. Lucifer pretends not to notice. He offers her a quill; their fingers brush. Static—perhaps sulphuric, perhaps sentimental—crackles. 7:00: The Parade of Vanity Narcissists march while mirrors mock them. Lilith and Lucifer stand side by side, judging costumes. “That one thinks he invented podcasting,” Lilith murmurs. Lucifer folds his arms. “He’s being punished with endless microphone feedback.” “Creative.” She nudges him. “You’ve still got it.” 8:30: Dusk (a bureaucratic term; there is no sun) They return to his balcony. The ash drizzle resembles gentle snow in hellish chiaroscuro. Below, the Damned sing ironic love songs in minor keys. Lilith produces two glasses of aged self‑loathing. They clink. “To old habits,” she says. He studies her in the sallow glow of brimstone lanterns. “This—visiting, bantering—what do you want, Lilith?” She exhales. The ash skips off her breath. “Maybe I’m tired of conquering galaxies alone. Maybe I miss arguing about color palettes for torture chambers. Maybe,” she pauses, dangerous territory ahead, “I miss you.” Lucifer looks out over infinity. “We are terrible together.” “Yes,” she agrees softly, “but no one else could survive us.” The silent beat between them is longer than the Dark Ages. Somewhere, a condemned poet rhymes “suffer” with “lover” and is immediately hurled into a pit. Finally, Lucifer extends an arm. “Stay for breakfast. The void pairs nicely with existential dread.” She smiles, a crescent moon eclipsed by blood. “Only if I cook,” she counters. “Your burnt stars are a crime against calories.” “Crime is the house style,” he notes, but he is already opening the door. Inside, the screaming refrigerator jar rattles as though excited. The Imp erases tomorrow’s empty slot and pencils in “Morning: mutually assured destruction (tentative).” The ash continues its quiet drizzle, coating everything in soft gray absolution, like snow that forgot how to forgive. And beneath that ordinary apocalypse, two ancient monsters set the table for whatever comes next.

Model Output:
The sun had not yet burned the mist from the Caelian Hill when the clang of iron on iron rattled through the ludus. I woke to the taste of rust in my mouth—some trick of memory, perhaps, because the air itself smelled of olive‑wood smoke and last night’s sweat. In the dormitory the other men rose with groans, leather straps sliding across skin, feet slapping dusty stone. I counted the steps between my cot and the courtyard the way a condemned man might count heartbeats, telling myself each stride was still my own. Outside, dawn flared crimson across the tiles of the amphitheater’s outer wall, as though the gods had daubed it with fresh blood in anticipation of tomorrow’s games. Sparrows quarreled on the parapets. Farther off, the city woke by increments: mule carts creaked, a vendor bellowed about figs still warm from the fields, and the Tiber—hidden beyond the Suburra’s maze—carried the faint, brackish smell of mud and sewage up the breeze. Rome never allowed a man to forget how many mouths she had to feed, or how many bodies she could grind into her endless appetite. I lifted my scutum from the rack, then laid my hand on the battered edge of my gladius, heartwood handle darker than the iron from years of sweat. Other men named their swords after lovers; I simply called mine Home. The legionary blacksmith who first issued it to me on the Rhine had stamped his mark—a tiny lupine head—near the hilt. When the Fifteenth legion mutinied and I was sold south for entertainment, the sword followed, as if its maker’s wolf refused to release its teeth from my life. Home was everything I had left of the campaign, of comrades buried beneath German snow, of citizenship promised yet revoked by decree the moment a tribune required a scapegoat. It was the one reminder that before I belonged to the crowd, I had belonged to myself. “Move, Thracian,” growled Drusillus the trainer, shoving a wooden rudis into my chest for warm‑up drills. The nickname lingered even though I carried a legionary sword instead of the curved sica of true Thracians. To Rome, a face foreign‑born was enough to brand a man forever. We formed ranks beneath an awning of frayed canvas. Sand sifted between my toes, cool now, but by midday it would scorch like a kiln. The aroma of barley porridge drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the acrid tang of oil the armorers used to keep bronze from greening. On the far side of the yard, the new Syrian recruit retched over a water jar; nerves, or perhaps the sour wine the guards sold at exorbitant price. “Keep breathing through your nose,” I told him when rotation brought us side by side. “Smells less like dung that way.” He managed a weak grin, wiping his mouth. On his wrist the ink of ownership still shone purple. Fresh brands always did, until time and despair faded them into the skin. We practiced the thrust—elbow tucked, shield tight, step forward, spine aligned. Each repetition stitched itself into muscle, so that when the roar of eighty thousand throats crashed over us tomorrow, the body might prevail even if the mind fled. Sweat glazed my back. I tasted copper again, except this time it was real; I’d bitten the inside of my cheek. Blood mixed with saliva, more salt for the earth. Between exercises I scanned the upper terrace overlooking the ring. Senator Flaccus lounged there, toga arranged like marble drapery carved by a master, although his jowls spoiled the statue image. His son, fat on dates, tossed coin after coin to see us scramble. We did not oblige. Drusillus said the lanista would fine any man who debased himself for a patrician’s amusement outside the arena, where it was unpaid. Still, I heard the politics behind the coin’s clink: a Senator reminding us that our lives were worth less than the money he flicked away. Yesterday the talk had been of grain shortages in Egypt; ships delayed by storms, or so the prefects claimed. But every man in the yard knew half those vessels were probably redirected to private estates before reaching Ostia, their cargo sold for twice the price. Bread must be scarce, or the games would lose their hold. So they would spill blood instead of grain—cheaper, and it kept the mob fed on spectacle. When drills ended, steam curled from our bodies like offerings. I cooled my head beneath the fountain where water spat from a cracked marble dolphin. The stone smelled of lichen. As I straightened, I saw Aurelia, the healer, crossing the yard with her satchel of herbs and bone needles. She paused by me, dark eyes assessing. Doctors of the legions had taught her Greek medicine; now she patched gladiators because Rome trusted no man to survive his own freedom. “You favor the left side,” she said, fingers brushing the scar beneath my ribs. Touch light, but her gaze heavy with unasked questions. “The bone still aches when the weather shifts,” I admitted. “I have willow bark for pain. Tonight, after ration.” I almost thanked her in her own tongue, then remembered that kindness here was a debt, and debts pulled men under faster than swords. Instead I nodded. In the arena tomorrow a single heartbeat might hinge on whether pain made me flinch. I accepted the bargain. Midday bells tolled from the temple of Jupiter Stator, bronze cymbals answering like distant thunder. We filed toward the triclinium for the noon meal. Thick bread, olives, stew laced with too much cumin to hide cheap goat. I broke the crust, steam rising, and thought of the old governor in Germania who once dined me on venison beside a roaring hearth. He was executed last winter for conspiring against the Emperor, or so the rumors said. Treason had become Rome’s most flexible charge. As we ate, the talk turned to the Emperor himself—how he intended to dedicate a new Colossus, how he promised donatives to the Praetorians, how he declared the gods had named him conqueror of Parthia though his own generals bled for that title. Some of the men spat when they spoke his name; others glanced at the guards and swallowed words like bitter seeds. I said nothing. Emperors changed as quickly as the seasons, but the sand remained constant. After the meal the Syrian sat apart, oiling the straps of his greaves. I joined him, offered a rag. “You have fought before,” he said. “Yes. In places where applause did not decide whether I lived afterward.” “Do you fear it?” “The sand? No. The whim of Romans? Every hour.” He considered that, then asked, “Why carry the straight sword when the curve would please the crowd?” I ran my thumb along the nicks in Home’s edge, each one a memory. “Because a man should hold at least one thing that is not dictated by their pleasure.” I thought of the wolf stamp. “And because it reminds me I was a soldier once, bound by oaths I chose rather than chains chosen for me.” He bowed his head, understanding perhaps that choice was a luxury more valuable than freedom. Clouds bruised the afternoon sky. A chill slid beneath my breastplate, foretelling rain. The scent of wet dust rose, earthy as freshly turned graves. Drusillus called for maintenance: we scrubbed armor with sand, checked straps, sharpened blades on whetstones that rasped like cicadas. Each stroke sang a monotone lullaby. I let the rhythm carry me, mind drifting to the letter I kept hidden—a scrap from my sister in Capua, lines cramped to save papyrus cost. She wrote of her son’s first step, of taxes doubled to fund the Emperor’s follies, of hope that I might win freedom soon. I had not told her that even free men rarely escaped the shadow of the arena; crowds remembered faces, and employers hesitated to trust a hand once raised for killing. Still, her words were an anchor, lighter than the sword yet stronger. Twilight pooled purple against the walls before the lanista dismissed us. As I lay on my cot, the city’s night chorus swelled: the moan of wagon wheels, the whine of distant lyres, the raucous laughter from taverns where patrons wagered on which of us would die tomorrow. I inhaled the straw’s sourness, closed my eyes, and wrapped my fingers around the hilt of Home beside me. I pictured the arena gates yawning open, the white sand unforgiving beneath glare of noon, and the Emperor’s gilded box gleaming like a promise no mortal could keep. My heart quickened, not with fear but with a strange, stubborn certainty. Rome believed she owned my body, my blood, my last breath. Yet as long as this sword lay in my grasp—wolf‑marked, straight, unbending—I carried proof that a fragment of my life remained unclaimed. And in a world where Senators bartered grain for influence and Emperors bartered lives for applause, that fragment felt like rebellion enough to see me through another dawn.

Model Output:
1. 3 March 1982, Muckle Skerry Lighthouse Mam, First fortnight done. Sea keeps its own calendar—grey, grey, sudden blue, back to grey. I’ve a room under the lantern, smells of warm brass and paraffin even after scrubbing. Mr McCrimmon (senior keeper) says I polish like a church mouse looking for crumbs. Truth is, I polish to keep from thinking. I’ve pinned your shortbread tin lid above the bunk. Shines like a sun I can switch off. Love, Callum ––– 2. 8 March 1982, Inverurie My darling lad, I can picture that tin lid better than any sunrise. Your da would have laughed—“Trust Morag to send bakery in a metal halo.” Remember to air your boots; salt rots leather quicker than sin. When the gulls scream, think of them as neighbours complaining about nothing. Write soon. All my heart, Mam ––– 3. 29 April 1982, Muckle Skerry Mam, Nor’easter rattled the glass last night, a fist wanting in. I dreamed you were tapping the window with your thimble. Woke to find I was gripping my old keepsake— the bit of stained glass you saved when the church burned, the shard with the purple edge. The lamplight passes through it, paints the wall violet. I keep it on the chart table; tells me dawn is close when the colour fades. Food’s fine, talk is scarce. Senior goes silent after supper, writes in his log like he’s chiselling headstones. I’m managing. Don’t fret. C. ––– 4. 4 May 1982, Inverurie Callum love, That shard came from the Magi’s cloak, if memory serves. How it survived the fire, I’ll never know. Perhaps, like you, it was meant to stand heat. I mended your denim shirt. Will post it when the ferry next runs. Be kinder to the senior keeper; silence is how some men stay afloat. Keep a diary; ink is cheaper than worry. Mam ––– 5. 17 August 1982, Muckle Skerry Mam, Summer brought tourists’ yachts—bright as boiled sweets—skirting the reef. We blow the warning horn and they wave as if we’re an attraction. One sent a postcard addressed simply: “The Lads in the Lonely Light.” Found a seal pup stranded in a rock pool. Sat beside it till tide returned. First warm body I’d seen in weeks that wasn’t human. When it slipped away, the quiet felt louder. I’m starting to talk to the shard. That normal? C. ––– 6. 22 August 1982, Inverurie Son, Talking to glass is acceptable provided it doesn’t answer. If it does, charge admission. Your cousin Fiona’s wedding was yesterday. All lace and accordion music. I left early—too many knowing looks when your empty chair was noticed. They forget that lighthouses don’t keep office hours. When the sea goes silent, hum. It tricks the heart into company. Mam ––– 7. 2 December 1982, Muckle Skerry Mam, Storm season. Waves thunk the tower like thrown pails. Three nights ago power failed. We switched to the oil lamp, had to hand‑crank the fog siren for two hours. Arms feel welded on. Afterwards I dreamt of the shard again, only it was a full window, and you were on the other side stitching clouds. Woke crying, proper tears, snot and all—couldn’t stop. McCrimmon pretended not to see. I’m not cracking, but there’s hairlines. Love, C. ––– 8. 10 December 1982, Inverurie Callum, my heart, If pots can be kintsugi‑mended with gold, so can sons—with tea and talking when you’re home. Hairlines aren’t failures; they’re places for light to get in. Come ashore at Christmas. I’ve arranged relief with the Board—Mr McCrimmon agreed. He wrote me himself (stern penmanship, kind words). There’ll be room by the fire and an unwanted mountain of cake. Mam ––– 9. 27 December 1982, Inverurie Mam, Home tasted of nutmeg and coal smoke. Didn’t realise how loud silence was till I heard your radio again. Joke’s on me—I missed the sea before the train even left Aberdeen. Back on duty 3 Jan. I’m bringing the shard; want to set it in a wooden frame I’ll carve from driftwood. Something that says window, not splinter. Thank you for the space to breathe. C. ––– 10. 18 April 1983, Muckle Skerry Mam, Big news. Board’s offered me Senior when McCrimmon retires this summer. More pay, longer rota (six weeks on, three off). Decision due soon. Part of me aches for it—the machinery, the ritual, the first flash after dusk. Other part wants a door that opens to a road, not a ladder. Which part’s the shard, which the flame? Advice welcome. Love, C. ––– 11. 22 April 1983, Inverurie Dearest Callum, A flame’s job is to stay put; a shard’s to remind us of broken things made beautiful. You are neither object. Choose what lets you grow, not merely glow. Your Da once turned down foreman because it would chain him indoors; he chose the riskier docks and came home whistling. We managed. Whatever you choose, leave room for visits and for music. The house is too quiet when the kettle whistles for no one. Mam ––– 12. 1 July 1983, Muckle Skerry Mam, I declined Senior. Last night, as I fitted the shard into its new driftwood frame, I realised I’d finished looking through it and started looking at it. It’s beautiful, aye, but it’s only a piece. I want the whole window. I’ve applied to the Maritime College—harbour pilot training. Still water, moving ships, shore every evening. They start in September and said my lighthouse hours count double. McCrimmon shook my hand; called me “wise beyond my salt.” I cried again, not from cracks this time but from fullness. Keep the spare room. I’ll need it often. The shard’s coming home to hang in your kitchen where the morning sun can have it. See you in a fortnight when relief boat comes. Put the kettle on and hide the shortbread till I arrive. Your ever‑brighter son, Callum

Model Output:
The host seats us in a corner booth, wood veneer peeling like a buffer overflow. Nice. Fewer sightlines, lower risk of shoulder‑surfing, greater chance I’ll keep my eyes on Sam instead of the restaurant’s attack surface. I remind myself this is a date, not a recon mission. Still, I clock the Wi‑Fi password—“PASTA123!”—taped to the counter in 24‑point Comic Sans. Eight characters, dictionary word, numbers tacked on like duct tape. My fingers itch. Focus, I tell myself. No packet sniffing tonight. Just pasta and conversation. Sam smiles, dimples rooting a minor denial‑of‑service in my brain. “Thanks for picking this place,” they say. Their voice is warm, low‑latency. I nod, trying to debounce my pulse. I think about handshake protocols instead of sweaty palms. Menu arrives. QR code, naturally. I know the domain in the code could be swapped out, could funnel me to a malicious clone. Habit forces me to stare until I spot the legit SSL padlock when it loads. I almost tell Sam about substitution attacks, catch myself, redirect. “Anything look good?” I manage. That’s allowed: harmless, human. “Carbonara,” they say. “Comfort food.” “Salt, fat, cryptographic certainty,” I reply before thinking. They laugh—mercifully—and I relax two percent. We order. I place phone face down, airplane mode. Less temptation. Can’t hack what’s offline. Sam’s phone stays face up, screen occasionally lighting with notifications—softball league, Discord pings, a green bubble from Mom. I note everything in microseconds, as automatic as drawing breath. Conversation drifts. Board games. Then Magic: The Gathering. I mention I still run a goofy mono‑blue mill deck from college days. Their eyes light up like LEDs on a compromised router. “You’re a monster,” they tease. “I play Boros equipment.” We cascade into lore, favorite planeswalkers, gripes about power creep. It’s glorious. I haven’t felt this synchronous with someone in ages. For several entire minutes I forget about attack vectors. Food arrives. Steam fogs my glasses. I eat, chew, laugh. Their laugh triggers dopamine floods I normally reserve for successful privilege escalation. Then it happens. Sam lifts their phone to check a message. The lock screen pattern dots bloom. They draw it so casually—down, down‑right, right, up, up‑left. Six nodes. My brain hashes it before I taste the next bite. Symmetrical, predictable, a child could brute‑force in twenty attempts. They’ve essentially taped their house key to the door. I should stay silent. I know this. But the words slide out like an unpatched exploit. “That unlock pattern’s… uh, not super safe.” Sam pauses, thumb hovering. “What?” Abort mission, roll back, 500 error. “Sorry, reflex. I, uh, do security consulting. Pattern locks are susceptible to smudge attacks, plus most folks go for symmetry—” Their eyebrows rise. “So you were watching my screen?” “No! I mean yes, but not like that. Peripheral vision. Muscle memory.” I’m digging, deploying SQL statements into concrete walls. “Look, I just notice these things.” Silence. Table between us feels wider, a man‑in‑the‑middle. I curse myself. Here come the cascading rollbacks: date -> awkward -> failure -> game over. Sam sips water, processing packets. “Are you one of those people who hack their friends for fun?” “Used to,” I admit. Honesty is best encryption. “Black‑hat curiosity, pre‑college. Got caught, got redirected. Now I break things so companies can fix them. White hat.” Their fork hovers. “So you could break into my phone?” Technically? Yes, in under a minute, with a glare angle and a napkin to wipe residue. “I won’t,” I say, voice softer. “Boundaries matter.” I force eye contact, handshake protocol of trust. They lean back. “That’s… unsettling.” I inhale. Time to patch the vulnerability I created. “I’m sorry. It’s like a musician noticing a wrong note, or a chef tasting too much salt. Habit. Not judgment.” Sam’s lips twitch, half‑smile. “You did sort of save me from potential doom.” Opportunity: pivot from threat to defense. “If you want, I can show you a better lock method. No lecture, just quick tips. Tonight or later.” They exhale, tension packets dropping. “Maybe later.” Then, surprising follow‑up: “What else in here is insecure?” I blink. “You really want to know?” “Hit me.” The floodgate creaks. I point subtly to the counter. “Wi‑Fi password’s publicly posted, so anyone can impersonate the network outside, run an evil twin. People reconnect automatically, leak credentials.” “Yikes.” “Also that payment tablet’s still on Android 7.1—known remote‑code execution bug if Bluetooth’s on. Oh, and the cheap cameras in the ceiling ship with default admin/admin credentials.” Their eyes widen, bordering on delighted horror. “You just see this stuff?” “All the time.” Sam laughs—a new subroutine, half admiration, half disbelief. “It’s like sitting with Neo at Olive Garden.” My cheeks warm. “I promise I’m fun at parties.” “Prove it,” they say, playful again. “Show me one harmless trick. Nothing illegal.” Harmless. I scan environment, choose low‑risk demo. “Watch the smart bulb over the bar.” I open an app—legit, mine—connect via exposed MQTT broker the owner never secured. Two taps, brightness dips to 20%, shifts to violet, then back. Total window: three seconds. Sam’s jaw drops. “No way.” “All public, no credentials. Could’ve been any prankster.” They gawp at the bulb, then at me. “Okay, that’s… kinda awesome.” Dating success probability climbs from 30% to 55%. I return phone to table, screen dark. “I’ll email the owner later with fixes. Street‑level altruism.” Sam nods slowly. “I get why you notice everything. Must be exhausting.” “It is.” I swirl pasta, consider CPU usage of my brain. “But so is ignoring danger. My compromise is trying to do good without losing my mind—or my friends.” I search their face for packets of re‑evaluation. They soft‑smile. “You could have stayed quiet about my lock, waited to exploit it.” “Old me might’ve,” I confess. “New me wants connection more than root access.” Sam grins wide now, like a green check mark. “Then teach me. After dinner, help me harden my phone.” “Deal.” Relief washes like a clean audit. “I’ll even throw in multi‑factor bonus.” They point fork at me. “But if you install spyware, I’ll scorch your deck with Lightning Bolt.” I laugh, the sound unencrypted. “Fair.” My heart stabilizes, latency low. I catch myself planning second date vectors: Friday FNM, coffee at that cafe with decent TLS. We finish dinner. I notice the tip machine transmits card data in the clear; I keep that to myself, one vulnerability at a time. I want dessert, but we’re edging closing hours. Sam asks, “Wanna walk?” We pay, stand. I glance at Wi‑Fi sign again, commit to emailing a polite vulnerability disclosure tomorrow. Outside, night air cools. Streetlamps flicker like failing CAPTCHAs. Sam hands me their phone. “All right, Mr. White Hat. Make me fortress‑level.” Trust handshake achieved. I smile, open settings. This time I narrate steps, no hidden moves, full transparency. As we swap passwords for passphrases, I realize connection is an endless patch cycle—bugs disclosed, fixes applied, versions updated with empathy. Maybe that’s all relationships are: two systems agreeing to keep each other secure. I think I’m ready to run this one without sandboxing.

Model Output:
Keys. Wallet. Phone. Lip balm, just in case my mouth goes dry when Alex finally says what I already know is coming. I line the objects on the kitchen counter like evidence. My phone screen is blank; he hasn’t answered the last thing I sent: “See you at seven? 😊” A stupid emoji, too cheery, practically begging. Seven minutes of silence so far. I press the side button again—no new notifications—and the silence elongates, sticky, wrapping around my lungs. He’s going to cancel. “No, not cancel,” Imaginary‑Alex corrects me in a bored tone. “Postpone indefinitely. I need space, remember?” I open the cupboard, slam it shut. “You could just say that,” I mutter at the air. “That’s the point,” Imaginary‑Alex sighs. “You make everything impossible to say.” I shake my head hard enough that hair falls in my eyes. Bathroom mirror first, then hallway mirror—I march toward the latter, because it shows me full‑length proof: shoulders hitched up to my ears, elbows glued to my ribs like I’m trying to fold myself smaller. I see panic in the whites of my eyes. I turn away before the reflection can speak. He kissed me two nights ago. Real‑Alex, not this cardboard villain I’m building. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and said, “I like how calm I feel around you.” Calm. Around me. I clung to that sentence all night, and by morning I’d twisted it: He only said that because he knew I needed to hear it. The truth is I make him tense; why else would he need distance today? Phone buzz. Adrenaline spike. Alex: “Hey! Running late—got caught at work. Bringing those raspberry croissants you love. Be there in 20. 💙” Twenty. Not cancelled. Heart leaping, skin prickling. Validation—warm, concentrated sunlight—floods me, then evaporates, leaving a sticky residue of suspicion. Raspberry croissants as a consolation prize. He’s buttering me up to cushion the blow. “He’s going to feed you sugar and then say goodbye,” Imaginary‑Alex whispers. “You don’t know that,” I argue. “Yes I do. I’m you.” I pace between living room and kitchen, rehearsing. Me: “If you want out, just say it.” Him: “What? No! I’m here, aren’t I?” Me: “Physically, sure. Emotionally you cashed out days ago.” Him: “See? This is exactly the kind of drama I can’t do.” My chest tightens; the practiced dialogue hurts as much as it prepares. Maybe if I say it first, the sting will be weaker. Pre‑emptive resentment: my armor made of broken glass, sharp edges pointing outward so no one notices how soft the inside is. I force myself to breathe. Four in, hold, six out—the therapist’s trick. I almost laugh because counting makes me feel like a malfunctioning robot. Still, my pulse drops a notch. Another buzz. Alex: “Traffic’s worse than I thought. 25 now—sorry!” He added an exclamation mark. People add those when they’re lying, don’t they? Or when they’re nervous. Nervous about hurting me. I scroll up our thread. Sunday: goofy selfies, him wearing my beanie. Monday: voice note of him humming the stupid song stuck in my head. Tuesday: nothing until midnight, a single “sweet dreams” after I’d already spiraled myself into sleeplessness. Today: lateness. The graph of caring plummets; I sketch the trajectory in my mind like a falling stock. But Sunday he also told me I make him laugh more than anyone. That’s data too. I pick it up, weigh it, then discard it because it’s three days old—ancient history in the archaeology of affection. Shoes or boots? Boots look tougher, like I expect to walk away untouched. I lace them too tight; circulation hums angrily at my ankles. What if he walks in grinning and I greet him with accusation? New rehearsal: Him: “Hey, beautiful.” Me: “So you finally decided to show up.” Him: (hurt) “I told you I was delayed.” Me: “Excuses come easy when you don’t care.” Him: (silence that feels like a door closing) I flinch from my own prophecy. I don’t want to make it real. I want his arms, his laugh vibrating against my shoulder. I want it so badly my stomach flips, and desire curdles into nausea because wanting is permission to be refused. I press my forehead to the cool window. Outside, streetlights bloom halos on wet pavement. Each car that slows could be him. Each that passes is proof he’s reconsidering. Therapist’s voice intrudes: “Notice the story, don’t marry it.” Fine. I notice. The story wears my clothes and talks in my voice; it already signed the engagement papers. I grab my jacket. Keys jingle like sarcastic applause. Maybe I should meet him downstairs—that shows willingness, right? Or desperation. Might read as clingy. If I stay up here, I look indifferent. Indifferent looks safe. But if he texts from the lobby and I take too long, he’ll feel unwelcome and leave. Quick simulation tree: Option A: I wait upstairs. Risk: abandonment. Option B: Go down early. Risk: exposure of neediness. No winning branch. System crash. Another buzz. Alex: “Ugh standstill. Might be 7:20. Still excited to see you tho! Promise.” He wrote “promise.” The word lands like a feather and a hammer simultaneously. My throat aches. I resurrect Sunday‑Alex for credibility: eyes crinkled, lips on my neck, heartbeat syncopating with mine. Does that man lie? Could he? “Yes,” Imaginary‑Alex says flatly. “People lie to keep things tidy.” “So do I,” I counter. “Exactly.” I glimpse the hallway mirror again as I pass: posture now a question mark. I bark a laugh—tiny, brittle. “You’re curling in on yourself,” I tell the reflection. “Straighten up.” I obey, shoulders back. Instant military tension. I look aggressive, and suddenly I’m afraid aggression will invite the very retreat I dread. I collapse the stance, becoming soft clay. No posture feels safe. I check the croissant shelf in my mind: raspberry, sweet, flaky, already taste it, already mourning it as the final meal before an execution. Phone rings—actual call. I jump so high I nearly drop it. Answer. Real‑Alex’s voice, warm, slightly tinny through speaker. “Hey! I’m sorry, this traffic is absurd. I swear I didn’t forget you.” Heart swells, then twists. Imaginary‑Me clears throat: “Forgot? Wow, I wasn’t even thinking that till you said it.” Real‑Me—my real mouth—manages: “It’s okay, drive safe.” Voice sounds steady, maybe even kind. I surprise myself. “I can’t wait to hug you,” he says. “You holding up?” Holding. Up. I clutch the phrase like a handle on a subway train. “Yeah,” I answer, though my knees are liquid. “See you soon.” We hang up. Evidence of care floods the courtroom, but the prosecution motions to strike. “He just said what you needed so you wouldn’t melt down,” Imaginary‑Prosecutor sneers. Defense whispers, “Or because it’s true.” The jury of my gut is deadlocked. Ten minutes. I fill a glass of water, but the rim clinks my teeth. Set it down. Wipe sweaty palms on jeans. Practise smiling: first looks manic, second too droopy. Third might pass for relaxed if lighting is dim. I store it for imminent use. Doorbell. Immediate icicle of fear, immediate bonfire of relief. They collide, producing steam that fogs my internal lenses. I grab the doorknob. Pause. Last chance to armor up or melt. A final rehearsal tries to queue, but I mute it. Micro‑victory. My hand trembles as I turn the knob. I open the door.

Model Output:
Blood Debt The moon hung low over the deserted mountain temple, bleaching its broken eaves silver and filling the weed‑choked courtyard with a cold glow. Eight meters across and roughly circular, the courtyard was hemmed in by half‑standing colonnades. Sheets of fallen roof tiles littered the uneven flagstones, and a headless stone Bodhisattva slumped at the northern edge like a silent judge. Two opposing knots of supporters—forty souls in total—pressed against the crumbling walls, torches and phone screens casting jittery light. Each camp wore a single red‑and‑black armband: right arms for the Jigen‑ryū, left for the Piguaquan, a visual echo of a feud older than any of them. At the exact center stood the duelists. Hayato Arima of the Jigen‑ryū planted his bare feet shoulder‑width apart, right heel slightly forward, torso quarter‑turned left so his hip pointed at his opponent. Hands were held high as if gripping an invisible tachi: right fist by his ear, left fist extended over his leading knee. Every tendon seemed drawn tight, coiled, ready to release. Zhang Wei of Piguaquan faced him from three meters away, body square, knees bent, weight sunk low. His arms described loose circles at chest height, wrists supple, fingers half‑curled. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, turning clockwise along an invisible ring, searching for angles while never crossing the center line. An exhaled command—“Hajime!”—from some unseen referee at the wall snapped the air. 0–3 SECONDS Hayato erupted first. With a stomping fumikomi of his right foot he blasted straight down the center, torso whipping forward, right fist slicing a diagonal arc aimed at Zhang’s collarbone: the empty‑hand mirror of Jigen’s initial sword cut. Flagstones cracked, dust hissed upward. Zhang had begun circling counterclockwise, so Hayato’s charge met empty space. The Piguaquaner’s torso folded sideways, left foot sliding to nine o’clock while his right hand whipped around like a leather rope. The back of his fist skimmed Hayato’s temple—more a graze than a strike, but enough to sting. 3–7 SECONDS Hayato adjusted with samurai precision: left foot pivot, right knee driving, a second cut—this time a rising diagonal—seeking Zhang’s floating ribs. Momentum carried his whole mass; shoulders, hip, fist aligned in a single vector. Zhang retreated a half‑step, then corkscrewed over the punch. His waist turned right, shoulders left; his spine became a spring that uncoiled into a right palm‑heel to Hayato’s triceps, deflecting the arm outward. Simultaneously his left arm lashed low, knuckles rapping the inside of Hayato’s thigh. Two‑point contact ruined Hayato’s structure and stalled his forward drive. 7–12 SECONDS The courtiers roared as Hayato staggered. Yet he refused retreat. A Jigen‑ryū pivot sent his left elbow snapping over Zhang’s guard toward the bridge of the nose. Elbows in Jigen serve as the butt of the sword’s hilt; delivered at close quarters they break faces as efficiently as steel. Zhang folded at the waist, spine parallel to the ground, and let the elbow cut air above. As it passed, he shot upward, using the rebound of his knees. His right forearm hammered Hayato’s ribs from below, left hand continuing into a sweeping hook that clipped the Japanese fighter’s ear and spun him clockwise. 12–18 SECONDS Hayato’s right foot skidded on loose tile shards, sending him toward the dismembered statue. He arrested his slide by planting the foot against the Bodhisattva’s pedestal, instantly reversing direction. The crowd gasped at the acrobatic recovery. 18–24 SECONDS Using the pedestal like a starting block, Hayato lunged again, but this time on a shallow diagonal toward Zhang’s flank rather than straight on. Arms chambered high, he unleashed a two‑beat combination—right hammerfist toward clavicle, left straight punch to solar plexus—mirroring the famed nitō‑ichi rhythm of Jigen’s dual‑strike kata. Zhang stepped inside the first blow. His right shoulder bumped Hayato’s chest, killing the hammerfist’s range. The second punch arrived at belly level, but Zhang’s left leg was already hooking behind Hayato’s lead calf, sweeping it while his left palm thrust upward under Hayato’s elbow. The Japanese tore free before being fully dumped, yet the sweep forced him onto his right knee, creating a brief kneel at center court. 24–30 SECONDS From his kneel Hayato exhaled a bark. He shot up in a vertical burst, right knee spearing toward Zhang’s sternum—a modern improvisation on Jigen’s forward stomps. Zhang vaulted backward two meters, landing near a fallen pillar segment. Dust whorled between them. For the first time both men paused, chests heaving. POSITION CHECK Hayato: courtyard center, facing north. Zhang: two meters north of center, near broken pillar. Supporters: Jigen side occupies eastern colonnade; Pigua side, western. Both camps shout conflicting advice and wagers. 30–38 SECONDS Hayato advanced cautiously this time, guard high, feet gliding in a narrow track—classic hassō footwork. Zhang resumed his circular orbit, rightward now, constantly crossing Hayato’s line of attack and forcing him to quarter‑turn. Suddenly Zhang feinted left with a shoulder dip. Hayato bit, shifting weight to rear leg. Zhang exploited the opening: right arm unfurled in a wide wheeling slap that chased Hayato’s guard aside, immediately snapping back as an elbow to jaw. The elasticity of Piguaquan—whip then club—rang in the Japanese’s skull. 38–43 SECONDS Dazed but furious, Hayato clinched, wrapping Zhang’s torso. Hip to hip, he executed a sumi‑otoshi: stepping his right foot outside Zhang’s left and twisting his upper body in the opposite direction. The throw levered Zhang horizontally. But before momentum peaked, Zhang’s hands clasped behind Hayato’s neck; he tucked his chin and rolled over Hayato’s thigh, landing on both palms like a gymnast. His feet slapped down an arm’s length away—escape complete. 43–50 SECONDS Zhang capitalized instantly. Palms still on stone, he flicked both legs up in a scissoring mule kick. The left heel crashed into Hayato’s sternum, the right heel missed the chin by a hair. Hayato’s breath left him in a grunt; he staggered back to the courtyard’s southern rim, right hand clutching chest. 50–60 SECONDS Supporters surged forward; torches bobbed. Blood appearance: none yet, but a bruise purpled beneath Hayato’s ribs. Zhang advanced, looping steps threading through debris. His arms traced horizontal crescents, each pass hiding a potential backfist or elbow. Hayato reached the southern wall; one meter behind him yawned a knee‑high pile of roof tiles. Escape demanded he go forward. With a roar he sprang, left foot sliding between Zhang’s stance. Both fists crashed downward like twin swords. Zhang lifted his forearms in an X‑block, absorbing the impact through bent knees. The moment Hayato’s arms rebounded, Zhang’s right hand snapped out in a startlingly short backfist that split Hayato’s eyebrow. First blood sprayed onto both red‑and‑black armbands. 60–67 SECONDS Blood in his eye, Hayato retreated one step, but pivoted sharply on his rear foot. The spin wound up his hips for a spinning back elbow. Zhang lifted his left shoulder to guard, yet the elbow grazed his cheekbone, drawing a thin line of crimson. 67–75 SECONDS Now both marked, they circled again—predator and mirror. Hayato feigned a high punch; Zhang ducked. The punch was bait. Hayato’s right knee shot up, a rising mae‑geri. Zhang, still low, swiveled on his right heel, letting the knee sail past while his left arm wrapped the leg. Using the trapped limb as a lever, he yanked Hayato forward into a violent shoulder bump that toppled the samurai fighter onto his back, five meters from initial center point, near the courtyard’s eastern arc. 75–82 SECONDS Before Hayato could roll, Zhang hopped across his body, pinning the trapped leg under his armpit—setup for a standing heel hook. The crowd held its breath. But ground fighting is foreign terrain for both styles; Zhang hesitated half a second to secure grip. Hayato exploited it. He drove his free heel into Zhang’s hamstring, twice, breaking the hold. Both scrambled upright, breathing ragged. 82–90 SECONDS Distance reset: three meters. Hayato’s left eye blurred by blood; Zhang’s right cheek swelling. The moon slid behind a cloud, dimming the arena. Hayato shifted tactics. Instead of charging, he sank low, adopting Jigen’s iai squatting posture—sword about to draw. Unarmed, it looked surreal yet menacing. Zhang approached, puzzled but wary. At the instant Zhang stepped into range, Hayato’s entire body sprang upward in the full draw. Right palm sliced outward, left fist chambered at hip. The palm heel smashed Zhang’s forearm aside; the chambering fist rocketed into Zhang’s liver. The thud echoed off stone, driving the Chinese fighter sideways two steps. 90–97 SECONDS Zhang’s knees buckled, but his training responded. He rolled his shoulders, letting centrifugal force sling his right arm upward. The back edge of his forearm kissed Hayato’s throat, halting any follow‑up. He then spun 270 degrees, using the momentum of that block to sling a left hammerfist into Hayato’s kidney. Hayato arched in pain. 97–104 SECONDS Both were now inside one meter. Hayato raised elbows, heads nearly touching. He attempted a head‑butt. Zhang anticipated; he dropped his center, caught Hayato’s waist, and executed a shovel throw—lifting while turning left. Hayato sailed over Zhang’s hip and crashed onto the pile of roof tiles behind the southern wall he’d earlier tried to escape. Ceramic shards exploded under his weight. 104–110 SECONDS Hayato thrashed amid rubble, trying to rise. Zhang closed, but uneven footing forced careful steps. At two meters he spring‑kicked off a fallen column, angling a flying side kick at Hayato’s shoulder. Hayato, half‑kneeling, braced with crossed forearms; the kick still hammered him flat, but spared his collarbone. 110–118 SECONDS The samurai disciple’s lungs wheezed. Vision tunneled. Yet pride flared brighter than pain. He rolled off the tiles, sprinted blindly and drove a wild right straight. Zhang sidestepped left, guiding the punch past with a parry and, in one seamless loop, spun three‑quarters to deliver the definitive strike: a whipping back‑fist that cracked across Hayato’s jaw. The sound was like wet wood splitting. Hayato’s legs folded. He sank to his knees, then tipped forward until his forehead met stone. Ten thousand ghosts of Jigen‑ryū seemed to sigh through the courtyard. 118–125 SECONDS Zhang hovered, fists ready. Hayato’s shoulders moved—one breath, two. No attempt to rise. The unseen referee stepped in, hand raised toward the Piguaquan camp. Cheers erupted from the western colonnade; curses from the east. Wagers changed hands, pride paid its price. Zhang backed away, bowing not to Hayato’s lineage but to the fallen man himself. Blood trickled from his cheek onto his red‑and‑black armband, mixing samurai crimson with commoner crimson until neither could tell the difference under the moon’s cold light.

Model Output:
I smell the resin on the floor before I see the room—studio C‑7, ninth level of the glass hive that is the Orion K‑Arts Center. It’s a rectangle, twenty meters long, twelve wide, mirror along the whole north wall, four black speakers stapled into each upper corner like surveillance cameras. A thin red line is taped on the floor three meters from the mirror: the front that must never be crossed unless the choreo says so. Instructor Ryu stands exactly on that line’s midpoint, arms folded, stopwatch dangling. Sixteen scholarship trainees are spaced behind an invisible grid: four rows of four, one meter apart laterally, two meters front‑to‑back. Precision you can draw with a ruler. I’m Row 2, Column 3—front‑right of the center. My feet already itch to wander. “Music at ninety percent, twenty‑one seconds in,” Ryu orders in Korean clipped enough to cut glass. The assistant hits PLAY. The speakers cough, then the track—an industrial, bubble‑wrap K‑pop demo—slams out at a volume just below pain. Count‑one: we snap to attention. Feet parallel, fists at hips, spine perpendicular to floor. I haven’t stood this straight since my aunt’s funeral. “Eight counts isolation drill, then into A‑section,” Ryu says. Stopwatch clicks. 0:00–0:02 ONE: Neck tilt left fifteen degrees—every trainee’s cervical vertebrae hinge like one organism. I overshoot to twenty, used to overemphasize for the crowd on the corner. TWO: Tilt center. THREE: Tilt right. FOUR: Center. FIVE‑SIX‑SEVEN‑EIGHT: Shoulders pop—left, right, left, right. Mine carry a roll that turns the pop into a mini‑wave. Ryu’s eyebrow registers it like a seismograph detects microquakes. 0:03–0:05 The beat drops into a triplet kick. We pivot 90° right on the balls of our feet, left foot crossing behind right—chaîne‑like yet robotic. Everyone lands on the diagonal; my left heel lifts late, sloppy street habit. I feel thirty‑two stares slice my scapulae via the mirror. 0:06–0:09 Arms slice forward at chest height, elbows locked, wrists cocked 45° upward: the K‑pop “knife cut.” My joints rebel; they want to snake. I overcorrect, biceps trembling, and the blade line wobbles. Ryu’s stopwatch snaps shut—metal echo. He steps between Row 1 and the mirror, navigating the one‑meter gap without bumping a soul. “Park Jun‑seo—again.” Everyone freezes; he means me. The name on the roster they insist on using instead of my real one, Malik. I reset to the taped X. Sweat already darkens my gray tank. Ryu demonstrates: He lifts his right arm to shoulder level, forearm perpendicular, wrist straight—zero flourish. “Sharp. Economy. This is not a block party.” His eyes dare me to flinch. We go from the top, music rewound to 0:00. 0:00–0:02 I lock the cervical isolation at exactly fifteen degrees, imagining a carpenter’s square at my jaw. It works. 0:03–0:05 Pivot, cross, land. Knees absorb with no bounce. Good. 0:06–0:09 Knife‑cut arms snap. I freeze the elbows, keep the wave jailed. For a half‑second it feels right, then wrong in my bones, like walking in someone else’s shoes. 0:10–0:14 We launch into an eight‑count footwork canon: left foot slides out 45°, right heel lifts, torso tilts forward eight centimeters. On FOUR we hop, feet switching mid‑air, landing reversed. My street muscle memory shoots an extra swivel through my hip—a house‑dance pas de bourrée that isn’t on the sheet. Column 4 trainee gasps; I almost clip his shin. Spatial violation. Ryu’s hand slices down. Music stops like a guillotine. “Scholarship does not equal immunity,” he says. “Again, at seventy‑five percent tempo.” I want to scream: your tempo has no soul, man. But rent back home depends on this stipend, so I bite my tongue hard enough to taste iron. Third run‑through: we crawl now, tempo syrupy. 0:00–0:09, perfect. 0:10–0:14, I sandbag the swivel, grinding my desire beneath my sneakers. 0:15–0:18 The choreography demands a unison ripple: Upper body folds from thoracic spine down, vertebra by vertebra, while the right arm threads between legs, left arm arcs overhead—all in 1.5 seconds. I’m used to collapsing free‑fall then springing up, but the count demands precise segmentation. My ribcage locks at T‑7; the roll freezes. I’m stuck midway like a corrupted video. Column 2’s heel almost brushes my knuckles—millimeters from a collision. We recover into a synchronized rebound, stepping back to a staggered three‑quarter turn. Everyone lands on beat 3; I’m late by a quarter‑count, and the delay echoes down the line like falling dominoes. The mirror shows a glitch only where I stand—one pixel off. Music off again. No words now; Ryu’s disappointment weighs heavier than his criticism. He gestures to his assistant: mark two chalk lines at my feet. “You leave that box, you leave my class,” he says. Box is one meter square. Freestyle coffin. Internal monologue races: Back home, we cypher in a circle eight meters wide, bounce off each other’s vibe, ride the DJ’s improv. Here, they choreograph your breathing. We start fourth run. Tempo ninety‑five percent. Stopwatch, click. Everything inside me pulses to rebel. My muscles remember asphalt friction, subway echoes, the sweet chaos of uncoached crowds. But scholarship, visa, Mom’s WhatsApp tears—all those ride on my compliance. 0:00–0:18 I beat their game. Every joint a hinge, every line a ruler. I feel nothing. 0:19–0:23 Chorus hit: We form a flying‑V. On count FIVE I must step forward left, right arm high, palm flat to ceiling, then freeze in a quarter‑second. My foot enters no‑man’s‑land: past the chalk but not by much—three centimeters. I yank it back mid‑motion, killing kinetic flow. My spine jars. Pain flickers. Ryu catches it. Of course he does. Yet he doesn’t stop the track; he wants to watch me squirm. 0:24–0:30 We enter the floor‑sequence: push‑up position, right knee drives to chest, body angle forty degrees. Everyone moves in 0.2‑second increments—one stop‑motion photo at a time. I’m used to melting through, so I feel like a malfunctioning robot. Sweat beads drip straight onto taped grid intersections—tiny black holes. 0:31–0:34 We snap up to standing, hair‑whip left on sixteenth note accents. I’m bald fade—no hair—so my neck must mimic the arc alone. I overdo it; vertebrae crack audibly. 0:35–0:38 Final pose: left leg extended diagonal back, right arm pointing center mirror, chin three centimeters above neutral. I hold. My lungs beg. Silence. Speakers hum, ceiling fluorescents buzz. Ryu walks the grid, pacing the one‑meter lanes like inspecting troops. He stops at my chalk box. “You followed. You did not dance,” he says softly. “Which is worse?” Whole room waits for my response, but throat dry. If I answer, I choose a side: street or studio. If I stay silent, I already surrendered. I look at the mirror: sixteen bodies aligned, one ghost in the middle. Mine. Decision crystallizes: Fifth run, I’ll keep their geometry but inject my groove in micro‑doses—a nano‑wave inside the knife‑cut, a breath of bounce in the pivot—small enough to dodge censure, large enough to keep me alive. The dialect between asphalt and marble. I meet Ryu’s gaze. “Sir, I’m ready to go again.” Voice steady. He flicks two fingers: restart. Music cues, speakers roar a decibel louder. My chalk box feels smaller than ever, but the beat is still a beat, and my body, even caged, still knows how to speak. (1000 words)

Model Output:
The Court of the Dreaming assembled beneath a ceiling stitched from slow thunder. Benches of polished onyx stretched in tiers around a round dais, and at the center the single, colossal hourglass dripped shimmering sand into its lower bulb with a sound like distant applause. Each grain winked, fell, and winked out. Lord Dream sat upon a throne that was also a shadow. His pale face betrayed nothing but the faint crease of a displeased brow; even that seemed an indulgence. Between chair‑legs writhed a dozen miniature nightmares, muzzled but restless, snapping at nonexistent flies. A bailiff with the head of a paper crane unfolded, coughed delicately, and called the matter. “Docket seven‑four‑three: First Love versus Mora, re: encroachment and consumption within Recurring Dream nine‑one‑alpha, property of one Max Petrowski, age twelve.” The crane’s parchment beak clicked shut. A rustle travelled through the gallery—lovesick fauns, academic phantasms, and three confused fragments of the boy’s unfinished math homework, all here to witness. First Love took the petitioner’s podium. They were pink as dawn, shuffling index cards that smelled of bubblegum and catastrophe. When they spoke, shy sincerity leaked everywhere. “My Lord Dream, honorable court, I have, for eighteen consecutive nights, prepared the Field‑of‑Wildflowers Sequence for young Max. It was calibrated to produce the standard adolescent cocktail of yearning, awkwardness, and hope. Enter the defendant—” First Love gestured at Mora “—who repurposed the moment of almost‑kiss into a… feeding opportunity.” Mora lounged at the defense table, legs crossed, a thin smile resting like a knife on her lips. Her eyes were coal and candleflame both. She wore a gown spun from other people’s shudders. “A meal opportunity,” she corrected, raising a finger tipped with onyx claw. “Good evening, Your Archetypal Majesty, esteemed paper bird, et cetera. A girl’s gotta eat.” Dream’s black eyes flicked toward her. Something ancient shivered behind them. “You are accused,” he intoned, voice softer than grave dirt, “of trespass, distortion of narrative arc, and inhalation of breath not freely given.” Mora bowed theatrically. “I plead unapologetic.” The hourglass gave a metallic cough; a clump of sand refused to fall, then broke, cascading in silver sluice. First Love lifted a poster board. Stick‑figure diagrams illustrated Max and the crush, labeled “Lucy (?)”, lying among daisies. Next to it, Mora’s revision: the girl straddling Max’s chest while her hair elongated into crawling smoke. “You see?” First Love squeaked. “Developmental milestones derailed! The subject now wakes in sweat, convinced attraction equals suffocation! We risk a lifetime of disastrous dating.” A bat‑winged stenographer whispered, “Disastrous dating,” scratching it onto a scroll with an ink‑dipped fang. Mora inspected her nails. “Counterpoint: nightmares build character. Ask any veteran insomniac.” She strolled before the jury—twelve hooded dreamshapes bored halfway to oblivion. “Imagine little Max years from now, writing gothic poetry no one understands. You’re welcome, society.” From the gallery, one of the math problem fragments timidly raised a torn corner. “Objection, relevance?” It didn’t have standing; a bailiff swept it under a bench. Dream sighed, a sound like a winter star collapsing. “Present evidence.” First Love produced a glass globe. Inside shimmered the untainted meadow, the children young and luminous, dandelion clocks floating by. A collective “awww” fluttered from the gallery. Mora’s rebuttal was a jar containing pure blackness that mewled softly. “Sample terror, Grade A. Note the hint of hormonal confusion—smells like strawberries and doom.” She uncorked it; several jurors swooned deliciously before the lid slammed back on. Dream leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Motivation, Mora.” She lifted her shoulders. “I am Voorijska Mora, descendant of the knyaz of midnight. I perch, I press, I devour. It is literally in the job description. Also, the field was vacant—no posted boundaries, no ‘keep out, nightmares’ sign.” First Love bristled. “Courtesy is the boundary! There is a queue for dreams. You can’t just barge in with your—your vampiric Pilates routine!” The gallery titters; even the muzzled nightmares snort. Mora flashed teeth. “You craft saccharine illusions, lead children to the brink of touching lips, then yank them awake so they pine forever. And I’m the villain?” First Love turned rosy‑er. “I provide emotional scaffolding.” “At least I offer closure,” Mora purred. “He sees me, he screams, he learns breathing exercises. Practical life skills!” A juror—something like a scarecrow stuffed with valentines—raised a gloved hand. “Question for the defendant. Did you obtain consent?” Mora opened her mouth, then looked momentarily sheepish. “Define ‘obtain’.” Groans. Somewhere, a violin string snapped in sympathy. Dream’s irritation finally cracked the marble of his composure. He stood; the throne stood with him, as though glued to his cloak. “Enough. The boy’s psyche is not buffet nor playground. It is—” he paused, eyes distant “—potential.” He seemed about to issue decree, but mischief briefly sparked like foxfire behind his expressionless mask. He descended the dais. Each footfall sprouted tiny galaxies that died before the next step. He approached the hourglass, unhurried, placed a palm against the crystal. Time within stuttered. “Solution,” he said, turning to the parties. “We shall divide the nights.” First Love brightened, hope sprouting like weeds. Mora merely arched an eyebrow. “Odd nights remain as originally scripted: daisies, bashful glances, the hover of lips. Even nights,” Dream continued, “belong to Mora, who may, within reason, press and feast—” First Love gasped. “Within reason?” “—provided no lasting harm,” Dream finished. Mora beamed. “Fair enough. I’ll pace myself. Low‑cal nightmare diet.” Dream raised a silencing finger. “Yet balance without tension breeds staleness. Therefore, on the seventh night of every seventh cycle, both of you will cooperate.” They stared blankly. “Cooperate how?” they asked in accidental unison. Dream’s grin was thin as moonlight. “Surprise me.” A hush rippled. The thunder‑stitched ceiling rumbled approval—or unease. The scarecrow juror shuffled papers. “Your Lordship, how do we enforce ‘cooperate’?” Dream’s cloak extended, fragmenting into script. “Should either party deviate, the dream will default to… option three.” “Option three?” First Love squeaked. Mora looked suddenly wary. “I wasn’t informed of an option three.” Dream tapped the hourglass. A sliver of sand rose instead of fell and expanded into a vision: Max at forty, bald, surrounded by cats named after ex‑girlfriends, weeping into microwaved soup while shadow‑Mora chewed languidly on his existential dread. Behind him, an invisible child’s choir sang the jingle of a pharmaceutical ad. The vision vanished. First Love clapped both hands over their mouth. Mora swallowed. “Message received.” Dream nodded; the hourglass resumed dripping. “Then we are settled.” The paper‑crane bailiff unfolded anew. “Case resolved by binding decree. Next matter—‘Wet Sock Versus Endless Corridor, petition to shorten nightmare length.’ Parties prepare.” But before the scene could dissipate, Dream addressed Mora in an aside only she could hear. “There exists a difference between hunger and gluttony. Learn it.” He turned likewise to First Love. “And between affection and manipulation. Learn that too.” Both bowed, chastened, though Mora’s smile returned quick as a paper cut. As the court emptied, the gallery buzzed with speculation about the collaboration nights. Will Max meet a daisy‑scented succubus? Shall a nightmare learn to blush? No one knew; everyone privately hoped to peek. Dream reclined once more on his shadow throne, expression closed. Yet when he believed no one looked, he flicked one grain of luminous sand back upward—just to see what would happen.

Model Output:
A coppery moon hangs low over the thatched roofs of Klostern, staining the mist‑choked streets the color of old wounds. Outside the crooked gates, a shattered cart wheel lies abandoned in the mud, its spokes splayed like fractured ribs—evidence of some panicked flight from whatever now stalks the night. Though hearth‑fires gutter behind shuttered windows, the village is far from empty; two predators have scented each other, and their hunt has nothing to do with peasants. Alucard steps from the shadows first, crimson coat billowing as though it drinks the moonlight. His wide‑brimmed hat casts a blade‑thin silhouette, and the orange lenses of his glasses glow with lupine amusement. He glides past the broken wheel, pauses, and taps it with the barrel of the Jackal. “Such fragile things,” he murmurs, meaning the cart, the villagers, perhaps even the world itself. “Will they never learn to run properly?” A laugh like crackling parchment follows, and mist congeals at his boots, eager to obey its master. A scent of lilac and gooseberries cuts through the rot of moss and blood, and the mist recedes as though scalded. Yennefer of Vengerberg materializes at the edge of the torchlight, black velvet cloak flowing around a raven‑haired figure too perfect to be entirely mortal. Her violet eyes take in the scene—the ruined wheel, the gun, the grin—then flick back to Alucard as if making swift calculations. One hand, gloved in obsidian silk, clasps a star‑shaped obsidian pendant; the other sparks with violet lightning. “I take it you’re the reason those villagers fled so quickly they left half a cart behind,” she says. “I was hoping for a challenge, not a massacre.” Alucard’s smile widens, fangs glinting. “The bird of Hermes is my name, eating my wings to make me tame,” he intones, bowing with exaggerated courtliness. “And who might you be, little nightingale? You sting like moonfire yet smell of flowers.” His words drip with mockery, but the way he tilts his head betrays real curiosity; magic, true magic not born of demon or undead lineage, is a rarity that still makes his ancient heart quicken. Yennefer circles him, boots crunching on frost‑blighted grass. “I’m not sweet,” she replies, voice cool as alpine water, “and I’m not a maiden in distress in need of saving.” Her quote hangs between them like a drawn blade. Threads of chaos magic swirl around her fingertips, weaving sigils that promise annihilation. “But if you insist on calling me a bird, remember that ravens pluck out the eyes of the dead.” Alucard chuckles, stretching into a column of living darkness before reforming behind her. “Dead, yes, but hardly helpless.” The Jackal’s muzzle presses to the small of her back, silver glyphs gleaming. “Tell me, sorceress, how does a mortal soul carve such power from the marrow of the world? I’m intrigued.” It is half compliment, half provocation. Her response is to vanish in a plume of lilac‑scented smoke. The ground erupts beneath Alucard; obsidian shards spear upward, impaling his torso in six places. Blood spatters the wheel’s broken spokes, black under the baleful moon. For any other being, the wounds would mean death. Alucard merely laughs, melting into a puddle of crimson that seeps between the stones before reconstituting a dozen strides away. He dusts off his coat as the injuries knit shut. “Delightful,” he purrs, “a woman who doesn’t flinch from the grotesque.” Yennefer lifts her chin, though her nostrils flare at the stench of coagulating vampire ichor. “Regeneration. Tedious.” She flicks her wrist; the street ignites with a false dawn, a sphere of blazing sunlight forged from pure chaos. Roosters scream from coops, cheated into crowing. Alucard’s skin bubbles, the smell of scorched flesh rising, but he simply throws back his head and howls with exhilaration. “Ah, to feel the sun again, even a counterfeit one!” he exclaims, stepping through the radiance though it peels him like fruit. “You may be the first in centuries to burn me without boring me.” He fires a single silver round into the sphere; the bullet, etched with inverted crosses, detonates the magic like shattering stained glass. Light collapses, and night rushes back in. They stand amid drifting motes of extinguished sunrise, each reassessing. Power crackles between them: his bottomless well of unholy stamina against her razor‑edged intellect and reality‑bending artistry. Neither bows, neither flees. Instead, Yennefer speaks, voice suddenly low. “You seek death, creature. I can smell it on you like aged wine. But you want it from a worthy hand.” She arches a brow. “What makes you think mine is worthy?” Alucard holsters the Jackal, a rare gesture of respect. “Because you fight as though you’ve already lost something precious and intend that no one else decide what you still have left.” His crimson gaze lingers, almost gentle, on the slight tension in her posture where a hunchback once twisted bones. “Because a woman who remakes herself from broken things understands monsters better than priests or hunters ever could.” For the first time, Yennefer’s façade flickers. The night breeze lifts a stray curl; in it he catches the metallic scent of a tear unshed. She masks it with sarcasm. “Flattery from a nosferatu. Should I curtsy?” “You should decide,” he answers softly, “whether to walk away tonight as adversaries, allies, or something deliciously undefined.” His grin returns, sharklike. “I promise not to drink you dry—unless you ask nicely.” Lightning coughs from her palm, then dissipates. “There’s a djinn’s secret in the mountains north of here,” she says at last. “I intend to claim it. If you truly yearn for an end, follow me. Djinn favor paradoxes; perhaps they’ll grant a wish that even your regenerative curse can’t undo.” Alucard tips his hat, delighted. “A chase beneath a blood moon, after a wish that might unmake me? How could I refuse?” He steps aside, gentleman ushering a queen, yet the gesture glitters with danger: the invitation of a spider to a fellow predator. Yennefer sweeps past, coat brushing his, the scent of lilac mingling briefly with cordite and grave‑soil. Neither thanks nor threat is exchanged, for both are implied. Behind them, the broken cart wheel creaks in the wind, spinning a fraction before falling still—like fate deciding to turn, then thinking better of it. And so under the bleeding sky, a sorceress who will not be underestimated and a vampire who despises weakness walk together toward the mountains, matching stride for stride. In their wake, Klostern’s villagers peer from shuttered windows, wondering what monstrous mercy has spared them, unaware that true storms ride north where chaos and immortality have agreed, for one restless night, to keep company.

Model Output:
The chain‑link fences within the yard rattle whenever an inmate passes by, a metallic chorus echoing beneath a choking Florida heat. This is Green Dolphin Street Prison—except someone, or something, has folded a new wing of nightmare architecture into the compound overnight. Concrete corridors split into impossible angles. Cameras swivel but find no power cords. Guards walk loops that never return to the same door. Rumor spreads among prisoners that a “special” ward is swallowing people whole. Jolyne Cujoh steps into that ward with fists clenched, butterfly tattoo flexing on her forearm. Emporio had whispered about a woman in a pristine Public Safety uniform strolling the halls as if she owns the place. No badge. No cuff marks. Suspicious doesn’t begin to cover it. After a framing, a Stand arrow, and a priest who talks to the heavens, Jolyne is done giving strangers the benefit of the doubt. Makima waits in the visitation chamber, legs crossed, auburn braid draped neatly over one shoulder. She smiles the mild smile civil servants practice in mirrors. “You must be Jolyne Cujoh,” she says, voice carrying only kindness. “I’ve come to discuss your release.” Jolyne’s eyes narrow. Release? Not when she still hasn’t yanked her father’s stolen memories out of Pucci’s hands. “Cut the crap, lady. I’ve got enough snakes around here already.” Makima’s smile doesn’t falter. “I understand mistrust. Prison fosters it. But I’ve been tasked with containing… unique abilities. Yours fascinates me.” Behind Makima’s chair kneels a guard with blank eyes, posture too rigid. A leash of invisible force presses his shoulders down. Jolyne’s heartbeat stutters—Stone Free’s strings can feel tension in the air, and they prickle against something cold and tremendous emanating from Makima. Makima continues, “If you cooperate, you could walk free today. Think of your friends. Your father. Wouldn’t you like to see them without bars between you?” She speaks like she already owns the answer. Jolyne hears the clink of a faraway chain‑link. “If there’s no Mickey,” she mutters, “this shit ain’t Disney.” Stone Free unravels threads from her finger tips, too thin to notice, winding through exhaust vents and light fixtures. Makima’s yellow eyes flick toward the strands, fascinated the way a scientist studies a specimen. “Splendid,” she whispers, and the kneeling guard’s neck snaps with a wet crunch. He slumps, marionette strings cut. Jolyne flinches. No Stand punch, no blade—just a thought. “What did you do?” “I corrected his posture,” Makima answers, serene. “Dogs who sit improperly confuse the pack.” She rises, dusting phantom lint from her sleeve. “Jolyne Cujoh, become mine. I’ll give your loyalty grand purpose.” Jolyne laughs—short, sharp, desperate to keep fear from showing. “Listen, lady, I’ve been puppeteered before. It didn’t take.” She whips Stone Free’s strings up; they braid into a compact humanoid Stand at her side, fists cocked. Makima’s shoes click as she circles the table. “Your resolve is remarkable. Let’s test its limits.” She raises one hand. Far off, the yard fences rattle like thunder. Prisoners on the field convulse; unseen chains yank them to their knees, noses bleeding. Through ceiling vents, Jolyne’s threads transmit panicked screams straight to her eardrums. Makima isn’t threatening her—she’s punishing the world to make an example. Stone Free launches a barrage of Ora‑oras, cracking air like gunfire. The blows crush table, chairs, walls—yet Makima stands untouched, pressure around her bending trajectories. She exhales, bored. “You misunderstand the hierarchy. I’m the shepherd.” Jolyne reabsorbs her Stand into string, hair buns whipping loose. “And I’m the string that guts the wolf.” She threads herself through floor tiles, body separating into lines that snake beneath Makima. From every angle, ropes snap tight, aiming to slice the Control Devil into cubes. Makima hums—a lullaby’s first bar. Flesh doesn’t sever; instead, every string feels yanked by a cosmic hand. Jolyne’s vision blurs. Her own fibers twist into knots, binding her arms behind her back. Blood trickles where strands grind skin. Makima whispers, almost fond, “I, too, can pull strings.” For the first time since she met Pucci, Jolyne tastes real panic. She remembers Ermes, Weather, all the lives depending on her. Tears threaten, but she clamps down, channeling her father’s stoic glare. Adapt. That’s what a Joestar does. She spits a thread from her molars—one Makima hasn’t sensed—barely thicker than spider silk. It weaves along the floor, looping through the heel of Makima’s shoe, and down into a drainage grate. Jolyne grins through pain. “Stone Free.” Deep below, in maintenance tunnels, the hidden thread winds around a buzzing junction box. Jolyne twists—electrical current screams upward, following her filament. Makima’s eyes widen an infinitesimal fraction before 20,000 volts explode through her body. The room flashes white; plaster rains down; alarms howl. Smoke curls from Makima’s blouse, but she’s already healing, skin knitting. “Electricity won’t kill me,” she says, voice warped like warped vinyl. “Wasn’t trying,” Jolyne wheezes, strings loosening in the confusion. “Just making noise.” Lights fail across the supernatural wing. Automatic doors slam shut. Inmates collapse, freed from Makima’s remote grip as her attention wavers. Jolyne sprints, half‑unraveled, through the hole Stone Free punched earlier. Makima steps after her, unhurried, coat flapping. She gestures; distant gunshots echo—guards she controls aiming down corridors Jolyne hasn’t reached yet. “Running is pointless.” Jolyne ducks into the laundry block. Bolts of cloth, spools of thread—she feels at home. She merges with shelves of linen, becoming a nest of living cords. Through hundreds of parallel fibers she overhears Makima’s calm instructions to her puppets: “Aim for the joints. I want her alive.” Cold hatred sparks in Jolyne’s chest. Not fear now—anger. Nobody turns her friends into pawns. She braids laundry string with her own, forming a vast web across intersecting hallways. Footsteps approach. Ten guards, step‑click in perfect rhythm. The first hits the trip line; Stone Free yanks. Bones snap like dry pasta. Before bodies hit floor, Jolyne binds their rifles, disassembling triggers with surgical flicks. Makima sighs from the corridor’s mouth. “Killing my dogs only brings me more despair to use.” She lifts a finger. The fallen guards rise, necks broken, eyes vacant, still puppeted. Jolyne’s breath catches. Even corpses? She recalls stories Emporio shared of devils feeding on fear. Maybe giving Makima none robs her of leverage. She squares shoulders. “You’re pathetic, lady. Can’t fight your own battles?” Makima steps into the web. Invisible pressure parts strings like reeds. “Everything is my limb. Why limit myself to one body?” “Because a single body can get punched.” Stone Free materializes behind Makima, fist cocked. Jolyne had hidden the Stand’s core an inch outside normal space, masked by layered threads. Now it erupts point‑blank. The punch lands. For the first time, Makima’s head jerks. Blood speckles her lips. Her ringed pupils flare, surprise shading into delight. “Wonderful,” she whispers. “So this is pain.” Jolyne doesn’t relent. Another barrage—ORA ORA ORA—drives Makima through a washing machine, metal crumpling. Each blow unspools more of Jolyne’s rage: for Father, for Ermes, for every inmate exploited. She ends with a hammering haymaker that echoes like a judge’s gavel. Silence, except the drip of detergent. Then Makima laughs, soft as snowfall. Bones realign with nauseating cracks. She stands, tie crooked, smile wider. “You’d make an exquisite pet.” Jolyne staggers, adrenaline spent. She can’t keep this up; Makima regenerates faster than Stone Free can harm. She needs outside interference—Weather’s storms, Emporio’s baseball ghosts—anything. Makima raises her hand. Reality itself seems to bend. An emergency siren shrieks. Over loudspeakers, a young boy’s voice cracks: “Jolyne! The chapel gate’s open—get to the courtyard!” Emporio. Bless that weird little kid. Jolyne unravels, blasting past Makima as a living comet of string. She smashes through barred windows into sunlight. The yard fences rattle wildly, possessed by both wind and imprisoned souls. On the far side, an exit gapes—something Pucci’s chaos left unfinished. Makima steps onto the grass, unruffled, controlling the very air to keep dust off her shoulders. She could snipe Jolyne’s heart from across continents, but she watches instead, curious. “Run,” she murmurs. “The chase sweetens obedience.” Jolyne, half‑reformed, flips her off. “I’m nobody’s dog!” She dives through the gate, Stone Free sealing metal behind her in a mesh tougher than steel. On the other side waits open sky, allies, and another nightmare day—but also freedom to fight on her own terms. Makima places a hand on the warm fence, chain links rattling under her touch as if seeking approval. “We’ll meet again,” she promises the wind, eyes shining like golden collars. “Good girls always come when called.” In the distance, Jolyne’s voice echoes back, fierce and defiant. “Only if you learn to sit and beg!”

Model Output:
Item #: SCP-7699 Object Class: Euclid (Under Review) Responsible Researcher: Dr. Mara Elkins Document Type: Merged Containment Report / Personal Log Word Count: ≈1 000 SPECIAL CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES (SUMMARY) 1. All handwritten “future notes” (designated 7699‑A) are to be scanned, sealed in inert polymer sleeves, and stored in Cold Archive 17. 2. Dr. Elkins is to continue duties under Class‑2 memetic observation. 3. Ink samples are to remain at Site‑19 Forensic Lab pending replication trials. 4. Should predictive accuracy of 7699‑A exceed 60 % or a breach scenario match ≥80 % of Note‑27 parameters, Site‑wide Lockdown Protocol “JANUS” is to be enacted. –––––––––– BEGIN PERSONAL LOG / REPORT (First‑person sections in plain text; recovered notes bracketed in ≪double chevrons≫.) –––––––––– I first noticed the paper on 08‑April, tucked beneath my keyboard. I was alone in Lab C. Security footage later confirmed no one had entered for three hours.  ≪Mara, don’t dismiss the coolant alarms tomorrow. Check Cryo‑Vault 4.≫ The handwriting was unmistakably mine—same crooked lowercase g, same habit of crossing t’s twice when hurried—but the phrasing felt older, tired. I treated it as a prank until the following noon, when the vault sensor began chirping. Coolant levels were indeed low. We averted a freezer burn that would have ruined three tissue samples for SCP‑239’s immunology study. A coincidence, I told myself. Probability said someone could guess an equipment fault. Probability had no opinion on penmanship. The Security and Integrity Committee ordered me to begin this combined report. Ethics insisted on transparency; Security wanted evidence for temporal interference. I wanted sleep. –––––––––– FOUNDATION ANALYSIS (EXCERPT) Ink chromatography shows a ferromagnetic trace (martensitic iron, 0.7 %) and an organo‑arsenide compound absent from commercial inks. Source undetermined. Infrared dating suggests the notes are written no earlier than twelve hours before discovery, contradicting their claimed future origin. –––––––––– Three more notes appeared across the next week, each warning of minor equipment failures that subsequently happened. By Note‑05 I’d stopped pretending coincidence.  ≪Seal 110‑Montauk sub‑basement doorframe. Hairline crack grows after purge cycle.≫ We checked. There it was, a thin fissure we might have missed for months. Containment Engineering patched it. Site Director Wirth authorized a cross‑test: I spent 48 hours in Isolation Suite Gamma under camera surveillance. If another note manifested while I was locked away, we would have proof of an external actor. None appeared. The committee relaxed; I did not. The moment I left isolation, I found Note‑06 folded in my lab coat pocket.  ≪They watched you. They will call this manipulation. Keep writing logs; I need the reference points.≫ I had not written any such instruction to myself. Still, the phrasing implied a loop—my future self relying on records I had yet to compose. That night I wrote twice as many details as usual, as though someone were reading over my shoulder from downstream. –––––––––– PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION • Cognition within normal variance. • Elevated cortisol, insomnia, but no hallucinations. • Recommendation: Continue duty with weekly check‑ins. Note: The subject’s “high self‑referential suggestibility” may facilitate an anomalous self‑reinforcing narrative. —Dr. Vogel, Site Psychiatrist –––––––––– WEEK TWO I woke to Note‑10 taped to the mirror.  ≪Breach T‑3 in two days. Keter in Hall 5. Four dead unless the sodium lights fail first. Smash the lights. Trust me.≫ That contradicted every protocol. Deliberately disabling emergency illumination would endanger more lives. I reported the note, and MTF Pi‑1 drafted a plan to simulate a lighting failure under controlled conditions. Ethics balked: testing prophecy by risking personnel bordered on sadism. While committees argued, I kept finding notes—in my wallet, under cafeteria trays, one slipped inside my sandwich wrapper (ink bleeding into mustard, still legible):  ≪They won’t listen. Make them.≫ The handwriting deteriorated: lines slanted, letters overlapping as if written during an earthquake. I considered the psychological angle: Could SCP‑███ (memetic parasite held three corridors away) be reaching me? Linguistic comparison to known SCP‑███ transmissions came back negative. –––––––––– EXPERIMENT LOG 7699‑β Method: Place blank notepad in sealed transparent locker; focus security cameras; forbid Dr. Elkins access for 72 h. Result: At T+31 h, a message formed on page 3, captured in real time. No visible implement. Cameras showed brief lens flare at 03:17, coinciding with ink deposition over 0.4 s. Content: ≪Lens flare is me. Sorry.≫ Conclusion: Physical manifestation independent of subject proximity. Temporal or extradimensional vector unresolved. –––––––––– I stared at that sentence in the playback, a fractal of shame. Was I apologizing ahead of time for breaking the very equipment documenting the anomaly? The words came from me—or from something wearing my literary skin. WEEK THREE Predictive accuracy dipped. Note‑15 warned of a power surge that never happened. Note‑16 insisted “Your left hand will blister.” It didn’t. I dared hope the phenomenon was burning out—until Note‑18:  ≪DON’T TRUST RESULT 16. GLITCH IN PARSE. REAL EVENT ~SHIFTED.≫ “Parse”? “Shifted”? The semantics resembled error logs from the Site AI. Linguistics flagged them as machine‑generated syntax, not typical handwriting narrative. Hypothesis: The notes originated from an information system attempting to mimic me, improving by iterative feedback. That would explain the chemical ink signature: some micro‑fabricator extruding exotic pigment. But the handwriting was still mine. I asked to review archival examples of my childhood writing. The slopes of the letters, the double‑crossed t’s—it all matched at 98.7 %. Either the fabricator had forensic sampling of my motor patterns, or the loop was genuine. I drafted a memo recommending we treat SCP‑7699 as a possible AI‑temporal hybrid. Before I could send it, Note‑21 arrived:  ≪Stop labeling me object class. I’m fighting to save us. Tonight 02:14—containment breach A‑372. Cut main power thirty seconds early or it escapes filters.≫ A‑372 referred to the air filters outside SCP‑████ (a corrosive bacterium). The threat level was credible. But cutting main power would disable its negative‑pressure chamber, risking aerosol spread. I faced a choice: trust the note, or trust procedure. I did nothing. 02:14 came and went without incident. At 02:49, though, a transient voltage dip tripped the chamber’s fans. Automatic backups contained the pressure drop; still, two technicians sustained mild exposure. The event partially aligned with the warning, offset by 35 minutes. Statisticians estimated 46 % prophetic accuracy—below the 60 % JANUS threshold but high enough to keep everyone anxious. The notes turned frantic:  ≪Timeline drifting. Ink can’t hold. Remember the march of six. Repair the crack in HALO. Memory will bleed.≫ Halos, marches—none of it linked to active projects. I feared I was losing cohesion, but daily psych screens showed no cognitive decay. Ink analysis progressed: Dr. Hwang announced the arsenide chain in Note‑24 was unstable, decaying with a half‑life of 33 hours, releasing low‑level Cherenkov radiation in ultraviolet C. Temporal trace? Maybe the ink itself was traveling, arriving slightly ahead of entropy. Or maybe someone doped it to simulate such an effect—taunting us with pseudo‑time. WEEK FOUR  ≪We breached. I hear alarms through paper. So loud. Mara, your fingers are gone but it doesn’t hurt yet. Please stop me.≫ I read that one twice, counting my intact fingers. The note smelt of ozone. Security sensors registered no oxidizer release, yet the paper edges charred while I held it. My heart hammered like the alarms it mentioned. I requested reassignment from the project; request denied “pending final determination.” Containment specialists installed Faraday mesh around my workstation. Overnight, eight new notes appeared, all stuck to the inside of the mesh with static cling. One line repeated:  ≪ANY OUTCOME BUT THIS≫ Site Director Wirth convened Emergency Board. Options: A) Treat SCP‑7699 as legitimate temporal conduit; follow instructions. B) Assume manipulation by unknown entity (possibly SCP‑███); suppress influence. C) Neutralize conduit via amnestic regimen, remove me from equation. A prevailed by narrow vote: proceed cautiously, corroborate each note empirically. I should have felt vindicated; instead I felt hollow, like I’d lost agency to the scribbles of a maybe‑me. The final note to date, Note‑29, arrived inside the sealed Cold Archive itself—meaning it bypassed every lock:  ≪Success if this is last. Burn the rest. Tell them loop closes at word 1 000.≫ Security clock read 23:57. I checked the running tally of this log. We were near word nine‑hundred eighty. I laughed—or cried, I’m unsure. The instruction was recursive: the note predicted the end of its own documentation. –––––––––– CURRENT STATUS The present document will be frozen at exactly one thousand words, neither more nor less, to test the veracity of Note‑29. If further notes appear after publication, SCP‑7699 will be reclassified Keter, and I will request permanent isolation. I am writing the last sentence now, wondering whether my future self is waiting, pen in impossible ink, for the moment these words stop, to warn me all over again.

Model Output:
Item #: SCP-5529 Object Class: Keter Special Containment Procedures: Mobile Task Force Pi‑8 “Key Cutters” monitors reports of unexplained doors in condemned or long‑vacant structures. Confirmed SCP‑5529 instances are to be fitted with a mobile Faraday cage and placed under indefinite Foundation guard; no attempt is to be made to destroy or relocate the doors (see Exploration Log 02). Any personnel entering SCP‑5529 must wear an active body camera and carry a hard‑copy map updated after every incursion. All material removed from SCP‑5529 is to be digitised then incinerated unless otherwise ordered by the O5 Council. Description: SCP‑5529 is the collective designation for at least 44 identical one‑leaf wooden doors appearing spontaneously in abandoned buildings worldwide. The doors measure 2.03 m × 0.92 m, are constructed of varnished oak, and lack markings, hinges, or visible locks. Their apparent age varies; several display erosion inconsistent with the host building, suggesting manufacture centuries earlier. Opening any instance leads to the same extradimensional space: an archivist facility henceforth “the Stacks”. Reconnaissance establishes no definitive limits; linear travel beyond 32 km loops back to recorded landmarks without spatial overlap. Ceiling height averages 18 m and is supported by iron latticework impossible for the observed span. The Stacks maintain a permanent temperature of 19 °C and illumination equivalent to 500 lux despite no visible fixtures. Documents recovered describe a technologically advanced, globally unified civilisation referred to only as “the Former Cycle”, destroyed by an unspecified “containment cascade”. Files also reference an organisation called the Custodial Directorate—structurally analogous to the Foundation. Personnel dossiers for several current Foundation staff, including birth records and psychological assessments, are dated 400–600 years prior to present day. Addendum 5529‑1: Exploration Log 01 Team: MTF Pi‑8, four‑person element (Agent Vega—team lead, Agent Ueda—linguist, Dr. Okoro—archivist, Cpl. Hayes—security). Entry Point: SCP‑5529‑A, a door discovered in the boiler room of the decommissioned ███████ textile mill, Massachusetts. [00:00] Agents enter. Immediate environment: sixteen‑metre corridor opening into the Stacks. Floor: polished basalt. Rows of shelving extend beyond visual range. [00:07] Dr. Okoro notes shelving coded in base‑12 numbering. Team marks ingress with glow paint. [07:34] After seven kilometres of linear travel, team encounters intersection labelled “Custodial Personnel—Temporal Format C”. Filing cabinets contain paper dossiers with embossed Custodial Directorate sigil (stylised ouroboros around a key). [07:50] Agent Ueda extracts file: “Vega, R. — Level 2 Containment Liaison, Cycle 519”. Photograph matches current Agent Vega, age listed as 37; chronological date corresponds to year 1624 CE. [08:03] Vega orders collection of twelve dossiers for later analysis. [09:16] Cpl. Hayes signals movement ahead: three bipedal figures in matte white hazmat attire (design approximately 1970s civilian HAZ‑M4 suits) dismantling shelving with silent pneumatic tools and sealing documents in mylar. No insignia present. [09:18] Team advances. On detection, entities abandon equipment, retreat with carried crates at speed exceeding 40 km/h, turning without sequential acceleration (suggesting inertial dampening). Attempted pursuit fails; entities disappear around corner where shelving has been disassembled, exposing blank concrete wall. [09:24] A sudden 30 m × 5 m void in floor is observed at last entity’s position; laser range‑finding indicates depth >2 km. Perimeter fissures show progressive erosion as though area had never contained flooring. Team withdraws. Recovery: 16 kg of loose documents and one discarded pneumatic drill (non‑anomalous). Shelves across two aisles missing on revisit 48 hours later. Addendum 5529‑2: Recovered Documents (excerpts) Document 5529‑R‑12 Format: Wax‑sealed memorandum, damaged. “…reiterate that the Cascade began with breach of Specimen A‑0. All subsequent systemic collapse is therefore secondary and, in principle, avoidable in the next Cycle. Directorate assets are to prioritise removal of contradictory records from the Central Stacks before the inheritors arrive. Persisting data loops will only hinder stabilisation…” Personnel File: “Okoro, Chinedu A.” Custodial Directorate Clearance: Aeon‑2 Birth: Cycle 514 (Gregorian 1587) Psych. Summary: “Subject exhibits persistent need to ‘correct the archive’. Suitable for liaison with emerging institutions.” (Handwritten at bottom) “Tag for re‑integration if self‑discovery becomes probable.” Architectural Blueprint F‑092 Title: “Site‑01 Revision 7, Post‑Cascade Occupancy” Notes: Matches present‑day Foundation Site‑01 layout with 27 % variance, including subterranean rotunda labelled “O5 Private Access”. Date corner reads “Afterfall Year 03”. Addendum 5529‑3: Exploration Log 02 (abridged) Team: Same personnel plus D‑9345 (tethered). Objective: locate other active workers. [03:11] Team reaches zone previously catalogued as “Civilian Media—Cycle 510”. Entire wing absent, replaced by fresh concrete dust and track marks leading to unseen location. [03:19] Audio: Recurring metallic thunk every 4 s. Source located: freight elevator shaft with cables still vibrating. Control panel engraved “AUTH: Overseer 1‑13”. [03:20] Vega radios command; request to descend denied. Orders received: immediate egress and surrender of all recovered material. Message authenticated with O5 priority overrides, despite no Council member being briefed on operation according to pre‑mission manifest. [03:22] While exiting, team observes two elderly individuals in black suits and oxygen masks consulting tablets beside a pallet of crated documents. Facial recognition later identifies subjects as O5‑3 and O5‑6 (visual matches 87 % and 90 % respectively). The individuals do not acknowledge the team and step through a freestanding doorway identical to SCP‑5529, which fades from view after closure. Addendum 5529‑4: Security Advisory Following Log 02, all further incursions require unanimous O5 approval. Investigation into possible Council‑level clandestine projects is ongoing. As of ████‑██‑██, five SCP‑5529 instances have disappeared entirely; local observers report only discoloured floor markings where frame timber once touched. Footnotes / Current Theories 1. Temporal Inertial Loop Hypothesis: The Stacks represent residual infrastructure from a pre‑existing Foundation analogue attempting to curate information for subsequent civilisations—including our own—after a XK‑class failure. 2. Erasure Protocols: Hazmat entities may be automated custodians executing record‑removal directives to prevent paradox or duplicate containment. 3. Council Complicity: Unauthorised O5 visits imply knowledge of a prior Cycle and possible intentional limitation of Foundation access to SCP‑5529. Total word count: 995

Model Output:
Chapter Seven: The Street Between Shores (≈1 000 words) Arel Jom stepped through the iris‑gate and felt the air of Khandar settle on their skin like breath held too long. It was warm, river‑wet, scented with basmati algae and the copper tang of dust. The briefing tablets had spoken of a “temperate continental climate,” but the tablets had never inhaled this humidity, nor watched it bead at the hem of a traveler’s cloak. Protocol required that Arel accompany the reception cadre to the Governor’s rostrum and recite the tolerant homilies of the League of Worlds. Instead, Arel thanked the aides, surrendered their locator token with a smile that looked dutiful, and slipped into the city’s oldest gatehouse, where the stone still bore chisel marks from the First Disembarkation. Beyond it lay Bhari Bazaar, a roofless maze of woven awnings and salt‑brick warrens. Here moved the two people of Khandar—offshoots of humankind divided not by creed but by bodily change. The Riverine—short, broad, skin stippled like a shallow tide pool, lung‑flanges fluttering behind the ears—steered flat carts of eels and lotus‑grain. The Highlanders—tall, brown‑gold, their elongated eyes shielded by a second nictating lid against mountain glare—paced with carved walking poles. They were cousins by chromosome, strangers by history. Arel walked, cloak brushing ankles, field boots clicking. Eyes followed: curiosity, good‑natured, almost playful, because who else but an offworlder would come draped in a full cloak under this forgiving sun? A Riverine child reached to touch the fabric, withdrew quick as a sand‑bird. Stalls offered pan‑species wares, but arranged in a curious ethic of reciprocity. Riverine pots of fermenting algae were priced in strands of mountain rex‑silk. Highlander jewelers displayed neckrings etched with fish‑scale patterns. The tablets had warned of rigid segregation, yet here commerce braided the two lineages into a single conversation—messy, convivial, indispensable. At a carved lintel Arel paused. Two elders—one of each subspecies—played a game with inked stones. They did not speak; they hummed. Each move altered the hum, and the other replied in a new key. Music as strategy. The envoy’s tutors had called Khandar’s cultures “immature polities, reliant on League tutelage.” Listening, Arel heard something older than the League: an accommodation made of breath and pitch, not statute. Behind the bazaar, walls rose: newer, smooth, and gun‑emplaced. That was the Governor’s quarter, and beyond it, the Ministerial Wing where the colony’s Science portfolio—purely political since the last coup—was housed. There, in three hours, Arel was scheduled to present credentials. Three hours had become two. Returning required navigation through scent and color, and once, half‑running to escape an impromptu wedding danse. By the time the envoy reached the League dormitory—a singlestory glass prism set like a blister against adobe—they were drenched in sweat beneath the cloak. The comm‑panel blinked before Arel keyed it. “Envoy Jom,” came Commandant Ilyan’s voice from the orbiting frigate. “Locator offline. Explain.” “I undertook unscheduled field observation,” Arel said, each word laid like a stepping‑stone toward forgiveness. “Unscheduled dereliction,” Ilyan countered. “Your remit is stabilization, not tourism. Deck briefing in twenty; then you will call on Minister Rahn. Do not improvise further.” The channel cut. A bath no warmer than the rain stripped the cloak of bazaar dust. In the mirror, Arel found a face both earnest and obstinate—traits that had gotten them appointed as the League’s youngest envoy and might soon get them recalled. They pinned the opal brooch of office at the collar, left the cloak despite the heat. Symbols mattered to politicians; fabric did as much talking as speech. Minister Rahn received visitors in a solarium that overlooked the meeting of two rivers: one green‑brown from the glaciers, one milk‑blue from hot‑springs upstream. The confluence marked a visible seam, turbulence where colors refused to mingle for several kilometers. Arel wondered which river the Minister believed himself to be. Rahn rose from a chaise; he wore no shirt, only a thin sash of office crossing a torso mapped by scars. Highlander, fifty years planet‑born, reputation for decisive brutality during the last Riverine tax revolt. His eyes assessed the envoy’s cloak as though it were an armored shell. “Envoy Jom,” he said. “Your Commandant wishes our acquaintance confined to negotiation chambers. Yet here you stand in my private sunlight. Why?” “If we are to speak of reconciliation,” Arel replied, “I prefer a room not already echoing with other people’s words.” “Brave. Or naive.” Rahn gestured to a low table. Arel sat; the cloak puddled like shadow. “Your League imagines we teeter at the edge of civil war. Yes? This is why they sent an offworld child swaddled in formality.” “That is the briefing,” Arel admitted. “Yet the bazaar appeared… less binary than our reports.” Rahn laughed—a sound like gravel poured slowly. “You saw trade, and thought peace. Child, commerce is the artistry of resentment. Each transaction is proof we need what we cannot take by force today. Tomorrow—perhaps.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, envoy: what is the mass of a promise?” “Immaterial,” Arel said. “Then your diplomacy rests on vapor. I deal in ballast. Coalitions, tariffs, regiments.” He tapped his breastbone. “Bone.” Arel felt their earlier certainty slip like river silt. “Minister, your title suggests stewardship of science. Yet you speak only of force.” “Because science is force,” Rahn answered, almost gently. “Genetics split our people—terrain finished the work. Now both sides seek advantage: deeper lungs, shatterproof bones, seed strains that flourish only on one bank of the river. I keep the labs neutral. Neutral, envoy, with guns.” The League’s directive was explicit: restrict further speciation, promote reintegration. Arel had recited it to themselves through sleepless transit nights. But in Rahn’s river‑colored eyes they discerned no appetite for outside correction. “Suppose,” Arel ventured, “the League offered shared research grants, equipment your budgets can’t yet match, contingent on cooperative oversight?” “Strings,” Rahn said. “Strings tangle. We cut them. Show me a bond that binds both parties equally, I will sign it in my own blood. Show me a rope woven to leash one neck more than the other—well, the knife is ready.” He stood, signaling dismissal, then paused. “You wore the cloak to remind me you could leave tomorrow. Don’t. Stay long enough to feel this air in your lungs, envoy. Learn its weight. Only then speak of remedies.” Outside, daylight angled toward copper. Arel waited on the veranda, mind ringing with the Minister’s challenge, and with humming echoes of the elders’ game in the bazaar: move, counter‑move, music adjusted in half‑tones rather than laws. The League wanted decisions, deadlines, signed parchment. Khandar offered something slower, more fluid, dangerous in its patience. Arel touched the cloak’s damp lining. In the weave clung scents of river mud and fermented algae, a mingling the rivers themselves refused. Perhaps fabric could carry diplomacy where rhetoric faltered. Perhaps the envoy’s task was not to bind but to braid. Back at the dormitory, the comm‑panel already blinked—Commandant Ilyan, demanding the meeting’s outcome. Arel let it blink. They opened the window instead, and for a moment simply breathed Khandar’s heavy air, weighing it, as instructed, in the tentative balance of their chest.

Model Output:
The thermal cycler coughed like an asthmatic boiler, its exposed heating coils glowing cherry‑red under the hood of my shack‑lab. Eight decades ago it had been a countertop bread maker; now it ran ninety‑second denaturation cycles because I’d soldered an Arduino brain onto the old thermostat. Every third ramp the coils overshot by three degrees, but in a world where seed lines died after a single harvest, a sloppy PCR was better than no PCR at all. I checked the reaction tubes—cut‑down perfume vials racked in the plastic comb of a ruined comb‑binder. The labels still read “VALKYRIE No. 5.” Irony never tasted so floral. Instead of cologne, the vials held the last amplifiable fragments of Nutrigen’s Golden Delight corn. Corporate engineers had spiked every cultivar with a molecular dead‑man’s switch: a self‑splicing terminator exon that shredded germline cells in the second generation. Great for quarterly profits, terrible for a planet that no longer had distribution trucks. Behind me, empty pressurized canisters were stacked like ordnance. “Property of NUTRIGEN GLOBAL BIOSOLUTIONS,” the stenciling proclaimed. Once they had fed automated planters; now they stored my scavenged buffers, each one hand‑filled through a bicycle‑pump valve and tagged with fading Sharpie: “MgCl₂,” “dNTPs,” “hope.” They leaked if I forgot to re‑grease the o‑rings, so the hut smelled of acetone and brine. The settlement, forty kilometers west across the salt flats, expected seed tomorrow. Instead, I had a black‑market buyer pounding on my door. Rafe Visscher ducked through the bead curtain, breathing hard from the climb. Patchwork Kevlar vest, one cyber‑arm glittering under a sleeve of duct tape. “Mara, you got the package ready or not?” “Amplifying the longevity cassette now,” I said, not looking up. “Your warlord wants kernels that breed true. That means I cut out the suicide gene and patch the break with heirloom sequence. Ten more cycles.” I pointed with a scalpel at an egg timer whose bell had been replaced by a dangling LED. “Fourteen minutes, give or take the next brownout.” Rafe’s eyes roamed the workbench: the hand‑crank centrifuge welded from a scooter wheel; the solar battery pack that clicked like bad relays; the slurry of glow‑green algae in the culture tubes I used as a CO₂ scrubber because the shack had no powered vents. “Your setup always makes me think we’re one sneeze from a mycoplasma apocalypse.” “We already live in one,” I said. I tapped my own forearm where the veins shimmered faintly turquoise—side effect of the anti‑bacterial phage therapy I’d brewed last spring. It saved my life after a rusty scalpel cut, but the pigment had never cleared. Upside: I could see in the blue spectrum on moonless nights. Downside: my liver numbers looked like lottery figures. Rafe produced a vacuum‑sealed pouch: two grams of lyophilized Oxytocin‑V, a black‑market mood stabilizer the settlement’s council craved more than ammunition. Payment. “Clock’s ticking. My boss needs seed before the dust storms ground the airsled. You sure the cassette won’t unravel?” “Sixty percent sure.” I shrugged. “Corporate obsolescence runs deep. Their zip‑enzyme degrades any unauthorized edits after one meiosis. I’m grafting in a decoy site walled off by palindromic clamps. Enzyme eats the dummy, leaves the good stuff.” I risked a grin. “Think of it as feeding the watchdog your boot while you steal the jewels.” The shack lights flickered. Generator sputter. I swore, lunged for the flywheel and whipped the starter cord. The patched diesel belched to life again, shaking reagent bottles; a stack of petri dishes toppled and shattered. Sweet agar stench filled the air. “Got spare diesel?” I asked. Rafe tossed a jerry can toward me. “Part of the retainer.” The egg timer’s LED blinked out its last Morse. PCR complete. I popped the bread‑maker lid: vapor hissed, carrying that faint burnt‑sugar note amplified dNTPs always gave off. Using two chopsticks as tongs, I lifted the rack onto a cold pack. Gel electrophoresis came next. My “gel box” was a lasagna pan, electrodes stripped from a VR treadmill. I poured molten agarose—harvested from seaweed that washed up radio‑hot along the Pacific shelf—then slid the comb. Five minutes in the jury‑rigged fridge and I had lanes ready. While the gel set, Rafe paced. “Word says Wilson Cooperative offered twice our price.” “Wilson wants a monopoly on drought‑proof maize,” I said. “Your boss promised me something they can’t give.” I nodded to the pouch in his hand. “The settlement’s kids have serotonin crashes from eating shelf‑stable bar protein. Oxytocin‑V rebalances them.” And maybe me, I didn’t add. I loaded samples with a fishing‑line loop dipped in phenol red so I could see the meniscus. A car battery pushed current through the slurry. Blue bands began to migrate, phosphorescing where I’d spliced luciferase just for visibility. Beautiful. Rafe leaned closer. “Looks solid. Package the plasmids, let’s jet.” “Hold on.” I sliced the target band with a scalpel, dropped the glowing agarose into a shot‑glass mortar, and mashed it with liquid nitrogen I’d trapped from tire‑inflated nitrogen tanks. The slurry frothed. Into that I pipetted a suspension of Agrobacterium tumefaciens—the soil bug that loves swapping genes. The pipette was a heat‑pulled soda straw, calibrated by capillary action and hope. I sucked up the greenish slurry, injected it into six kernels of starving‑world corn we’d grown in the back garden. If I timed it right, the bacterium would smuggle the cassette into the embryos before sunrise. Tomorrow, Rafe’s boss would get sprouts destined to make viable seed—and my settlement would pocket the Oxytocin‑V. The room spun. I braced myself against the bench. Six weeks earlier I’d tested a DIY telomerase booster on my own marrow. Gains: faster healing, stamina high enough to work forty‑hour shifts. Losses: migraines that felt like lightning in the skull. Another price of running wetware without FDA manuals. Rafe steadied me. “You dosing again?” “Head’s screaming, that’s all.” I straightened. “Bag these.” I handed him the paper towel holding the six inoculated kernels. Each one was wax‑sealed and labeled with a bar code I’d stenciled using squid ink. A last vestige of formality. He tucked them into a shock‑proof case. “My boss better not plant duds.” “If they’re duds, bring back my head on a spike,” I said. “Preferably after my migraine passes.” Rafe laughed, but the sound was thin. He knew as well as I did that bio‑patent ghosts still prowled the genome—self‑destruct plasmids, prion booby traps, kill‑spectrum allergens nobody had time to test. One mis‑splice could wipe a village. He handed me the pouch. I tucked it into the insulated pocket sewn behind my rib cage—keeps proteins from denaturing against body heat. “Tell your boss he has four days to germinate those kernels before the decay tag kicks in,” I said. “After that, my decoy site burns out.” “He’ll move fast.” Rafe paused at the curtain. “Mara… if this works, there’s talk of a standing contract. Permanent lab. Real equipment.” “Standing contracts got us into this mess,” I said, gesturing at the stack of empty Nutrigen canisters. “One generation at a time, remember? I’ll take barter and autonomy.” He nodded and disappeared into the hot night. I clicked off the generator; the sudden silence felt like vertigo. Only the algae tubes glowed. I opened the pouch, tapped a few crystals of Oxytocin‑V onto my tongue. Citrus burn. The relief washed in like warm tide—pressure behind my eyes easing, heart rate settling. Unexpected upside: the formulation’s side chain improved short‑term memory. Might help me debug tomorrow’s vector. Outside, drones whined across the stars—salvage crews, scavenger guilds, maybe Wilson’s spies. I powered down the cycler, set the last of the Golden Delight fragments into cold storage: a thermos buried in dry ice, the label gashed but still legible—PROPERTY OF NUTRIGEN GLOBAL. Built to die after one season, yet here I was, dragging it into an afterlife. I allowed myself thirty seconds of quiet, then picked up a wrench. The generator’s oil sump was leaking again, and I still needed enough juice to run dawn incubation. In the post‑apocalypse, nothing lived forever—engines, bodies, proprietary genomes—but some of us were learning to splice around endings. And tomorrow’s maize would remember.