Sample Outputs: optimus-alpha

Model Output:
Arthur Neegan sat rigid in his seat, his hands folded with unnatural precision atop his lap. He kept tugging at the collar of the starched shirt—white, synthetic, and just a little too tight. The transfer vessel purred quietly, its magnetic bearings smoothing out the usual jostle of atmospheric ascent. The viewports flashed with the ochre and rust-red of the Martian dawn, soon replaced by the infinite black of space and the cold, distant shimmer of Phobos. A pair of Antares men—broad-shouldered, identically clean-shaven, their uniforms a deep blue with the twin-tailed comet insignia—sat across from him. They called themselves diplomats, but their hands never strayed far from their sidearms. Their politeness was brittle, rehearsed. Arthur’s mind wandered to his claim. The Azra vein beneath his home had lain undiscovered for years, deep in the regolith, until a misreading on a gravimeter survey had led him to dig deeper, quite literally. Now, the mining corporation’s representatives, colonial officials, and—apparently—interstellar dignitaries all wanted a piece. He’d barely had time to read the latest scientific papers on Azra, let alone prepare for... whatever this was. A soft chime. The vessel shuddered as magnetic clamps bit home. One of the Antares men gestured. “We’ve arrived, Mr. Neegan. If you’ll follow us, please.” The airlock cycled, and Arthur stepped into a corridor lined with pale blue panels, their sheen interrupted by the Antares crest every few meters. The space station was more spartan than he’d imagined—functional, but not unfriendly. The air smelled faintly of ozone and recycled oxygen. They guided him to a small conference room. A single table, brushed steel, sat beneath a bank of aged fluorescents. The walls were hung with antique star charts, their constellations rendered in golden thread. At the far end of the table stood a woman—mid-forties, sharp-eyed, her black hair pulled into a severe knot. Her uniform bore the insignia of the Antares Diplomatic Corps, but her bearing was unmistakably military. “Arthur Neegan,” she said, her accent crisp, vowels clipped. “I am Envoy-Legate Mira Salin. Please, sit.” Arthur obeyed, feeling the weight of the room—of history, perhaps, or simply the pressure of too many eyes on him. Mira waited until the Antares men had retreated to the corners, silent sentinels. “Do you know why you’re here?” Arthur hesitated. “I... assume it’s about my claim. The Azra deposit.” “Quite. You are in possession of the largest known terrestrial vein of Azra. That is not a coincidence, I assure you.” She folded her hands, fingertips touching. “You might not realize it, but you are now a person of extraordinary interest to several parties—none of them particularly patient.” Arthur licked his lips. “I’m a miner. An engineer. I just found a lode and registered it, according to colonial law. I didn’t—” She waved a hand. “Law is a flexible thing, Mr. Neegan. Especially here, at the edge of empire. Azra changes the calculus. For propulsion, for power. For weapons.” Her gaze sharpened. “You understand the theory, yes?” He nodded. “Azra catalyzes radioactive decay. Turn a kilogram of lead into energy in hours, not centuries. Drives as powerful as antimatter, without the containment headaches. Or bombs that make fission look like firecrackers.” She smiled, thinly. “You see why we’re concerned.” Arthur looked down at his hands. “I suppose you’re offering to buy me out.” A chuckle flickered in her throat. “So practical. But this is not a simple transaction, Arthur—may I call you Arthur? We are here to make an arrangement.” She leaned forward. “Antares is prepared to guarantee your safety—and the safety of your claim. In exchange, we want exclusive access to the vein. You’ll retain the nominal rights, of course. But the extraction, the refining, the shipping—all will be overseen by our people.” Arthur frowned. “And if I refuse?” The room cooled perceptibly. Mira’s smile vanished. “Let us not be melodramatic. We’re not in the business of coercion, Mr. Neegan—at least, not when diplomacy will suffice. But you must understand: your claim is now a strategic asset. If Antares does not secure it, someone else will. The corporations are ruthless. The Colonial Authority is torn by internal factions. Even the Martian Home Rule movement would kill to control Azra. We, at least, offer you protection—and a share of the profits far greater than what the corporations will allow.” Arthur’s mind raced. “And what about the science? The truth about Azra? I’ve read the preliminary studies—no one understands why it behaves the way it does. If you wall it off, we may never know.” She regarded him with something like respect. “You’re a scientist at heart. Good. We have our own researchers, of course, and you would have access to all findings. But national security comes first. The universe is not a safe place, Arthur. Azra is an accelerant—of progress, and of destruction.” He felt the weight of her words. “What if I want to keep it open—ensure all humanity benefits? Publish the findings, share the resource.” Mira gave a small, sad shake of her head. “That era ended when the first atomic bomb fell, Mr. Neegan. Idealism is a luxury. We can give you a seat at the table. Or you can be swept aside by history.” Arthur glanced at the men in the corners. Their faces were impassive, but their hands remained poised. The room seemed to constrict around him, the star charts on the wall suddenly maps of battle lines, not constellations. “And if I accept?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Antares will ensure your safety. You’ll be wealthy, influential. A partner in the greatest technological leap since the fusion torch. Or—” she paused, eyes cold “—you can gamble with forces far beyond your control. The choice is yours.” Arthur sat back, feeling the pull of tides vaster than any Martian sea. He looked out the viewport at the distant, red-tinged curve of Mars. Somewhere down there, his claim waited—a fulcrum on which the fate of worlds might turn. He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d dug too deep.

Model Output:
The safelight always makes people look a little otherworldly, but with Elliot, it’s something more. The red glow softens the sharpness of his jaw, turns the black of his thrifted mesh shirt into a dusky shadow over his pale skin. He’s silent, hands steady as he slides a photo into the developer tray. The chemical smell wraps around us—a peculiar intimacy, like we’re underwater together, just us, everything else muffled. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. The only world I want is this one. He glances at me, eyes catching the light. “You ever think about how old-school this is?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a slyness underneath. “Like, we could just be in Photoshop.” I grin, letting my own bravado slip in. “Where’s the fun in that? I like getting my hands dirty.” I flex my fingers, stained with chemicals. “Feels more real.” He smiles, a flicker, then looks back down, watching the image swim up through the liquid. I want to say something else, something clever, but the words tangle behind my teeth. For once, I’m not sure how to be—the leader, the confident one, the girl who always knows what she wants. This semester, Elliot’s been a puzzle I can’t stop turning over. I’m used to being drawn to swagger, to sharp lines and defined edges. But he’s all soft, unassuming movement, layered rings and chipped nail polish, the kind of boy who doesn’t fill up a room so much as quietly rearrange the air. The first week, I caught myself staring at the way he’d twist a silver chain around his finger while Professor Lang talked about semiotics. I think he caught me once, too. Now, in the hush of the darkroom, our project is an excuse for proximity. I want to touch him, but I want him to want that, too. I want to protect him, but I don’t want to smother him. There’s a line here I’m trying desperately not to cross. He clears his throat, fingers fiddling with the edge of the tray. “Can I ask you something?” His voice is careful, and I can tell he’s been working up to this. I nod, rough, before I can overthink it. “Yeah. Anything.” He’s quiet for a second. “Have you ever… felt like you didn’t fit in your own skin?” He doesn’t look at me, just at the photo developing between us. “Like, you’re performing something that doesn’t quite match up with what’s underneath.” I exhale, slow. My usual impulse is to fill empty space, smooth over awkwardness with jokes or bravado. Now, I hold the silence, let him have it. “Yeah,” I say. “All the time.” I meet his eyes. “But I always figured it was because I was too much for everyone else.” He laughs, soft, a little sad. “You’re not too much.” I shrug, but my cheeks heat. “Maybe not for you.” We stand in the hum of the ventilation, the red light making everything feel suspended. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this honest, this unguarded, with anyone I’ve wanted. He turns, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “I’ve been… thinking about gender stuff. A lot.” He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Like, I know I’m not a girl, but sometimes I don’t feel like I’m a real guy, either. Or the kind of guy people expect.” I swallow. My heart stutters in my chest—equal parts excitement and terror, for him and for me. I want to reach out, but don’t. He glances up, searching my face. “Does that make sense?” “Yeah.” I step closer, voice gentler. “It makes sense. I think it’s brave. Letting yourself change.” He gives me a look, half-grateful, half-wary. “I’m scared people won’t… see me. Or they’ll see me and get it wrong.” I want to say, not me, I see you, but it feels too heavy, too soon. Instead, I ask, “What do you want people to see?” He hesitates, then: “I want to be a boy. But on my own terms. I like painting my nails, and wearing skirts sometimes, but I want people to call me ‘he.’ I want to be soft, but still… a guy.” I nod, feeling something in my chest loosen and shift. “That sounds good to me.” He searches my face again, like he’s looking for a catch. “Even if it’s confusing?” I laugh, shaking my head. “You think I have it all figured out? I mean—” I gesture to myself, the bold lipstick, the combat boots, the mess of jewelry. “I’ve always liked guys who are… sure of themselves. But you—” My voice falters. “You make me want to figure out what else I could want. Who else I could be.” He’s blushing now, but he doesn’t look away. “So… you don’t mind?” I shake my head. “No. I don’t mind. I like you. The you that’s still figuring things out. The you who laughs at my stupid jokes.” I bite my lip. “The you in front of me right now.” He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “I like you too. Even though you scare me a little.” I laugh, the tension breaking. “Good. I kind of like that.” He grins, and for a second, the room is just light and warmth and possibility. I want to reach out, touch his hand, but I remind myself: let him lead, just this once. Give him the space to decide. My whole life, I’ve been the one to make the first move, to set the terms. But with Elliot, I want him to have his own agency—to see himself the way he wants to be seen. There’s an awkward pause, but it’s the good kind. He shifts closer, until our shoulders brush. I feel the contact everywhere. “Is this okay?” he asks. I nod, heart thudding. “Yeah. More than okay.” He smiles, tentative but real, and I think maybe I’ve never wanted anyone so badly, not just for who they are, but for who they’re becoming. My phone buzzes again, insistent. But I don’t look. I’m exactly where I want to be—here, in the half-light, with him. Waiting to see what we turn into next.

Model Output:
**Stolen Moments in Roma** --- *Scene 1: Collision at the Trevi* Ben’s shoes squelched as he sidestepped a puddle. Rome in June was supposed to be dry, but the cobblestones still glimmered with last night’s rain, and the air buzzed with a thousand languages. He was so intent on deciphering the next paragraph in his dog-eared *Blue Guide to Rome* that he didn’t notice the flash of scarlet weaving through the crowd—until the world exploded in a screech of brakes and a blur of movement. “Cazzo!” Alessandra spat, yanking her Vespa to a halt inches from Ben’s knees. Her black curls blazed around her helmet; her mouth was all exclamation point. “Ehi, sei cieco? You want to die on vacation?” Ben’s guidebook tumbled to the ground. “I—I’m so sorry! Mi dispiace!” He held up his hands, palms open, as if he could ward off further disaster. “I didn’t see—” She rolled her eyes, dismounting with the grace of a cat. “Of course you don’t see, you walk like you own the street. English, sì?” He colored. “Yes. I mean—yes, I am. British. Sorry, again, I—” She bent to retrieve his book, flipping it open and arching an eyebrow at the underlined passage about Baroque sculpture. “You come to Rome for statues? No wonder you almost get killed.” Ben managed a weak smile. “I suppose I’m not very streetwise.” “No, but you are lucky.” She offered the book back, her fingers lingering on the cover. There was a glint in her eye—mischievous, assessing. “You need a real tour. Not this.” She tapped the guidebook. “Come on, professore. Show you the city before you get run over for real.” He blinked, caught in her slipstream. “I—well—I suppose I could use a break…” “Ben,” he stammered, as she began to lead him away. “My name is Ben.” “Alessandra,” she tossed over her shoulder, already grinning. “Try to keep up, Ben.” --- *Scene 2: Piazza di Pietra, Espresso on the Run* Alessandra moved through the city as if it were an extension of her own body—skirting traffic, ducking through alleys, stopping only to gesture grandly at some monument or graffiti. Ben trailed behind, oddly exhilarated. At a tiny kiosk, she ordered two espressos with a torrent of rapid Italian. “Sugar?” she asked, thrusting a cup into his hand. “Er—yes, please. Thank you.” She winked. “In Rome, we drink fast. Like life. Salute!” He burned his tongue, sputtered, and she laughed—a bright, delighted sound. “You English, you sip everything, even adventure.” Ben shrugged, sheepish. “We’re cautious.” “Maybe too cautious.” Her gaze flicked to a tray of biscotti resting behind the counter. In a flash, her hand darted out, and she slipped a cookie into her pocket. Ben blinked, unsure if he’d imagined it—the vendor was already pouring another coffee, oblivious. Alessandra caught his look and grinned, crumbs at the corner of her mouth. “Sometimes you must take what you want, no?” --- *Scene 3: The Spanish Steps—Rules and Rebellion* At the foot of the Spanish Steps, tourists posed and pouted, selfie sticks raised like antennae. Alessandra sized up the crowd. “Vieni,” she whispered, grabbing Ben’s wrist. “Let’s go.” “We’re not supposed to sit,” Ben protested, eyeing the uniformed officers at the top. Alessandra rolled her eyes. “Rules are just suggestions. Besides, we’re not sitting.” She pulled him up, weaving through clusters of visitors, until they reached a landing. She pointed. “See that little church? Trinità dei Monti. My father used to bring me here after school, said one day I’d fly higher than all of Rome.” Ben glanced at her, surprised by the softness in her voice. “Did you?” She grinned, the moment gone. “Still trying. You? What brings you here, professore?” He hesitated, then: “I needed a change. London was…predictable. I wanted to get lost.” She laughed. “Be careful—Rome is a labyrinth. Easy to get lost, hard to want to leave.” He found himself unable to look away from her. “I’m starting to see that.” --- *Scene 4: Il Mercato, Temptations* They wandered through a bustling street market, Alessandra slipping between stalls with practiced ease. She haggled for cherries, sampled cheese, flirted shamelessly with the fishmonger. Ben watched, fascinated and bewildered. He was so distracted by her laughter, he didn’t notice her hand slip into a basket, plucking a handful of green figs. She pressed one into his palm. “Try it,” she urged. He did—sweet, earthy, unexpected. “Delicious,” he admitted. “Rome gives you gifts, if you know where to look.” Her eyes lingered on him, amused and challenging. --- *Scene 5: Sudden Rain, Gelato Shelter* The sky darkened abruptly, thunder rumbling low. Fat drops began to fall, scattering the crowd. “Run!” Alessandra grabbed Ben’s hand, yanking him under the awning of a neon-lit gelato shop. The rain came down in sheets, drumming the street, washing the city in silver. Inside, the scent of sugar and fruit filled the air. Alessandra ordered pistachio and amarena, passing Ben a cone. He licked it, shivering as rain spattered his shoes. “I can’t remember the last time I did something like this. Ran for cover, I mean.” She leaned against the wall, her smile small and secret. “You should do it more. Get wet. Get messy.” He watched her, the water beading on her lashes, her cheeks flushed. “You’re not what I expected,” he said softly. She tilted her head. “You neither, Englishman.” Outside, the storm raged. Inside, time seemed to slow. Alessandra’s gaze grew serious for a fleeting instant, as if she might say something true and dangerous. But then she flicked a drop of gelato at his nose, dissolving the tension. “You have to live, Ben. Even if it means breaking a few rules.” He laughed, the sound unfamiliar in his own mouth. “I think I’d like that.” --- *Scene 6: Twilight Farewell, Piazza Navona* The rain faded. The sun returned, gilding the city in late afternoon gold. They wandered to Piazza Navona, the fountains gleaming, street musicians playing violin. They stood together, silent. Alessandra checked her phone. “I have to work. Someone’s waiting for a package.” Ben nodded, disappointment sharper than expected. “Will I see you again?” She considered him, her eyes unreadable. Then she reached into her jacket, pressed something into his hand—it was the fig, now split and shared. “Maybe,” she said. “Rome is full of surprises.” She swung onto her Vespa, tossing him a last, wicked grin. “Don’t get lost, professore.” And she was gone, a streak of red weaving into the city, leaving Ben standing alone, heart thundering, the stolen taste of Rome on his tongue.

Model Output:
The Last Outpost hums with the usual din—low voices, the whir of air exchangers, the odd clang from the kitchen where Jax, the one-armed chef-bot, is probably wrestling with another protein block. The asteroid belt outside flickers through the viewport behind the bar, pinpricks of light tumbling in slow, indifferent arcs. I wipe down the counter, one eye on a pair of miners playing dice at table three, the other on the door. Gravity’s running spotty tonight; every drink I pour comes with its own private wave pool. “Oi, Nets!” calls Kori, cargo pilot and serial heartbreaker, sliding onto a stool. “Got any of that Andromeda cider left, or did the last shift drink the barrel dry?” I flash her a grin. “Depends. You still owe me for last week, or did you find someone else to float your tab?” She laughs, flicking a credit chit onto the counter. “Keep it open. Got a run to Resh-5 in the morning, so I’ll be good for it after.” I pour her a glass, careful with the slosh. Kori sips, eyes on the dice game. “You hear about the supply drop? Word is, someone’s been skimming again.” “Always someone skimming,” I say, leaning in. “Last time it was that Martian with the twitchy thumb.” “Nah, this is bigger. Whole crate went missing. Management’s not happy. Heard they’re sending a rep down from Central.” Great, just what we need. Another suit sniffing around, asking questions. I tuck that away for later—just as the door slides open with a shudder and a stranger stumbles in, dragging the cold with them. They look like they’ve been through a debris storm—dusty coat, boots scuffed, tentacled dreadlocks half-unraveled and twitching. Their skin’s the color of old copper, and one eye flickers with a faint bioluminescence. They drift toward the bar, barely making a sound. “Vega whisky, neat. Better make that a double.” Their voice is low, rough around the edges. I nod, reaching for the good bottle. The gravity hiccups, and the whisky sloshes in the glass as I set it down. They grab it with a practiced hand, knocking half of it back in one go. “Rough day?” I venture, sliding over a bowl of spiced nuts. “I’m not here to talk,” they say, but their eyes betray them—darting to the shadows, lingering on the exits. “Everyone talks, eventually,” I say. “Even the silent types. Outpost’s good for that.” Kori leans in, never missing a beat. “You new? Don’t see many with tentacles round here. You running from something or to something?” The stranger snorts. “If you must know, I’m looking for someone. Thought they’d be here.” “Lots of ‘someones’ come through,” I offer. “Anyone in particular?” They hesitate, then slide a holo-pic across the bar. The image jumps and shimmers—a young woman, sharp green eyes, hair pulled back in a tight knot. I don’t recognize her, but something about the tightness in the stranger’s jaw makes me think I should. “Haven’t seen her,” I say. “But I can ask around.” “Don’t,” they say sharply. “If you see her, just tell me. No one else, understand?” Kori whistles low. “That sounds like trouble.” The stranger ignores her, finishing their whisky in a gulp. “She’s in danger. So is anyone who helps her.” I lean in, voice low. “Danger from who?” They glance over their shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Just… keep your eyes open. And keep your mouth shut.” Before I can answer, the gravity surges. My feet lift half an inch off the floor, every glass behind the bar rippling. Someone curses as a drink slops into their lap. “Bloody hell, Outpost!” Kori grumbles, grabbing her glass before it floats away. The stranger uses the distraction to slide off their stool, fading toward a shadowy booth at the back. Jax rolls out of the kitchen, waving a spatula. “Nets, we got a problem. The grav’s messing with the fryer—chips are floating up to the vent.” “Stick a lid on it,” I call back, my mind still on the stranger. “I’ll fix it in a minute.” Kori nudges me. “That one’s trouble, you know. I heard Central’s got a bounty out for a woman looks a lot like that holo-pic.” “Bounty or not, everyone’s running from something,” I reply, but I file it away. I don’t need Central poking their nose in, not when I’ve worked so hard to disappear out here. The dice game erupts in shouts—a miner accuses the other of cheating, and suddenly there’s a knife on the table. I slide from behind the bar, Kori at my shoulder. “Hey, knock it off. You want to throw steel, take it outside,” I say, voice hard. The miner glares, but the sight of Kori’s cybernetic arm seems to cool him off. The knife disappears, and the game resumes, grumbling. Back at the bar, the stranger’s gone. Only a smear of condensation and the empty glass left at their place. The holo-pic is gone, too. Jax rumbles up, spatula still in hand. “Nets, grav’s worse in the back. And… there’s someone in the maintenance corridor. Not staff.” I glance over, pulse picking up. The maintenance corridor’s supposed to be locked after hours. “Keep an eye on things,” I tell Kori, and head for the back, flipping my apron off as I go. The corridor’s dim, the lights flickering. I hear voices—one low and desperate, the other sharp with fear. As I round the corner, I catch a glimpse: the stranger, cornering a young woman with green eyes. The woman’s clutching something—a data chip?—and she looks ready to bolt. “I said I’d help you,” the stranger hisses. “But you have to trust me. They’re coming, and you’re running out of time.” The girl shakes her head. “I don’t trust you. I’ve seen what you do to people who cross you.” I step back, heart pounding. This isn’t my business. But the Outpost is my home, and I don’t like trouble—especially not the kind that comes with bounties, missing supply crates, and desperate fugitives. I slip away before they can see me, mind racing. There’s more at stake here than a missing crate or a bar tab. The Outpost’s gravity might be wobbling, but it feels like the whole place is about to come unmoored. I just hope I can keep my balance.

Model Output:
Chapter Two I’m standing on the crumbling edge of the French Quarter, watching traffic crawl past on Canal Street, and it’s like the world is too bright, too loud, too much. My backpack’s cutting into my shoulders, my phone’s at 12%, and my stomach is a hollow echo chamber. Welcome to New Orleans, Taylor, population: you and your problems. I try not to look lost, but who am I kidding? I’ve got “runaway” written all over me, in the way I clutch my bag, the way my eyes flick from face to face, searching for danger, or maybe just someone who won’t look straight through me. My mind keeps looping back to Mom’s face when I told her. Not anger, exactly. Just—shock. Like I’d ripped the ground out from under her. And then Dad, with his jaw so tight I thought he’d break his own teeth. I shove the memory aside. Not helpful right now. I duck into a side street, following the sound of music and the scent of something frying. The city’s got that sticky, humid air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little unreal. I’m not sure what I expected—parades? Jazz hands? But mostly, it’s just people hustling somewhere, eyes glazed, not caring about kids on their own. I check my phone again: 11%. I should save it. But I can’t help scrolling through my messages—nothing from Mom, nothing from anyone, just the last fight, and then the silence. I feel a wave of something heavy, like grief, or maybe relief. I’m not sure which. I need to eat. I need a bathroom. I need somewhere to charge my phone. I need—God, everything. I spot a kid about my age, maybe a little older, sitting on the curb. They’ve got a skateboard balanced across their knees, hair buzzed on one side, and piercings blinking in the sunlight. They’re eating fries out of a greasy paper bag, licking their fingers like they haven’t eaten in days. I hesitate, but hunger wins. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual, like I belong here. “You know where I can find a charger?” They look up, eyes scanning me in that quick, assessing way. “Battery dead?” Their accent’s local, kind of lazy, vowels stretching out. “Almost,” I say. “Didn’t expect to get dumped here. My ride just—left.” They smirk. “Welcome to the Quarter. You new?” I nod, shifting my weight. “Taylor.” “Jules,” they say, sticking out a fry. “Want one? I won’t bite.” I take the fry, even though my pride shrivels a little. “Thanks.” We eat in silence for a minute. I notice Jules’s backpack, battered and patched with band logos. There’s a tattoo peeking out from under their sleeve—something intricate, maybe a snake. I want to ask, but I don’t know the rules yet. “You look like shit,” Jules says, not unkindly. “Long night.” They nod like they get it. “You run from your people, or did they kick you?” I’m not sure how much to say. “A little of both.” For a second, Jules is quiet, eyes fixed on the street. Then they say, “You don’t have to tell me. I just mean—people end up here for all kinds of reasons, right?” I nod. I want to ask Jules what their story is, but maybe that’s rude. Maybe that’s the kind of thing you only share after you trust someone. If ever. “My phone’s dying,” I say instead, holding it up. Jules grins. “You got a cord?” I shake my head. “Just the phone. Stupid, right?” “Nah,” they say, “just unlucky. Tell you what—there’s a café a few blocks down, they don’t care if you sit and charge, but you gotta buy something cheap. Or, if you’re broke…” They shrug, and I catch the glint of a stolen salt shaker in their bag. “We can improvise.” I’m broke. I have maybe eight bucks, and that has to last…well, forever, as far as I know. “Improvise sounds about right.” Jules stands up, slinging their bag over one shoulder. “Come on. You trust me?” Not really. But what choice do I have? I follow them through the maze of side streets, past buskers and fortune tellers and tourists with cameras. I keep thinking about everything I left behind, and this weird, wild hope that maybe here, I can be someone new. Or at least, someone real. We duck into a narrow alley, and Jules pulls out a battered portable charger, grinning. “Found this in a lost-and-found box at the hostel. You can use it, but it’s slow.” I plug in, watching the battery inch up. Relief floods through me, ridiculous and huge. “You’re a lifesaver.” Jules shrugs. “Just another day. You got somewhere to sleep tonight?” I freeze. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Not really.” They nod, like that’s what they expected. “There’s a shelter a couple blocks over, but it fills up quick. Or, there’s this old church—they don’t care if you crash in the back pews, as long as you’re quiet. I can show you.” I want to ask why they know all this. I want to ask a million things. Instead, I say, “Why are you helping me?” Jules kicks at a bottle cap. “Because someone helped me, once. And because…you look like you could use a friend.” I look at them, really look. There’s something wary in their eyes, but also a flicker of kindness. I feel my guard slip, just a little. “Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. We walk as the sun drops lower, the city coming alive in a different way—music spilling from open doors, lights glittering on the river. For a second, I almost forget why I’m here. I almost believe I could belong. As we reach the church, Jules says, “You wanna talk about it? What you’re running from?” I hesitate. The words tangle up in my throat. Finally, I say, “I came out. To my family. It…didn’t go great.” Jules nods. “Yeah. Been there.” They don’t ask for details. They just sit beside me on the stone steps, sharing the last of their fries. We’re both broken in different ways, but for tonight, that’s enough. The city hums around us, full of danger and possibility. I don’t know what tomorrow looks like. But right now, I’m not alone. And that’s something. I check my phone: 15%. Maybe things are looking up, after all.

Model Output:
The sun, which yesterday had threatened to rise and today seemed to be reconsidering, poked a jaundiced finger over the ruins. Midas, who once had a very fine plan for his life involving sandwiches, was now making do with a plan for the day involving not dying. Chewy, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the battered desk, his threadbare legs dangling, button eyes flickering between a nervous blue and a lugubrious green. “All right, Chewy,” said Midas, surveying the desolate expanse beyond their shelter, “here’s the thing. We’re almost out of the good beans. And by good beans, I mean the ones that haven’t been colonized by whatever that… thing… was in the tin last week.” Chewy’s eyes flickered orange. That had not been a good day for anyone. “So, today’s mission: the old supermarket on Ashdown Avenue. We’re going to go in, grab whatever’s edible, and get out before the Roamers do their patrol. Simple.” The koala’s eyes did a slow disco between blue and red: the color of skepticism and mild horror. “Don’t start,” Midas said, shrugging on his scavenged jacket. “What’s the worst that could happen?” * The first sign that the world was not cooperating came when Midas tried to open the door. It was, as doors tend to be after a collapse, stuck. Not just stuck, but stuck in the way that implied the universe was making a point. He heaved. He grunted. Chewy, who weighed less than existential dread but slightly more than a bad mood, hopped off the desk and stood by, eyes pulsing purple: encouragement. The door gave way with a sound like a disappointed aunt, and Midas tumbled out onto the cracked concrete. He dusted himself off, adjusted Chewy’s spot in his backpack, and set off. The journey to Ashdown Avenue was uneventful, in the way that a trip through a haunted house is only uneventful if you’re the ghost. The sky was the color of spoiled milk, and the wind carried the scent of old plastic and the distant, metallic tang of trouble. Midas kept to the shadows. Chewy, for his part, kept his eye-lights dim and his head on a swivel. They reached the supermarket without incident, which was suspicious in itself. The automatic doors, long devoid of electricity and hope, yawned open like the mouth of a particularly bored monster. Inside, the shelves were picked clean, save for a small, hopeful section labeled “Gluten-Free.” Even the apocalypse, it seemed, had standards. “Beans,” muttered Midas, scanning the shelves. “Beans, beans, beans…” He found a can labeled “Baked Beans in Tomato-Like Sauce.” Chewy’s eyes gleamed gold: hope. Midas reached for it— —and the can skittered away with a clatter, propelled by a small, angry rat with delusions of grandeur. “Oh, for—!” Midas lunged, slipping on a patch of something that used to be cheese and now mostly aspired to be a biohazard. He flailed. Chewy tumbled from his backpack, bounced, and landed upright (as koalas, even mechanical ones, are wont to do). The rat, now joined by two friends, squared off. Their beady little eyes sparkled with malice and possibly salmonella. Midas backed away, hands raised. “Okay, okay, you win. Enjoy your beans, you tiny monsters.” Chewy, perhaps emboldened by the flicker of his eyes (now a stormy purple), advanced. The rats paused. Chewy let out a mechanical *squeak*—a noise he’d picked up from his time in the toy aisle. The rats, unimpressed, advanced. There are moments in every survivor’s life when dignity must be traded for survival. For Midas, that moment came as he hurled a half-melted chocolate Santa at the rats, scooped up Chewy, and legged it to the back exit. He burst through the fire door, which, true to form, set off a shrieking alarm that had been waiting years for this moment of relevance. * Outside, the Roamers—those tireless, directionless post-humans who made trouble their business—were already turning their heads. Midas bolted, Chewy clinging to his shoulder, eyes now flashing a frantic red. “A shortcut!” Midas panted, diving into an alley bristling with discarded shopping carts and the faint memory of bad decisions. The shortcut was, of course, not a shortcut. It was a maze. Midas zigzagged through, tripping over an old bicycle, ducking under a sagging awning, and finally emerging—miraculously—back where he’d started. The Roamers, evidently, had a similar sense of direction, and were waiting. Midas froze. Chewy’s eyes went white: terror. Then, with a whirring noise, Chewy’s chest plate sprang open, and a tinny, pre-recorded laugh track filled the air. The Roamers blinked. The laugh track escalated, peals of canned laughter echoing through the empty streets. The Roamers, baffled and perhaps a little unnerved by the sudden outbreak of mirth, turned and shambled off in search of more comprehensible prey. Midas sagged, clutching Chewy to his chest. “You absolute legend,” he whispered. * They returned to their shelter as the sun gave up and slunk behind a cloud. Midas nursed a sprained ankle, a bruised ego, and a can of “Pickled Beets for the Discerning Palate”—the only thing he’d managed to snatch on his way out. Chewy’s eyes glowed a soft, contented green. Midas raised his can. “To survival, Chewy.” Chewy’s eyes flickered gold—hope, or, perhaps, something like love. “Tomorrow,” Midas said, “we try for the pharmacy. What’s the worst that could happen?” Chewy’s eyes flashed red, then blue, then settled on a sensible orange: caution. The world, after all, was just getting started.

Model Output:
INT. BOOKSHOP — AFTERNOON Rain pelts the cobblestones outside. The bell above the door jingles. A man in a battered Barbour jacket and aviator sunglasses barrels in, breathing hard. He glances over his shoulder, then removes his sunglasses, scanning for witnesses. BOOKSTORE OWNER, early thirties, in a threadbare jumper, arranges a stack of Murakami novels. They glance up, expression flat. **ACTOR**: Bloody hell, it’s Noah’s Ark out there. You mind if I—er—hide for five minutes? (flashing a grin) I promise I’ll buy something. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: (deadpan) Only if you promise not to drip on the first editions. **ACTOR**: (looking down at his soaked jeans) Right. Sorry. I’ll just… hover by the—what’s that, poetry? I look like I read poetry, right? **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: You look like you run from poetry. And from something else, too. **ACTOR**: (mock wounded) You wound me. I’m very literary. “To be, or not to be”—I’ve got the whole soliloquy memorized. Stage school, you know. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: Impressive. I imagine it comes in handy at parties. **ACTOR**: (grinning wider) Only when I want people to think I’m deep. So, what do you recommend for a man in desperate need of distraction and… sanctuary? **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: Depends. Are you after Dostoevsky or Dan Brown? **ACTOR**: More Dan Brown, if we’re honest. But I’ll try anything once. They pause, sizing him up. He runs a hand through his rain-slicked hair, searching for his reflection in the window. **ACTOR**: You know, you haven’t asked if I’m—well, me. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: I know who you are. **ACTOR**: (relieved) Thought so. Not every day you get chased down the High Street by a woman wielding a telephoto lens and a copy of Hello! magazine. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: (shrugs) Cardiff’s full of surprises. **ACTOR**: You’re not going to ask for a selfie? **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: I don’t own a phone with a camera. **ACTOR**: (genuinely surprised) What, really? **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: (dryly) Some of us prefer to remember things the old-fashioned way. **ACTOR**: That’s… kind of amazing. Or possibly criminal. Hard to tell. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: (with a ghost of a smile) Depends who’s asking. A beat. The actor’s charm falters; he glances around, fiddles with a paperback. **ACTOR**: You’re not like most people I meet. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: I’m not most people. **ACTOR**: (leaning in) You know, I could do with a cup of tea. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: There’s a kettle in the back. But I warn you—the mugs are chipped and the tea’s from Lidl. **ACTOR**: I’m no snob. (pause) Well, I am, but only about cheese. **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: (arches eyebrow) I’ll make an exception for you, then. But only because you’re dripping on the floor. They disappear into the back room. Steam rises from the kettle. The shop hums with the sound of rain and distant traffic. **ACTOR**: What’s your name? **BOOKSTORE OWNER**: Gwen. **ACTOR**: Gwen. That’s… properly Welsh. **GWEN**: (pouring tea) It would be, seeing as I am. **ACTOR**: I’m sorry for barging in like this. I’m usually better at… (waves hands) keeping a low profile. **GWEN**: Hiding in plain sight. It’s a skill. **ACTOR**: You ever want to hide from the world? **GWEN**: (considers him) I own a bookshop. What do you think? **ACTOR**: Touché. You’re… not what I expected. **GWEN**: You expected someone to swoon? **ACTOR**: (laughs, flustered) Most people at least pretend. **GWEN**: I’m not most people. **ACTOR**: You keep saying that. **GWEN**: Because it’s true. They sip tea. He studies her, searching for cracks in her composure. **ACTOR**: You know, I could cast you in something. That stare—lethal. You’d be brilliant on screen. **GWEN**: I doubt I’d take direction well. **ACTOR**: You might surprise yourself. Or me. **GWEN**: (smirks) You don’t look like you’re easily surprised. **ACTOR**: (softening) You’d be surprised. He glances at her hands. She’s gripping her mug a little too tightly. **ACTOR**: I’m not always… like this, you know. **GWEN**: Like what? **ACTOR**: (quietly) Charming. Or trying to be. **GWEN**: Old habits die hard. **ACTOR**: I like it when people like me. Is that terrible? **GWEN**: Only if you forget who you are when they don’t. He looks at her, caught off guard. **ACTOR**: You’re very… perceptive. **GWEN**: Occupational hazard. Books are full of people pretending to be something they’re not. **ACTOR**: And what about you? **GWEN**: I’m exactly what I say I am. He smiles, genuinely this time. **ACTOR**: I believe you. A beat. She looks away, cheeks faintly pink. **ACTOR**: So, Gwen… can I hide here again? Next time I’m chased by the wolves? **GWEN**: (without looking at him) Only if you promise to read the poetry section. **ACTOR**: Even Dylan Thomas? **GWEN**: Especially Dylan Thomas. He laughs, the tension easing. Gwen finally meets his gaze, her composure slipping just a little. **ACTOR**: Alright, then. I suppose I’ll have to come back. **GWEN**: (smiling, despite herself) Suppose you will. They sip their tea in the cluttered back room, rain drumming the windows, and something unspoken hangs between them—tentative, electric, and entirely unexpected.

Model Output:
The iron-bound door groaned open under Aya’s gloved hand, the hinges weeping with the slow reluctance of something ancient. Gaslight pooled in flickering puddles along the underhold’s stone floor, each flame caught behind a grimy glass globe. Brass pipes crawled along the walls, sweating with condensation, their valves muttering in the hush. Aya’s boots—soft, elegant, unsuited for this world—sank into the grime left by generations of foot traffic. Katra’s hulking shadow flanked her right, Simeon’s slighter form trailing behind. Yet there was a chill in the air, a stillness that set Aya’s nerves jangling. No shouts, no running feet—just the echo of their own trespass. She drew a breath, tasting salt and machine oil, and pressed forward. As the three descended, the chamber widened. In the wavering light, the guild’s prize awaited atop a plinth: the Scythan artifact, all cruel angles and obsidian gleam, threads of copper wire tangled about its form like veins. Aya’s heart quickened, but then—a click. A rasp. The unmistakable ring of steel. From the gloom emerged not guards, but the guild leader herself. Madame Velesa—her silhouette unmistakable, statuesque in her black frock coat, silver hair coiled like a serpent at her nape, eyes glittering with cunning. Flanking her stood two bodyguards: one an ogre of a man with a clockwork arm, the other swathed in a velvet mask and carrying a repeater pistol. “Good of you to come, my little nightshade,” Velesa purred, voice as smooth as lamp oil. “I confess, I’d begun to worry you’d lost your taste for the game.” Katra stepped forward, fists clenched. “We heard you were in gaol, Velesa.” Velesa’s smile was all knives. “Did you? How quaint. The Watch are so easily distracted. A few gold sovereigns, and they forget the very face they came to drag away. But you—” Her gaze fixed on Aya, narrowing. “You I’d never forget. Remove her mask.” Before Aya could react, the masked guard seized her, twisting her arms behind her back. Her mask—a simple domino, black silk—was ripped away, and the air felt cold on her cheeks. Katra and Simeon, faces taut, hesitated as more figures slipped from the shadows—guild enforcers, silent and brutal. The room spun around Aya as she was forced to her knees. She lifted her chin, drawing on every scrap of her mother’s aristocratic poise. Velesa circled her, boots tapping on damp stone. “The infamous Lady Aya Drakovna, slumming it with thieves and guttersnipes. How the mighty have sunk.” Aya’s mind raced. Her name—her *real* name—was worth more than silver or secrets. If word reached the city above, her family would be ruined. Worse, the Watch would string her up the same as they had her mother. Immaterial magick—her gift, her curse—had always been an anchor at her throat. Katra spat at Velesa’s feet. “Let her go. She’s nothing to you.” “Is she, now?” Velesa’s eyes danced with cruel amusement. “A disgraced noble’s daughter, the last of her line. And a practitioner of the immateria, if the whispers are true. What a delight. You see, child, you’re worth more to me than all the relics in this pit.” Aya swallowed hard, forcing steel into her voice. “If you want ransom, you’ll get it. My father will pay twice what the artifact’s worth. If you want silence—I can deliver that too. Let my friends go.” Velesa crouched, bringing her face level with Aya’s. “You think I want coin? No, precious. What I want is leverage. You’re proof the Drakovs consort with criminals and magicians. That sort of scandal could topple a dynasty—or build me a new one.” Aya’s thoughts churned. She glanced at Simeon, pale and tense, lips pressed tight. Katra struggled, but was held fast. Aya’s secret life, the delicate balance she’d struck—gone, in a moment. She’d always known the risk. The city, with its smokestacks and gaslights, had no mercy for those who played both sides of the blade. She met Velesa’s gaze, summoning her mother’s stubbornness. “You’re clever, Madame. But you know what I can do. I’m worth more alive than dead. The Watch would burn this place to cinders to find me. And the guild—your precious guild—would scatter like rats.” Velesa straightened, considering. “So you *are* the one who called forth the wraith in the East Docks. I wondered. That sort of power, child, is dangerous. To you, and to me.” Aya shivered, remembering the night she’d torn a hole in the world, let something cold and hungry slip through. The city had never been the same since. Velesa beckoned to her guards. “Take them below. Strip them of their tools. We’ll see how much the Drakovs value their little ghost.” Katra fought as they were dragged away, roaring curses; Simeon’s silence was a weight all its own. Aya dug her nails into her palms, refusing to cry out. She tried to focus—on the oily lamplight, on the scent of old stone and spilled blood. “I can help you,” she hissed, desperation threading her words. “Let my friends go, and I’ll show you how to use the artifact. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You don’t know how it works. But I do.” Velesa’s laughter echoed from the walls, thin and sharp. “Such spirit. Perhaps I’ll keep you around a while. But bargains are for equals, Lady Aya. And you—” her gaze flicked to the artifact, then back to Aya—“are in no position to bargain.” As the guards hauled them into the shadows, Aya’s mind spun. Her mask was gone. Her secret was out. The world above would soon know what she was—what she’d done. She tried to recall her mother’s face, the words she’d whispered as the noose tightened: *Be brave. Be clever.* Aya clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet Velesa’s gaze one last time before the darkness swallowed her. The underhold, once quiet, now buzzed with whispered threats and the promise of ruin. In the city above, the lamps would soon flicker out. Below, Aya resolved, she would not go quietly—not while a spark of her mother’s magick remained.

Model Output:
A lazy ceiling fan barely stirs the smoky air inside the bar, fighting a losing battle against the stench of cheap whiskey and gun oil. The neon sign outside flickers “OPEN” in fractured reds and blues, bleeding color through the grime-streaked window and over the crowd of drunks, hustlers, and killers hunched over their drinks. Near the back, Spike Spiegel sits with his legs kicked up on a battered table, a half-empty glass of bourbon sweating by his elbow. He watches the door, cigarette trailing smoke from his lips, a half-smile on his face and a glint behind his mismatched eyes. She enters like a storm front—boots slapping, hips swaying, the dragon tattoo on her arm flickering as she pushes through the haze. Revy clocks the whole room in a glance, her expression daring anyone to get in her way. The bartender barely gets out a “What’ll it be?” before she growls, “Double rum, and don’t water it down.” She slams a few bills on the bar, then lets her gaze wander—settling on the lanky guy with the wild hair, the one who hasn't stopped watching her since she walked in. Spike tips a salute with his glass. "Looks like we had the same idea for hiding out. Or maybe you’re here for the same reason I am?" Revy’s mouth quirks. “If your reason’s a half-million credit bounty with a taste for cheap cigars, then yeah. Guess we’re on the same clock, cowboy.” He laughs, low and easy. “Whatever happens, happens, right?” She stalks over, slides into the seat across from him, boots propped up to mirror his pose. Her pistols—custom Berettas—rest heavy at her hips, close enough to draw. Spike’s hand is loose by his own holster, the glint of his Jericho 941 visible beneath his coat. They size each other up. Spike’s eyes—one living, one glass—see the tension in her knuckles, the way her shoulders never truly relax. Revy sees the way he slouches, but his fingers never stray far from his weapon, the way he watches every reflection in the bar’s cracked mirror. “Funny,” she says, swirling her rum. “Out of all the shitholes in the solar system, we end up here. Coincidence, or you following me, tall guy?” Spike shrugs, flicks ash into a tray. “I don’t follow people. Not unless they owe me money. Or owe me a drink.” She snorts. “You couldn’t keep up anyway.” A silence stretches, thick with the clink of glasses and the faraway sound of a jukebox mangling a jazz standard. He studies her, the scars on her stomach, the bullet nick near her collarbone. She studies him, the crow’s feet, the weariness in his smile. “Bounty’s upstairs,” he says finally. “Room 23. Saw him come in an hour ago, tried to hide under a hat so cheap it made him look like a cartoon.” She grins, wolfish. “What, you waiting for an invitation? Or you just lazy?” “Lazy,” Spike admits, “but I don’t like walking into a meat grinder alone. And you look like you’ve chewed glass for breakfast.” Revy’s eyes narrow, but her voice is amused. “You wanna team up with me? You don’t even know me, man.” Spike’s gaze is steady. “Don’t need to. I can tell you shoot straight. That’s enough.” She leans forward, breath heavy with rum. “And if I decide to take the bounty for myself?” Spike leans in too, their faces close, the smoke from their cigarettes mingling. “Then we see who’s faster.” For a moment, the air between them crackles—danger, attraction, the kind of reckless thrill that makes people do stupid things. Revy’s lips curl, and she stands suddenly, knocking her chair back. “You coming or not?” He downs the rest of his bourbon, smooth as silk, and follows her up the creaking stairs. --- The hallway smells of mold and old regrets. Room 23’s door is slightly ajar. Revy kicks it open without hesitating, guns up. Spike slides in after, gun drawn, the movement fluid as breath. Inside, their mark is already halfway out the window, feet kicking in panic. He fires wildly, bullets chewing into the peeling wallpaper. Revy laughs, a wild, unhinged sound, and puts two clean holes in the wall an inch from the man’s head. He freezes. Spike steps forward, cool as ice, and flicks his gun. “Game over, pal.” They cuff him, drag him downstairs, and toss him in the trunk of a battered car. By the time they reach the nearest motel, the adrenaline has shifted—now there’s only the two of them, the tension, and the question of who gets paid. --- The motel room is small, reeking of disinfectant and lost dreams. Spike lights another cigarette, tossing the bounty’s ID on the table. Revy paces, restless, her fingers twitching near her guns. “So, how we splitting this?” she asks, voice tight. Spike shrugs. “Winner take all?” She draws, fast—he’s faster, his gun already out, leveled at her heart. They stand, guns aimed, eyes locked, sweat glistening at their temples. “Not bad, cowboy,” she growls. “Likewise,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Time stretches. Their guns don’t waver. But their gazes—hungry, dangerous—say everything else. She smirks, the first real smile of the night. “You wanna shoot me, or you wanna fuck me?” Spike’s grin is slow, dangerous. “Why not both?” Their laughter breaks the tension, sharp and breathless. Guns lower, but not by much. In the shadows of the cheap motel, trust is a currency neither can afford—but the thrill of the standoff, the echo of violence and lust, is enough to keep them circling each other, triggers half-squeezed, hearts pounding, waiting to see which urge—destruction or desire—wins out tonight.

Model Output:
Thick mist clings to the edges of the burial mound, glowing under moonlight. Even now, I can recall how it pooled between the crooked birches and the low stones, the way it seemed to breathe in the cold air, pulsing with every gust. Astrid said the mist was a sign—“They’re watching,” she whispered, wide-eyed and smug, as if she’d conjured it herself. I’d followed her through the fields, boots damp, brambles snagging my borrowed jacket. She barely seemed to feel the cold, striding ahead in her patched jeans and red mittens, a battered thermos swinging from her hand. She didn’t look back until we reached the mound itself, a lumpy rise in the field, ringed by old stones and stunted heather. The grave of someone whose name was lost before even Astrid’s grandmother’s time. “We have to be quiet now,” she said, voice dropping. “If you giggle, they’ll freeze your tongue.” I rolled my eyes—at least, I thought I did. The moon was so bright, the world felt hollow and sharp, as if the snow itself was listening in. I tried to laugh, but it came out thin. Astrid pulled two rough-woven blankets from her backpack, spreading them side by side at the mound’s crest. She handed me a branch of dried juniper, tied with string. “Hold it like this. When I say, wave it over your head three times, then stick it in the ground. That’s for the ward.” “Ward against what?” I asked, but she was busy uncapping the thermos, pouring something dark and steaming into a chipped enamel mug. “Against whatever wants to listen.” She handed the mug to me. The smell was sharp and earthy—chaga tea, she said, for “opening your mind.” I sipped, trying not to grimace. Astrid’s rituals always hovered somewhere between folklore and dare, half-mocking, half-serious. Last week, we’d buried a lock of hair at the crossroads to “make Klara forget her own lies”—but Klara had shown up at school the next day, her usual smug self. Still, Astrid acted as if it had worked, and I’d found myself half-watching Klara for signs of confusion. Tonight felt different. The cold bit deeper, the grave-mound loomed larger. There was a heaviness, as if the earth itself was waiting. Astrid sat cross-legged, eyes closed. “You have to listen. Not just with your ears—with your skin. With your blood.” She said it in her grandmother’s sing-song dialect, the way she did when she wanted to seem older than she was. “We’re sitting out. Útiseta. It’s the oldest way.” I imitated her posture, tucking my hands under my knees. My heart thrummed, half with anticipation, half with dread. Was it really possible to hear anything out here besides the wind and the distant bark of a dog? Astrid began to hum—long, low notes, almost tuneless. She told me, weeks later, they were words: old ones, not meant for daytime. I shivered, wishing for something to distract me, but the world was shrinking to mist and stone and Astrid’s voice. “Now,” she whispered, eyes still shut. “Think of what you want to know. Picture it. Say it inside your head. Then listen.” I tried to focus: I wanted to know what the others said about me, the city girl, behind my back. I pictured faces—Klara, Jonas, even Astrid, sometimes inscrutable behind her sly smiles. The thought fluttered in my chest, restless and sharp. The silence pressed in. Somewhere in the woods, a branch snapped. The mist swirled, thickening at the mound’s edge. “Wave the juniper,” Astrid breathed, voice barely audible. “Now.” I did as she said, feeling ridiculous, but also oddly exposed. The juniper’s brittle needles scraped my palm. I waved it three times, then jabbed it into the frozen ground. My breath fogged in the cold. We sat. The world seemed to hold its breath. After a while—minutes, hours, I couldn’t tell—Astrid muttered, “Did you hear anything?” I started to say no, but then—just for a moment—I thought I heard voices, thin and distant, carried on the wind. Laughter, maybe. Or crying. Or just the blood pounding in my ears. “I thought I did,” I whispered. My voice sounded strange, muffled. Astrid grinned. “See? They answer, if you’re brave enough to listen.” Something moved at the edge of the mist—a shape, shifting between birch trunks. I squinted, heart hammering. Was it a deer? A trick of light? Or someone watching us from the shadows? Astrid’s face changed. The bravado slipped, just a little. “Don’t look at them,” she hissed. “If you look, they look back.” Panic prickled under my skin. I stared down at the blanket, at my boots, at the little sprig of juniper trembling in the wind. I wanted to go home—to my warm bed, to the hum of the city, to a world where the dead stayed quiet. Astrid started humming again, faster this time. The mist thickened, swirling in eddies around us. The air felt heavy, pressing down on my chest. I tried to breathe, but every sound seemed magnified—the creak of a branch, the hiss of wind, Astrid’s shaky song. Suddenly, there was a rush in the darkness—a flurry of wings, or maybe just the wind. I flinched, and the mug tipped over, spilling chaga tea onto the ground. The shape in the mist vanished. Astrid squeezed my arm, her grip tight. “It’s done,” she said, trying to sound calm. “They gave an answer. Did you feel it?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. We packed up in silence. Astrid kept glancing over her shoulder, eyes wide and shining. I tried not to look at the mist, at the stones, at the empty space where something had moved. As we walked home, I told myself we’d just scared ourselves, that the mist and the moonlight and Astrid’s stories were to blame. But sometimes, even now, I dream of that night—the cold, the silence, the feeling that something ancient and hungry had brushed past us, curious, waiting for an invitation. I never asked Astrid to do Útiseta again. Some games aren’t meant to be played, even if you think you’re only pretending.

Model Output:
The room is too bright. Sunlight flares off the white walls, glances across the racks of bands and weights, and finds every bruise on my ego. I’m splayed on the padded table, right quad exposed, black shorts pulled high. My scar—a jagged rope of flesh—bisects the muscle. My knee feels like a foreign joint attached with wire and hope. He stands beside me, clipboard in hand. The lavender diffuser hums in the corner, a futile attempt to soften the antiseptic tang. The scent is wrong, too gentle, nothing like the sweat and liniment of the gym where we used to train together. He’s changed since then: beard trimmed close, hair shorter, posture more measured. He wears navy scrubs, and beneath the fabric, I remember the strength of his body, how we used to match each other rep for rep, lap for lap. Now I’m the patient; he’s the expert. “Let’s start with flexion,” he says. His voice is calm—professional, but I hear the undercurrent of memory. “I want you to relax your quad, let me move your leg.” I try to keep my face neutral, but as he cups my heel and cradles my knee in his palm, I can’t stop the instinctive tightening. His hands are warm, steady. He lifts my heel, bending my knee. The joint protests—a sharp, electric line running from kneecap to hip flexor. I hiss through my teeth. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his focus fixed on the angle of my leg. “Don’t fight me.” I force my thigh to unclench. His thumb presses lightly into the lateral condyle, stabilizing the joint, his other hand supporting my calf. I feel every inch of pressure, every square centimeter of skin. I register the contrast—his control, my helplessness. He draws my heel closer to my glute, the stretch deepening until my breath judders. “That’s your end range for today,” he says, holding the position. “Tell me what you feel.” “Pain,” I bite out. He keeps my leg there, not cruel, just insistent. “Sharp or dull?” “Both.” My voice cracks. The pain isn’t just physical. It’s the humiliation of being this exposed, this broken, under his hands. He releases the tension slightly, then begins a series of slow, controlled oscillations—small flexions and extensions, never losing contact, never letting me off the hook. My hamstring trembles. He notices. “You’re guarding,” he says. “Let your hip go heavy.” I try. My body doesn’t trust him, or maybe it doesn’t trust itself. He adjusts his grip, sliding his hand along my thigh to anchor his thumb just above my patella, fingers splayed across the bulk of my quadriceps. His palm is hot, the friction intimate. He leans in, his face close enough that I see the gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar on his jaw from a long-ago collision. It’s the first time we’ve been this close in years. I remember racing him in the pool, shoulder to shoulder, the playful taunts, the electric competitiveness. Now his touch is clinical, but my skin doesn’t know the difference. My pulse is loud in my ears. He moves my leg through another arc, this time guiding my knee toward full extension. His hand slides beneath my calf, lifting, fingers curled around the gastrocnemius. He braces my femur with the heel of his other hand, isolating the joint. The stretch burns along the scar tissue. I flinch, involuntary. “Stay with me,” he says, softer now. “Let the pain happen, but don’t run from it.” It would be easier if he were a stranger. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation: the pull at the joint, the heat of his hands, the lavender threading through the clinical chill. I breathe in—four seconds. Out—six seconds. He matches my rhythm, his own exhale a whisper just above my cheek. He shifts, kneeling beside the table, so our faces are level. He taps my hip, requesting a roll. “Onto your side.” I comply, awkward, the movement stiff. He supports my thigh, guiding it over. My glute aches from disuse. He arranges my lower leg straight, bends my top knee slightly, and places a small pillow between them to align my pelvis. “Clamshells,” he says. “I’ll guide the first few reps.” He positions himself behind me, one palm on my iliac crest to stabilize my pelvis, the other cupping the outside of my knee. His chest brushes against my back as he leans in. He instructs: “Keep your hips stacked. Slowly lift your top knee, don’t let your pelvis roll open.” I move, and instantly, the gluteus medius contracts, the fibers quivering with effort. Pain radiates down the IT band. He feels the compensation, applies gentle pressure with his thumb to keep my pelvis from cheating. The heat of his body seeps into mine. My breath hitches. “Good,” he says, voice low. “Feel that burn?” “Yeah.” My voice sounds strange, thick. His hand lingers half a second too long, then he lets my leg lower. “Again. Slow.” I lift, fighting the urge to collapse forward, to give up. The pain is bright, almost clarifying. His touch is both a constraint and a reassurance. He is close enough that I feel the shape of his breath on my neck, the faint scent of his skin beneath the clinical soap. After six repetitions, he slides his hand down my outer thigh, tracing the tensor fasciae latae, palpating for activation. His fingers pause at the greater trochanter, applying gentle pressure to coax the right muscles to fire. With every cue—“a little more abduction, hold, now control the descent”—my body obeys, but my mind races. We are both pretending: him, at being detached; me, at being indifferent. His hands, expert and precise, betray nothing. But I catch the flicker of tension in his jaw, the way his breath stutters as his thumb brushes a little too close to the edge of my shorts. My own body rebels—muscles trembling, skin prickling, hyperaware of every point of contact. He finishes the set and straightens, his hands leaving me in a slow, deliberate withdrawal. The loss of warmth is abrupt. I exhale, shuddering, not entirely from exertion. “Good work,” he says, voice roughened. “We’ll do manual stretching next.” I nod, unable to meet his eyes. The lavender is stronger now, or maybe I’m just more aware of it—a haze of sweetness cutting through antiseptic air. He moves to the cabinet, retrieving a strap. I watch the flex of his forearms, the memory of his power recontextualized, no longer competition but care. As he returns, our gazes meet—unspoken recognition passing between us, a shared history refracted through new boundaries. His hands, when they touch me again, are steady. But the current between us thrums, dangerous and unresolved, running just beneath the surface of pain and recovery.

Model Output:
The morning stank of rot and spice. I woke tangled in my own sweat, the cot’s linen clinging to me, the world behind my eyes clawing for another hour’s sleep. But there was no sleep, not when the pain in my bones began its familiar gnawing, a dog worrying a joint. I dressed quickly, cravat loose and jacket rumpled, and slipped out the side door of the barracks before the sun had fully burned the mist from the river. The stink of the city was immediate—fish and coal, human waste, and, most pungent of all, the sour-sweet perfume of rotting mangoes from the market’s refuse in the alleys. At the corner near the teahouse, I nearly collided with old Mr. Chou, who swept the stoop with the patience of a saint. “You walk early today, Lieutenant Merrick,” he said, eyes crinkling above his broom. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much heat.” I gave him a half-smile, though the skin of my face felt tight as parchment. He nodded slowly. “Heat, yes. Bad for men who dream too much.” He glanced deliberately at my trembling hand. “You take care, sir.” I grunted, moving on. The alleys narrowed, the shade thickening. Somewhere nearby, someone was singing in Cantonese—a woman’s voice, lilting and low. In my head, I translated the words automatically: *the river brings what the river takes*. It made sense, in a way. In the shadowed lane behind the dye shop, I found Yang, the courier boy, perched atop a crate, kicking his heels. “You’re late, Mr. Navy,” he said, grinning with teeth too white for someone living in such squalor. “Mister Lo waits.” “Had to wait for the officers’ rounds to finish,” I muttered. “You have it?” He cocked his head, appraising me. “You have coin?” I showed him the handful of copper and a silver coin, all I dared take from my own pay chest without drawing suspicion. He snatched them up and led me deeper, past paint-peeled doors and shuttered windows. The air thickened with the sickly-sweet tang of mango and gutter-stale water. Mister Lo’s den was a hole behind a red lacquered door, marked only by a battered paper lantern. Inside, the world was smoke and whispers. I caught sight of Lo himself, plump and sour-faced, tending to his pipes as if they were children. “Merrick! My Englishman.” He beamed, but his eyes were hard as nails. “You come early. Are you so hungry today?” “Just need the usual, Lo.” My voice sounded raw, even to me. Lo nodded to Yang, who handed him my coins. “You not so grand today, Lieutenant.” He made a show of straightening his own collar, mocking me with a smile. “No uniform, no gold.” “Just give me the pipe, Lo.” He weighed a pinch of black paste, working it into a pellet with deliberate fingers. “You will pay more next time. Everything costs more, these days. British ships bring trouble. Chinese mandarins make trouble for us all.” I said nothing. My hands shook as he passed me the pipe and held a taper to the bowl. The first pull was fire, then velvet. My muscles unclenched, the ache behind my eyes receding like a tide. All around, men and women sprawled on straw mats, their eyes glazed, lost in dreams. Overhead, a ceiling fan creaked with every turn. Lo chuckled, lowering himself beside me. “You see, Mr. Navy? You like China too much.” I let the smoke fill me. “You should try Portsmouth in winter. I’d give anything for English rain.” He spat on the floor. “Rain is nothing. Here, we have gold in the river, if you know where to look.” A woman shuffled past, her feet bare and swollen, clutching a tray of battered teacups. She stopped at my side, offering one. “You drink, Englishman. Good for heart.” The tea was bitter as regret, but I gulped it anyway. Yang sidled in, lowering his voice. “Lo wants you to do something. Small job. You good at English, good with ships.” I tried to focus. “What sort of job?” “Take a letter. Deliver to the captain of the *Primrose*. He waits at the docks before dusk. Say nothing, just give letter. Simple, and Lo gives you more paste next time.” I hesitated. The *Primrose* was a merchantman, one the Navy eyed with suspicion. But I needed the paste. I needed it more than I needed to be clean. “All right.” I nodded. “Give me the letter.” Lo slid a folded scrap of rice paper into my palm. “Careful, Merrick. English captain, but Chinese eyes everywhere.” I left the den at noon, the sun punishing in its brightness. The city’s scent clung to me—mango, sweat, opium smoke. On the wharf, the *Primrose* bobbed against her mooring lines, her hull scarred by years on the China run. A sailor leaned against a barrel, carved with the ship’s name. “I’m looking for Captain Archer,” I said. He eyed my uniform jacket, half-buttoned, and the sweat trickling down my neck. “What’s your business?” “Just a letter. From a friend.” He jerked his chin toward the gangplank. “He’s in his cabin. But mind—the captain don’t like surprises.” Inside, the *Primrose* was a world away from the Navy’s spit and polish. Archer sat at a map-stained desk, coat off, bracers rolled up. He looked up, wary. “Merrick, isn’t it? You’re a long way from your ship.” “Message from a mutual friend.” I handed him the paper. He read it, face impassive. “You’re running a dangerous game, Lieutenant.” “Just delivering the post, Captain.” He studied me, eyes narrowing. “You look like hell. Take care the Navy doesn’t notice.” I left, pulse racing. I’d done what was asked, and in return Lo would have my next fix ready. I drifted back through the alleys, the sun now a molten coin above the rooftops. The city’s scent pressed in on me, thick and inescapable. Mango, smoke, salt. My uniform clung to my back, and my boots squelched in alley mud. I was already thinking of tomorrow, and of the smoke, and of the ache that would start again with the dawn. In the shadow of the den’s red door, Yang waited, arms folded. “You do good, Merrick. Lo is pleased. Come back tomorrow. Maybe you get more.” I nodded, stomach hollow. “Yes. Tomorrow.” And tomorrow, the same again. Canton’s alleys swallowing me whole.

Model Output:
**Sisyphus Gives Advice** It was morning in Hades. The sun, which was mostly for show, shone faintly through an unconvincing sky, and a gentle breeze wafted through the asphodels, carrying with it the scent of slightly overdone toast. Sisyphus stood at the base of his familiar hill, his boulder gleaming with the healthy polish of centuries. He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and turned to the large black bird perched atop a marble slab. “Crow,” said Sisyphus, “how’s the postbag today?” Crow—whose real name was, of course, unpronounceable and involved an unseemly number of caws—flapped down, carrying a bundle of parchment in his talons. He deposited them with all the dignity of a bureaucrat stamping a crucial form. “Excellent,” said Sisyphus. “Let’s begin.” Crow, quill at the ready, watched as Sisyphus leaned a shoulder to the boulder and set it rolling up its accustomed path. As he walked, he dictated. --- **Letter 1:** *Dear Sisyphus,* *My husband never listens to me. I tell him the same thing over and over, and it’s like talking to a wall. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose. How do I get him to pay attention?* *Yours, Desperate in Delphi* “Dear Desperate,” Sisyphus began, pausing to wedge a foot behind the boulder as it tried an enterprising zigzag. “Walls are good listeners, in my experience. They never interrupt. But you want more than that, I think. Most people aren’t deaf to words—they’re deaf to the desire behind them. Try asking less, and showing more. Sit down with him and ask him what he remembers from your last conversation. If it’s about the goat, perhaps he’s fixated on the goat. If he remembers nothing, offer him a cup of wine and accept that you—like me—may be destined to repeat yourself. But perhaps you’ll both find a little laughter in the repetition. Yours, Sisyphus PS: If he *is* a wall, check behind the wallpaper for hidden treasure. That’s where I used to keep my best ideas.” Crow scratched the last note with a flourish. --- **Letter 2:** *Dear Sisyphus,* *My supervisor keeps micromanaging me. I feel like I can’t breathe at work. How do I get them to trust me to do my job?* *Frustrated in Thebes* Sisyphus gave the boulder a thoughtful nudge. “Ah, the art of being managed by someone who thinks you’re a particularly stupid goat. Crow, make sure you spell Thebes with an ‘h’. They get touchy.” He dictated: “Dear Frustrated, Supervisors are like weather: sometimes helpful, sometimes in your shoes. If you want them to trust you, do something small and visible very well—preferably something they hate doing themselves. Once they see you can handle it, they’ll be too busy avoiding that task to micromanage you. Also, consider complimenting their taste in sandals. It’s amazing how many problems are solved by a well-placed compliment. If all else fails, pretend to be very interested in their holiday plans. Distraction is the best defense. Yours, Sisyphus” Crow gave a caw that Sisyphus assumed was approval. --- **Letter 3:** *Dear Sisyphus,* *Is it normal to wonder what the point of it all is? Some days, I just feel like I’m stuck, going through the motions. How do I find meaning?* *Signed, Existential in Athens* Sisyphus smiled, pushing the boulder with one hand while picking a sprig of asphodel with the other. “Dear Existential, I once spent a century convinced I’d find meaning at the top of this hill. Turns out, the view is overrated and the company is mostly crows. The point, I think, is to find a reason to laugh every day, even if it’s just at yourself. Meaning is like a shadow—it’s always behind you when you’re facing the sun. So stop looking for it directly. Bake bread, mend a tunic, sing even if you only know the chorus. If you’re moving, you’re living. That’s enough. Yours, Sisyphus PS: If you ever get really stuck, try rolling a boulder. But just once.” --- **Letter 4:** Crow handed Sisyphus a piece of parchment so thoroughly smudged that it looked as if someone had tried to use it as a napkin during a rainstorm. Sisyphus squinted. “Is this… ‘My neighbor’s cat keeps…’ or ‘My nephew’s hat leaps…’? And what’s this bit? ‘Fish in my…’ Something. Crow, any thoughts?” Crow peered at the letter, then shrugged in that way only crows can—suggesting the world is a mystery and one shouldn’t pry too deeply. “Let’s cover all bases,” Sisyphus decided. “Dear Anonymous, If your neighbor’s cat keeps stealing your fish: try smoked herring. No cat can resist it, and, with luck, the neighbor will appreciate the gift. If your nephew’s hat keeps leaping into the fishpond: attach a string to it. Nephews love hats on strings. If you yourself are leaping into hats or ponds, consider a nice sit-down with a cup of honeyed wine. Yours in all things aquatic and millinery, Sisyphus” --- **Letter 5:** *Dear Sisyphus,* *My lover says I’m not adventurous enough in bed. I’m not even sure what counts as adventurous. Is this a matter of technique, or attitude? Should I buy a manual?* *Shy in Sparta* Crow, who had heard many such letters, preened a feather and looked away with studied nonchalance. Sisyphus, unperturbed, huffed as the boulder neared the summit. “Dear Shy, Adventurousness is mostly about curiosity. Ask your lover what they mean—sometimes it’s as simple as a different pillow, sometimes it’s as complicated as interpretive dance. Manuals are useful, but laughter is better. Try something new together, even if it’s just switching sides of the bed. You might discover the left side has far better dreams. Yours, Sisyphus PS: Avoid anything involving olive oil unless you have a very good laundry service.” --- At the top of the hill, the boulder wobbled, lingered, and, with a dignified sigh, began its inevitable descent. Sisyphus dusted his hands, calling, “Crow, post these off, will you?” Crow gathered the letters, tucking them under his wing, and took off into the unremarkable Hades sky. Sisyphus leaned against his boulder, whistling a tune no mortal ear would recognize. Another day, another climb, another handful of lives nudged in a slightly better direction. And, really, he thought, wasn’t that the best anyone could do?

Model Output:
**Scene: Outside the Arcade, Den Den Town, Osaka. Evening.** *The air is thick with the hum of neon, pachinko jingles, and the rush of voices. A teenager, Midori, hovers near the entrance, clutching her backpack. She wears headphones around her neck, eyes fixed on a girl busking with an electric guitar. The older girl, Rei, finishes a searing solo from the “Cowboy Bebop” theme, fingers flying, a small crowd applauding.* **Rei:** (Grins, bows slightly) Thanks, you guys! Next up—maybe some “Macross”? Or should I go classic—“Evangelion”? *The crowd cheers. Midori lingers, half-hidden behind a gachapon machine. Rei notices her, catching the glint of a pin shaped like a Roland synth on Midori’s backpack.* **Rei:** (calls out) Hey, synth girl! You got a request? **Midori:** (startled, almost inaudible) Um… I… No, I was just… watching. **Rei:** (slings the guitar to her back, approaches) You look like you know your stuff. (nods to the pin) That’s a Juno-106, right? **Midori:** (touches the pin, blushes) Uh, yeah. You… you recognized it? **Rei:** (laughs) Of course! My dad’s a synth nut. House is full of weird noises and blinking lights. You play? **Midori:** I… I mean, I try. Mostly at home. And… I don’t really play in front of people. **Rei:** (leans in, teasing) You should! Osaka needs more synth weirdos. Guitar gets all the attention. **Midori:** (smiles, shy) I, um, like your playing. The “Cowboy Bebop” solo—I’ve never heard it like that. You changed the key, right? **Rei:** (impressed) Good ears! Yeah, it’s easier to shred in E. Makes it pop in the open air. You ever try playing anime themes on your synth? **Midori:** Sometimes. I like layering pads and… um… making the opening sound huge. But my neighbors complain. **Rei:** (laughs) At least you don’t have to drag an amp everywhere. (gestures to her small practice amp) This thing’s heavier than it looks. *A lull. The crowd drifts off. The lights from the arcade flicker, splashing color across their faces.* **Rei:** (offers a hand, grinning) I’m Rei, by the way. **Midori:** (shakes weakly) Midori. **Rei:** Cool name. You from around here? **Midori:** (nods) Naniwa-ku. I come here to… um… look at keyboards. And old game cartridges. **Rei:** You ever find anything good? **Midori:** (eyes light up a little) Last week I found a Casio SK-1. It still works. **Rei:** (whistles) Nice! Sampling in the wild. You could make a whole vaporwave album with that. **Midori:** (giggles, then clams up) I… I guess. *Another awkward pause. Rei swings her guitar behind her, searching for a change of subject.* **Rei:** You eaten yet? **Midori:** (shakes head) **Rei:** There’s a killer kaitenzushi place around the corner. My treat, if you’ll tell me your top five synth sounds. **Midori:** (laughs, surprised at herself) I… Um… okay. But only if you promise not to make fun. **Rei:** (bows dramatically) I solemnly swear. Come on. If we hurry, we can beat the arcade crowd. *They start walking. Midori keeps glancing sideways at Rei, unsure how to start. Rei notices.* **Rei:** So, Midori, what’s number five? **Midori:** Uh… Okay. Number five is… the Prophet-5 brass patch. The one from old city pop songs. **Rei:** Solid choice! I’m more a DX7 bell freak myself, but respect. **Midori:** DX7 is… um… number three, actually. **Rei:** (grins) You skip number four? **Midori:** Oh, sorry. Four is—the Juno-106 chorus. It’s warm. Like… like being underwater, but safe. **Rei:** (nods) Yeah, I get that. Feels like a summer night. **Midori:** (growing bolder) Number two is the MS-20 distortion. For bass. It’s like… (searches for words) Like a monster in a movie, but you can control it. **Rei:** Love it! You make your own patches? **Midori:** Sometimes. I like making sounds that don’t exist yet. **Rei:** You gotta let me hear them. Maybe we could jam? Guitar and synth? **Midori:** (blushes) Maybe… I mean, if you want. **Rei:** Of course I want! I’m always looking for new sounds. Besides, you’re way too cool to keep hiding. *A sudden explosion of colored light flashes through the arcade windows. Fireworks begin outside, loud and bright. For a moment, the world is just sound and color. Rei covers her ears, laughing. Midori jumps, startled.* **Rei:** (shouts over the noise) Den Den Town Matsuri! Forgot it was tonight. **Midori:** (smiling, voice raised) They’re… close! It’s so loud. **Rei:** (grins, eyes catching the fireworks reflected in Midori’s glasses) Osaka doesn’t do “quiet.” You get used to it. *The fireworks fade. The street is full of drifting smoke and the distant scent of gunpowder. Rei and Midori share a look, both a little breathless.* **Rei:** (soft, sincere) Hey. Thanks for talking to me. Most people just, y’know, take a picture and walk off. **Midori:** (quiet, but steady) You’re really good. And… I like talking about music. Even if I’m bad at it. **Rei:** (nudges her playfully) You’re not bad. You just needed the right person to listen. *They reach the kaitenzushi restaurant, neon sign buzzing. Rei pushes the door open.* **Rei:** Ready to eat your weight in maguro? **Midori:** (smiles, almost laughing now) Only if you promise to play “Tank!” again on synth. **Rei:** Deal. But next time, you’re bringing your Juno. *They disappear inside, the noise of Den Den Town fading behind them as fireworks burst, unseen, above the electric city.*

Model Output:
**Chapter Four: Time on My Hands** It all started with a birthday present. Not a regular one, either. This one came in a box stamped with the logo of a company I’d never heard of—TEMPUS, spelled out in metallic blue. The watch inside was sleek and black, its face humming with faint green numerals. My parents swore up and down they’d just found it on my Amazon wish list. I didn’t remember adding it, but whatever. It was way cooler than socks. I spent the first day wearing it around the house, scrolling through the menus. Heart rate, weather, step tracker, all the stuff you’d expect. But the real fun started when I noticed a button—tiny, almost hidden—on the side of the watch, marked with a symbol that looked like an arrow chasing its own tail. That afternoon, I bombed a quiz in Mrs. Grantham’s math class. Numbers swam in front of my eyes. When I got the paper back, my stomach dropped. “D+” glared at me in red ink. I stared at the watch, fidgeting with that weird button. Suddenly, the world lurched. My classmates’ voices reversed, like someone hit “rewind” on a videotape. The quiz was back on my desk, unanswered. Mrs. Grantham was handing out papers, not collecting them. What the—? I took the quiz again, this time copying answers from my neighbor, who always got A’s. When I turned it in, I glanced at the watch. It showed the date—five minutes earlier than before. I didn’t say a word to anyone. But that night, lying in bed, I kept thinking about it. Had I really… gone back in time? My heart hammered in my chest. There was only one way to know for sure. The next morning, I “forgot” my homework on purpose. Waited until my mom started yelling, then pressed the button again. The world spun. I was back in my room, homework still in my backpack, mom’s footsteps echoing up the stairs. The possibilities were endless. Get caught texting in class? Rewind. Drop my lunch tray in front of everyone? Rewind. It became a game. I started using the watch for everything. Saving myself from embarrassment, acing pop quizzes, even beating level after level on my video games. It was addicting. But a week later, things got weird. First, there was the hair. I’d always had scruffy, patchy stuff on my upper lip. Suddenly, it was thicker, darker. I caught myself staring at it in the bathroom mirror, running my finger over it. And my voice—when I called out to my mom, it cracked, deep and awkward. She gave me a funny look. Then, there were the stares. Hallways at school felt… different. My friends were acting like I was a stranger. My hoodie sleeves were shorter; my shoes felt tight. My reflection seemed taller, sharper. One morning, I pressed the button after spilling orange juice on my shirt. The world jerked, and I was clean again. But when I looked in the mirror, my face flickered. For a split second, I saw an older version of myself—cheekbones standing out, jawline shadowed with stubble. I blinked, and it was gone. The watch, I realized, was doing something to me. Each time I rewound, I felt… heavier, almost stretched. Like the years were piling onto me, invisible but real. I tried to stop using it. But by then, it was too late. One afternoon, I got into an argument with my best friend, Jake. He accused me of cheating on the math quiz. I snapped at him, told him to mind his own business. He stormed off, face red. Regret hit me like a punch. Without thinking, I jabbed the rewind button, desperate to undo those words. The world spun—except this time, the school hallways looked wrong. The walls were covered in faded posters. My friends’ faces were older, taller, voices deeper. I staggered, dizzy. “Whoa—are you okay?” someone asked. I turned. It was Jake, but he looked… sixteen? Seventeen? I glanced down. My hands were bigger. My feet felt enormous. I caught my reflection in a trophy case: I was older too, maybe a high schooler. My heart thundered. I checked the watch. The date had jumped forward. Not minutes—years. Panic clawed at my chest. I tried to rewind again, but the button was stuck. Nothing happened. Around me, the school buzzed with strangers. Nobody recognized me. I raced to the bathroom, shoved open the door, and stared at my reflection. It flickered, stuttering between my real face and the older one. I watched in horror as a shadow of a beard darkened my chin, then disappeared. A custodian poked his head in. “You okay in there, kid?” I couldn’t breathe. I’d skipped years—missed birthdays, summers, everything. My parents wouldn’t even know me. Jake was gone; my classmates were strangers. I’d rewound so much, I’d worn out my own timeline. Tears burned my eyes. I hammered at the watch, desperate. “Come on, come on—work!” I squeezed my eyes shut, focused on the last moment I remembered being myself—argument with Jake, the hallway, the quiz. When I pressed the button, the world unraveled. Hallways blurred into streaks of color. Voices overlapped, echoing, then faded. My skin tingled, stretched, then shrank. My feet shriveled back to their regular size. My voice cracked, then steadied. I opened my eyes. I was back in the hallway, books in my arms, Jake staring at me. Everything was normal again. My hands were small. My hoodie sleeves hung over my wrists. I checked the watch. It was dead. The face was blank, the screen spider-webbed with cracks. Jake nudged me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I stared at him, relief and terror fighting in my chest. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Just… a weird day.” He grinned, clapped me on the back, and walked away. I ducked into the bathroom. My reflection looked back at me—my real face, no flicker, no stubble. I reached for the watch, but it was just a hunk of dead plastic now. As I pressed my palm to the glass, I swore I saw my reflection smirk, just for a second, older and wiser than before. I turned away, vowing never to mess with time again. But sometimes, late at night, I feel the itch in my wrist—like time’s still ticking, just under the skin. And I wonder: What would happen if I pressed rewind one more time?

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The air was thick with the scent of salt and fried dough, laced with something sweet and metallic—a perfume of chance and promise, but also faintly of blood. As the last bands of sunlight folded away behind the Ferris wheel, the carnival lights flickered to life, casting wavering halos across the crowd. She stood in the shadow of the shooting gallery, her gloved fingers worrying the clasp of her purse, gaze fixed on the wavering neon above the booth just ahead: MADAME ZORA—FORTUNES TOLD. She had not come for fortunes. She had come for him. She watched, heart knocking against her ribs, as the stranger emerged from the crowd, as if conjured by her longing. He moved with a feline casualness, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose beneath a dark, close-fitting jacket. His hair was exactly as she remembered—thick, inky, and unruly, as if the wind itself had been tangling its fingers there. **His locks.** There it was again; the thought was primitive, almost embarrassing in its intensity, and yet she didn’t look away. He caught her staring, and smiled—a slow, private smile, almost a dare. “You came,” he said, voice low and intimate, as if he’d been certain she would. She hesitated, searching his face for reassurance, danger, something she could name. “I—I wasn’t sure I would.” His smile deepened. “But you’re here now.” A gust from the ocean sent her skirt fluttering against her calves. “I suppose I was curious.” “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, you know.” He glanced sideways at the fortune teller’s booth. “Sometimes it’s better not to know what comes next.” She laughed, too quickly. “And yet you’re the one who left the note.” He moved closer, the glow of the carnival reflected in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you again?” She should have retreated, should have remembered all the warnings tucked away in her upbringing, the rules about strange men and strange places. But what was the alternative? Another summer spent watching life from behind glass, safe but untouched? And now, with him so near, she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way the pulse leapt in his throat. She said, “I might believe you. But I’d want to know why.” He tilted his head, studying her. “Because you looked at me as though you wanted to learn my secrets. Most people only want to tell you theirs.” She felt herself flush, the heat crawling up her neck. “That’s not true.” “Oh, I think it is.” He leaned in, just enough for her to catch the scent of tobacco on his breath. “You like mysteries. You want to solve them. Or maybe you want to be part of one.” Her heart stuttered. The air between them seemed charged, threaded with something electric and sharp. She wanted to ask his name, but the moment felt too fragile, as if a name would break the spell. Instead, she said, “Do you think Madame Zora knows what we’re doing here?” He glanced at the fortune teller’s booth, where a battered sign promised answers for a dime. “She knows everything and nothing, I suspect. Would you like to ask her?” She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. He watched her, dark eyes searching. “What are you afraid of?” She looked away, out toward the sea, where the last light bled into the horizon. “I’m not sure yet.” He smiled, but it was a different smile now—gentler, tinged with something almost like sadness. “You can walk away, if you want. I won’t follow.” She almost believed him. Almost. But the way he stood—so still, so certain—belied the words. He would let her walk, yes. But he knew she wouldn’t. A silence stretched between them, brittle and expectant. She heard herself ask, “Do you always meet strangers like this?” He shrugged, expression unreadable. “No. But sometimes you recognize someone before you know their name.” She shivered, though the night was warm. He reached out, hesitated, then brushed a stray curl from her cheek. His fingers were cool, lingering a heartbeat too long. “You’re trembling.” She wanted to deny it, but her voice caught. “It’s only the wind.” He laughed softly. “You don’t have to lie to me.” Did she? Did she have to protect herself, even now? Or was it more dangerous to surrender? The lights from the carousel spun dizzying patterns across the boardwalk. Behind her, Madame Zora’s booth seemed to watch, silent and knowing, the palmistry charts glimmering ghostly in the gloom. She said, “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He leaned in, his lips almost grazing her ear. “Neither do I. Isn’t that the best part?” For a moment, she let herself lean into him, just enough to feel the heat of his body, the promise of his mouth so close to hers. **Is this what I want?** The question burned through her, dangerous and thrilling. She pulled back, searching his eyes. “If I go with you—if I stay—what happens next?” He smiled, slow and wicked. “That’s up to you.” She realized, all at once, that she was trembling not from fear, but from anticipation. The world had narrowed to the space between their bodies, to the hush of the crowd, to the pulse beating in her throat. He offered his hand, palm up, as if inviting her to read his future. She hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his. Madame Zora’s door creaked open behind them, a shadow flickering in the lamplight. The old woman’s eyes were sharp and bright, her voice like the wind through bones. “Careful, dearie,” she called out, lips curling in a sly smile. “The cards say every desire has its price.” She felt the man’s fingers tighten around hers, warm and sure. She smiled, finally, no longer afraid. “Let’s see what happens,” she whispered, and together they stepped into the darkening carnival, the promise of danger—and something far sweeter—waiting just ahead.

Model Output:
**Chapter Two** The next morning, the sky pressed low and heavy, bruised with clouds that threatened rain but never delivered. JT woke to the smell of burnt coffee and the crackle of the wood stove, the familiar sounds of the lodge echoing hollowly in his chest. He lay in the narrow bunk, tracing the knots in the pine ceiling, the image of the buck replaying behind his eyes on a loop. That unblinking gaze. His father’s hand, trembling in the half-light. Mike breathing shallow, lips parted. He listened for voices, but the only sound was the slow drip of the kitchen tap and the distant, persistent tick of a clock. JT slipped on wool socks, cold and damp from where he’d left them by the door. He paused in the hallway, watching his father’s back hunched over the stove. Mike was nowhere to be seen. “Morning,” JT said, voice rough with sleep. His father didn’t turn. “Coffee’s hot,” he said, as though reciting a line he’d practiced all his life. JT poured a cup, holding the chipped mug between his hands. “Where’s Mike?” he asked. “Out back. Checking the woodpile,” his father replied. He didn’t look up, didn’t say anything else. JT watched the man’s shoulders, the way they seemed to sag lower than usual, like some invisible weight was pressing him down. JT thought about asking, about the clearing, about the way his father’s eyes had shone. But the words stuck behind his teeth. Some part of him knew: you don’t name the things you fear. Not here. Not with him. Outside, the woods pressed up against the edge of the clearing, branches rattling with a wind that never seemed to reach the ground. JT found Mike crouched over the woodpile, splitting logs with a methodical violence, each stroke of the axe ringing out sharp and final. Mike didn’t look up. “You coming out today?” JT hesitated. “Yeah. Course.” “Dad says we’ll head north. Across the ridge.” Mike’s voice was flat, mechanical. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of dirt across his forehead. “You sleep okay?” JT shrugged. “Fine.” Mike split another log, sending two halves tumbling apart. “Did you see—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “Never mind.” JT wanted to ask, wanted to force it out into the open, but he could feel the words sliding away, slippery and uncertain. Instead, he picked up a chunk of wood and carried it inside. They set out after breakfast, rifles slung over their shoulders, boots crunching through frost-stiff grass. The air was colder than it should have been, each breath burning sharp in JT’s lungs. The silence between the three of them was different now—stretched thin, brittle, like glass about to shatter. The woods felt different, too. JT kept catching glimpses of movement just at the edge of his vision—shadows slipping between the birches, the glint of antlers in the brush. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, just nerves, just the usual tricks of the forest. But the feeling persisted, a thickening in the air, a sense that they were being watched, catalogued, measured. They made their way up the ridge, following game trails etched deep into the soft earth. JT’s boots felt too loud. His own breath sounded like a warning. He glanced at his father, who walked with his head down, gaze fixed on the ground, as if he feared what he might see if he looked up. Mike broke the silence first. “We should split up,” he said, voice unnaturally bright. “Cover more ground.” He looked at their father, who just nodded. JT’s heart thudded in his chest. “I’ll go east,” he offered, hoping his voice didn’t shake. His father looked at him then, eyes rimmed red and watery. “Stay close to the trail,” he said, voice thick. “Don’t go wandering off.” JT nodded, clutching his rifle too tightly. He moved off through the undergrowth, the silence in his ears deafening. He tried to listen for birds, for squirrels, for any sign that the world was as it should be, but the woods were empty. Even the wind seemed to have died, leaving only the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He walked for what felt like hours, the landscape shifting in subtle, unsettling ways. Trees seemed to crowd closer, branches arching overhead in tangled knots. Sometimes he’d catch the scent of something sweet and rotting, thick as syrup, but when he turned, nothing was there. He thought about calling out, just to hear another voice, but his throat felt raw, his tongue thick and useless. At some point, JT realized he’d lost the trail. He stopped, breath coming fast, panic prickling at the edges of his vision. He forced himself to take stock, to look for broken twigs or bootprints. Everything looked the same—endless trees, endless brush. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the map in his mind, but all he could see was the buck, standing silent in the clearing. A branch snapped behind him. JT spun, rifle raised, finger trembling on the trigger. For a moment, the world held its breath. A caribou stood in the shadows, half-hidden by the undergrowth. Not the buck from before—this one was smaller, a doe, her fur mottled and patchy. Her eyes were wide and dark, reflecting nothing. She didn’t move. Didn’t run. JT lowered the rifle, heart hammering. The doe took a step forward, hooves silent on the soft ground. JT’s mouth went dry. He watched as she drew closer, until he could see the dampness of her nose, the way her breath steamed in the cold air. “Go on,” JT whispered. “Get out of here.” The doe cocked her head, as if trying to understand. Then, in a voice that was not a voice at all—more a feeling that pressed against the inside of JT’s skull—he felt a thought, alien and cold: **You are not the hunter here.** JT staggered back, tripping over a root. The doe blinked slowly, then turned and melted into the trees. For a long time, JT sat in the dirt, breathing hard, sweat chilling on his skin. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, that the woods hadn’t spoken to him, that this was just exhaustion and nerves. But when he finally forced himself to his feet, every step back toward the lodge felt watched, measured. He didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not Mike, not his father, not even himself. That night, as darkness pressed up against the windows and the wind finally began to howl, JT lay awake, listening to the creak of the lodge and the low murmur of voices downstairs. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if the woods were waiting for him to come back, or if, in some way he didn’t understand, he’d never really left.

Model Output:
**Hell is Other Demons** Lucifer Morningstar’s alarm clock—a shrieking chorus of the Damned—went off at precisely 7:00 a.m. Hell Standard Time. He groaned, rolled over, and stubbed a toe on a pitchfork. It was always the same pitchfork, lurking malevolently at the edge of his obsidian bed. He made a mental note to have it exorcised. Again. The morning drizzle of ash fell in a soft, never-ending curtain outside the stained-glass windows of his quarters. The sky was the color of old bruises; the air, thick with the scent of burnt cinnamon. Lucifer padded across the floor, leaving faint, smoldering footprints on the tiles, and started the espresso machine. It gurgled like a newly damned soul. He checked his phone—a sleek, infernal creation with a screen that flickered between flames and notifications. Three missed messages from Beelzebub about a demon union dispute, one from the IT department regarding firewall breaches (literal and digital), and—ah. A message from Lilith. Just the single word: “Later?” He stared at it, thumb hovering. He didn’t reply. Not yet. The game, he supposed, was still afoot. By 8 a.m., Lucifer was seated at his desk, reviewing the day’s tortures. The new sinners—hedge fund managers, mostly—required tailored punishments. He dictated a memo: “No more ironic punishments. Just straightforward agony. The irony is, I’m tired of irony.” His assistant, a minor demon named Clive, nodded and took notes. Clive had three heads and a penchant for passive-aggression. At 9:30, the Board of Suffering convened. The meeting room was a cavern lined with stalactites and motivational posters (“Hang in There!” over images of souls dangling over pits). The discussion was the usual: quotas down, morale up, and someone had let Cerberus off his leash again. Lucifer listened with half an ear. He doodled pentagrams in the margins of his agenda. At 11:11, a knock at the office door. Lilith. She entered without waiting for permission—she never did—and surveyed the room as if she owned it. (She had, once. Several times, in fact.) She wore a dress the color of midnight and a smirk that could start wars. Ash clung to her hair, sparkling like diamonds. She didn’t brush it away. “Morning, Luci,” she said, dropping into the chair opposite his desk and propping her boots up. The boots were made from the tanned hide of an archangel, if rumor was to be believed. “Lilith. To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is it business today?” Lucifer leaned back, folding his hands. He tried to sound nonchalant. He probably failed. “Bit of both. I need a favor. Also, Clive’s been spreading rumors about you and the succubus from Accounting.” She arched an eyebrow. “I told him you’re not her type. She likes her men… less complicated.” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Clive spreads rumors. That’s practically his job description.” Lilith shrugged. “Just thought you should know. Anyway, I need you to sign off on the new circle expansion. My department’s getting cramped.” He took the papers she slid across the desk, their edges singed. “You could have emailed.” “Emails are for mortals. Besides,”—she leaned in, her gaze sharp—“I missed the smell of brimstone in the morning.” He tried not to smile. He failed. They lapsed into silence, the comfortable kind that comes from centuries of shared history and mutual exasperation. The drizzle of ash thickened, tapping gently against the windows. At noon, they took lunch in the Infernal Cafeteria. The specials were “Souls on Toast” and “Endless Regret Salad.” Lilith picked at her meal, pushing a crouton shaped like a screaming face around her plate. “So. You seeing anyone?” she asked, far too casually. Lucifer choked on his coffee—black, of course, and hotter than the surface of Mercury. “Besides Clive?” he managed, wiping his mouth. She smiled, showing just a hint of fang. “Besides Clive.” He considered lying, but what was the point? “No. The dating pool down here is somewhat… shallow.” He paused. “And poisoned.” “Mm. Shame.” She didn’t look at him when she said it. After lunch, they walked together through the corridors of Hell. Ash fell on their shoulders like confetti for a parade that never ended. Demons scurried out of their way, some snickering, others bowing, a few pretending not to notice the palpable tension. They stopped at the River of Lost Hopes. The souls bobbing in the current moaned in six-part harmony. Lilith tossed in a pebble. “Remember when we used to come here and make fun of the poets?” Lucifer grinned, nostalgia threading through his voice. “You always liked the ones who wrote about unrequited love.” “They’re the tastiest.” She glanced at him sidelong. “You’re lonely, you know.” He shrugged, watching a soul shaped like a stockbroker spin in the eddies. “It’s Hell. Loneliness is part of the brand.” She stepped closer, brushing ash from his lapel. “Doesn’t have to be.” They lingered, neither quite willing to move away. Somewhere, a demon cackled. The drizzle of ash intensified, sifting into their hair, their clothes, their unspoken words. By 5 p.m., Lilith was gone—vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared, leaving only the faintest scent of night-blooming flowers and old sin. Lucifer returned to his office, the silence pressing in. Clive shuffled papers, studiously avoiding his gaze. He stared at Lilith’s signed forms, still warm from her touch. He considered calling her back. He didn’t. Not yet. He looked out the window at the endless ashfall. The day ended as it had begun: with longing, with bureaucracy, and with the certainty that, even in Hell, love was the cruelest punishment of all. He smiled, just a little, and waited for the next “Later?”

Model Output:
The sun had barely lifted above the tiles of the ludus, and already the air was heavy, thick with the brine of sweat and the stinging tang of iron. I woke to the low grumble of men stirring, the clatter of sandals against the stone, and the unmistakable scrape of a whetstone against steel. Even before I opened my eyes, I could taste the dust in the back of my throat—the fine, gritty powder that seemed to settle on everything in Rome, from the grandeur of the temples to the cracks beneath a slave’s nails. My name is Crixus, though the trainers call me “Gallus” for my accent and my stubbornness. I am a murmillo—a fish-man, they say—because of the great crested helmet I wear and the broad, rectangular scutum I wield. My weapon is the gladius: short, double-edged, and as weighty as the fate that binds me. It rests beside my sleeping mat, wrapped in oiled cloth. I keep it sharp myself, though the armorers offer their services. The act of tending to it is ritual, a small defiance, a way to remember that it belongs, in some measure, to me. Today was no day of games, only of preparation. Yet the city beyond the high walls of the ludus was already alive, its breath a chorus of vendors’ shouts and the distant clatter of chariot wheels. The scent of baking bread drifted in on the breeze, mixed with the sour reek of the tanneries and the ever-present undercurrent of sewage in the gutters. Rome was a city of a million souls, and every one of them seemed to make their presence known in the morning air. Lupus, the Thracian, was already up, pacing the length of the sand-strewn yard. He greeted me with a nod, his eyes still haunted from last week’s munus, where he’d sent a new recruit to the afterlife. I wondered if he dreamt of it, as I did—blood on sand, the roar of the mob, the moment when fate sat on the razor’s edge. But we did not speak of such things. Instead, we gathered with the others by the water trough, splashing our faces, feeling the cool sting against battered skin. Breakfast was bread, hard and crusted, and a cup of watered wine. We ate in silence, under the watchful gaze of Doctore, his whip coiled at his belt, his eyes missing nothing. We were property here, men made into beasts for the entertainment of the masses. Yet in the quiet of the morning, before the drills began, I could sometimes almost forget. I ran my thumb along the edge of my gladius. It was not as elegant as the curved sica of the Thracians, nor as long as the spatha favored by the cavalry. But it was reliable. Balanced. Its weight was the measure of my life—a tool, yes, but also a shield, a hope. I remembered the day it was given to me, the first time I felt its heft. They told me it was Roman steel, forged in the fires of the empire. I wondered how many hands had held it before mine, how many men it had saved or doomed. There was talk this morning, low and urgent, of bread riots in the Subura. The people were restless again. Grain was short, the emperor’s coffers strained by distant wars and the endless demands of the games. The lanista, always eager for news, whispered that a senator’s son would fight in the next munus—a rare thing, a sign of the times. Perhaps he hoped to win favor with the crowd, to distract them from the hunger and the taxes. Or perhaps he simply wished to prove himself, to shed the softness of privilege with a few drops of blood. I wondered if he would survive. If his mother would weep for him as my own had for me, long ago, when I was taken from my village and marched south in chains. The crowd, I knew, would not care. They cheered for death as easily as for mercy. In the amphitheater, we were all equal—slave and citizen, foreigner and Roman. It was a lie, of course, but a powerful one. The drills began, the crack of Doctore’s whip echoing off the walls. We moved in formation, shields raised, gladii flashing in the morning sun. Sweat ran in rivulets down my back, mingling with the dust. My muscles burned, but I welcomed the pain. It was proof that I was alive, that I was more than a plaything for the mob. Between drills, I stole a glance at the city beyond. From the training yard, I could see the dome of the Pantheon rising above the rooftops, and above that, the column of smoke from the bakeries and the braziers. Somewhere, senators plotted and schemed, generals marched to distant frontiers, and priests sacrificed doves to the gods. Below, the poor crowded the insulae, their bellies empty, their futures uncertain. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to walk those streets as a free man, to choose my own path. But such thoughts were dangerous. Hope was a double-edged blade, sharp but liable to turn in your hand. Better to focus on the rituals of survival—the sharpening of steel, the grip of the shield, the rhythm of the drills. Later, as the sun reached its zenith and the yard shimmered with heat, we were released for the midday rest. I sat in the shade, my back against the cool stone, my gladius across my knees. I traced the lines of its blade with a cloth, polishing away the morning’s dust. It was a small act, but it mattered. It reminded me that I was still myself, not yet wholly consumed by the role they wrote for me. The others laughed and gambled, their voices echoing in the yard. For a moment, I closed my eyes and imagined the cheers of the crowd—not as a summons to violence, but as applause for my freedom. I held that vision close, as I did my sword, knowing it would fade with the setting sun. But for now, it was enough.

Model Output:
**The Lighthouse Keeper** **Letter 1** *2 February 1961* *Flannan Isles Lighthouse* Ma, Arrived yesternight, after a crossing rough enough to make a better man heave. The place stands as promised: stout, white, and blasted by wind. I’ve got my rooms and a cupboard for food, and the lamp to mind. The sea’s louder than I thought, even with the windows shut tight. They left me a small brass compass, marked with “A.M. 1911” on the lid. Old, but true. I keep it on the sill to catch what sun there is. Reminds me of Da, though his hands never left the ship’s wheel much. No fuss, Ma. I’ll write as I can. Tell Maisie not to pinch my shirts for rags. Your wee Davie --- **Letter 2** *6 February 1961* *Leith, Edinburgh* Dearest Davie, Your letter put my heart at ease. The compass sounds a lovely thing, and I’m glad it keeps you company. I’ve set your shirts aside, but Maisie’s grown like a weed—she’ll be in your boots soon. Don’t let the wind get through your bones. I’ve sent a wool scarf with the next post. Write when you can, and keep yourself fed. All love, Ma --- **Letter 3** *20 February 1961* *Flannan Isles* Ma, Food’s enough, but everything tastes of salt. I’ve taken to boiling water thrice. The scarf arrived, red as a robin. Cheers for that. The lamp’s a stubborn thing, always in need of polish, never quite clean. The gulls scream all night. I tried reading, but there’s little light, and the words swim about. Sometimes I walk round the tower, compass in my fist. North’s always north, though nothing else here is sure. I miss the sound of your kettle whistling. Yours, Davie --- **Letter 4** *28 February 1961* *Leith* My dear lad, I read your words aloud to Maisie, though she pretends not to listen. She does, and I do too, every line. Maisie’s doing sums at school, and I mind how you hated them. I made scones today—next time you’re home, I’ll bake double. I’m glad the scarf suits. Mind your hands with that lamp. No shame in missing home. With love, Ma --- **Letter 5** *19 March 1961* *Flannan Isles* Ma, Storm last night. Windows rattled, whole place felt to be floating. I kept the lamp burning, but the wind snatched my sleep. Found a bottle washed up, green glass, stopper still in. Nothing inside but the ghost of the sea. I’ll scrub it and keep it on the shelf with the compass. Little treasures. Maisie’ll do better at her sums than I ever did. I never minded numbers, just the way teachers said them. Missing scones, Davie --- **Letter 6** *3 April 1961* *Leith* Davie, The bottle sounds pretty. I can see you turning it in your hands, thinking. You always did find odd things—shells, stones, now this. Maisie’s proud of you, though she calls you “old man Davie” since your last birthday. The house feels quiet at night. I miss the sound of your boots on the stair. Keep writing. We’re listening. All love, Ma --- **Letter 7** *23 May 1961* *Flannan Isles* Ma, I’ve not seen another soul in weeks. The postboat comes and goes, but the men say little—they just hand me the sack and nod. Been talking to the compass some nights, foolish as it sounds. It’s still true as ever, never wavers. When I miss home most, I hold it and think of Da steering through fog. I worry you and Maisie, being so far. But I’m managing. The lighthouse needs me; that means something, I think. Davie --- **Letter 8** *12 June 1961* *Leith* My dear Davie, You’re not foolish to talk to the compass. It’s part of you, and of your Da too. Maisie’s going to the shore with her school—she says she’ll bring you a stone, as you did for her. We’re proud of you for sticking it out, even if it’s hard. You’re missed, but you’re not forgotten. With love, Ma --- **Letter 9** *29 August 1961* *Flannan Isles* Ma, Felt poorly these last weeks. Chest tight, dreams unsettled. The weather’s turned, and the gulls are gone. The lamp’s a comfort at night, but it doesn’t chase away the cold like you used to with tea and a fire. I keep the compass in my pocket, hand warm on brass. I think Da would have liked it here, though he’d have cursed the damp. Maisie’s stone arrived—a round, black pebble. I set it with the others. I’ll be home at Christmas, if the sea allows. I hope I can stand the noise of the city after all this silence. Missing you both, Davie --- **Letter 10** *22 December 1961* *Leith* Davie, We wait for you. The house is scrubbed, your bed made. There’s a scone tin ready, and I’ll put the kettle on the moment you step through the door. You’ve done well, son. When you’re here, we’ll walk down to the harbour and look at the ships, and you can tell us about the lamp, and the compass, and every little thing you’ve seen. Whatever else, you’re never alone. Not truly. Hurry home, Ma --- **Letter 11** *6 January 1962* *Flannan Isles* Ma, Back at the lighthouse after Christmas. The city was loud, but warm. Your scones were as good as I remembered. The compass sits in my hand now, steady as ever. I brought a scrap of the red scarf to tie to the lamp handle, so it’ll always feel like home in here. The pebble, the bottle, and the compass are lined up on the sill. I’m not afraid of the quiet now. I think of you, and Maisie, and Da, and I know where I am. North’s north, and home’s never far. All my love, Davie

Model Output:
I’m not casing the joint. I swear I’m not. But as soon as I walk into the restaurant, my eyes catch the dinky router perched on a shelf, blue lights blinking like a Morse code distress signal. The WiFi password—“Pizza1234”—is taped to the register in faded Sharpie, next to a tip jar that someone’s boosted a five from. I clock the point-of-sale terminal, an ancient iPad with a cracked corner, and the manager’s laptop open with an email client—unlocked—facing the kitchen. It’s all just background noise to a mind like mine. I can’t help it. I’m here for Sara, not vulnerabilities. Focus, man. She’s already seated, scrolling on her phone, her thumb flicking with a practiced boredom. I take a breath, push away the urge to check for rogue access points, and slide into the booth. She smiles at me—bright, unguarded—and that’s when I realize this could actually be fun. The first ten minutes are smooth. She laughs at my dumb joke about pineapple on pizza (“it’s an exploit, not a topping”), and we realize we both played Magic in high school. She’s a blue-black player. I’d pegged her for red-green, but I don’t say it. She’s witty, and the conversation bounces, like a good game—action, counter, draw, reveal. But I still can’t turn it off. Every time she glances at her phone, I mentally catalog the fingerprint smudges on her screen, the way her purse sits wide open, her lock screen—wait. There it is. She unlocks it, and I see the pattern: swipe up, left, down, right, up. The classic “C.” Easy to shoulder-surf, easy to brute-force. Four moves. I could unlock that in my sleep. I bite my tongue, try to let it go, but it’s like an itch. The words are out before I can stop them. “You know, that unlock pattern’s not very secure. You might want to switch it up.” The moment freezes. Sara blinks, her phone hovering midair. Her face closes, just a little. I watch the shields go up, her eyes flicking from me to her phone, as if I might snatch it from her. Nice going, genius. I backpedal. “Sorry, I just—kind of a habit. I used to do security stuff. Old reflexes.” I force a laugh, but it sounds thin. She sets the phone down, screen facedown, and leans back. “Were you, like, a hacker or something?” I nod, trying not to look sheepish. “Yeah, but the good kind now. White hat.” I resist the urge to say more, to explain how I used to break into systems for fun, for the puzzle. That I see cracks in everything: passwords written on sticky notes, unpatched Windows machines, people with predictable PINs and predictable lives. That I have to remind myself, over and over, that not everything is a target. She squints at me, playful but wary. “So you’re judging my phone pattern?” “No, just… I notice things. It’s like… a tic.” I want to say: I can’t help it. I want to say: I’m trying. She lets it hang for a second, then smirks. “Well, Mr. Security, what’s your password?” I almost laugh. “Random 16-character string. Upper, lower, numbers, symbols. I don’t even know it. Password manager handles it.” She raises an eyebrow, impressed or amused, I can’t tell which. “Paranoid much?” I shrug. “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands heavy. She glances at the WiFi sign, then grins. “Guess you’re not logging into ‘Pizza1234’?” I shake my head. “That’s the first thing I noticed when I walked in. Seriously, they might as well hand out free malware with the breadsticks.” She laughs, and the tension breaks a little. I exhale, quietly. Maybe this isn’t a total crash and burn. We order. She wants a weird vegan pizza. I get pepperoni. The server’s iPad dings as he walks away, and I can’t help but notice the lock screen’s wide open, iOS 13, two updates behind. Old habits. I force myself to focus on Sara. Magic cards. Favorite sets. She gets animated talking about Modern Horizons, and I catch myself smiling. This is what I came for. But my mind drifts. What’s her email password? Does she reuse it? Has she been pwned in a breach? If I wanted, I could probably figure out her social media logins by the time dessert hits the table. I shake it off. She’s a person, not a CTF challenge. She asks about my job, and I tell her—red-teaming for a fintech company. “I get paid to break in, but ethically.” I can see her trying to imagine it. I want her to get it. That it’s about thinking differently, about seeing the world as a maze of locked doors and hidden keys. She leans in. “So, you ever get tempted? To go black hat again?” I wince. “No. Not anymore. The rush is still there, but… I like helping people more than hurting them.” She nods, thoughtful. “Guess that’s why you noticed my lock pattern.” I smile, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s just how my brain works. I see weak points. It’s not personal.” “And what if I like being a little careless?” She’s teasing now, a spark of challenge in her eye. I grin. “Then I’ll just have to offset your risk profile with my overpreparedness. We’ll average out to normal.” She laughs, and it’s real this time. The conversation picks up again, lighter. We talk about favorite planeswalkers—she loves Jace, I’m a Tamiyo fan. She tells me about her cat, I tell her I grew up on BBSes. It’s awkward, but it works. But as we finish our meal, she unlocks her phone again with the same pattern. I catch myself about to say something—again—and clamp my mouth shut. Let it go, I think. Not every flaw needs to be patched. Maybe that’s what being reformed really means. Not fixing everything you see—just noticing, and letting people be. I leave the restaurant with Sara, both of us a little lighter. She glances at her phone, then at me, and grins. “Maybe I’ll change my pattern. Maybe.” I smile back. “No pressure. But if you ever want a security audit—just ask.” She laughs, and I realize I might actually get a second date. Maybe, just maybe, I can learn to see people as more than just their vulnerabilities. Maybe there’s a patch for that.

Model Output:
He sits across from me, two seats down, head bent over the worksheet, pencil spinning between his fingers. My hands are flat on the table, palms sweaty, fingers splayed out as if I’m trying to fuse myself to the desk, become something solid and immovable, not a person at all. I wonder if my face looks as red as it feels. Please don’t. Please don’t. Our group is supposed to be discussing the results from last week’s photosynthesis experiment—spinach leaves, those floating disks, all of it faded now except for the way he laughed when Jamie dropped a beaker and everyone jumped except him. I should say something, contribute, act like a Normal Person. What would a Normal Person say? Maybe I could ask, “Do you think the sodium bicarbonate solution was too concentrated?” Or would that sound like I’m trying too hard? Would he roll his eyes? The others are talking, but I can’t hear them properly, just a hum, like being underwater except the water is made of words I can’t quite catch. My mind is a hive of possible sentences, each one stinging me before it ever gets out. He glances up. Eye contact—don’t panic. Don’t smile too fast, don’t look away too quick. I try to arrange my face into neutral interest, but my lips twitch and I feel stupid, like I’m grimacing. I should look at my notes. I look at my notes. There’s nothing on them except my own handwriting: “Photosynthesis: light + CO2 → glucose + O2.” Chemistry symbols, little doodles. Is that enough? Should I say something about the O2 bubbles? “Did anyone notice how the bubbles—” No, that’s dumb. Everyone noticed the bubbles. I pick at the edge of the worksheet. Maybe if I contribute quietly, he’ll notice that I’m smart, not just the silent, weird girl who never talks unless called on. What if I say it wrong? What if my voice cracks, or worse, comes out too loud, like that one time in sixth grade and everyone laughed and I wanted to crawl into my backpack and zip it up from the inside. He laughs at something Jamie says. His laugh is like a chord, all the notes in the right places. I wish I could say something funny, something that would make him look at me the way he looks at Jamie, like I’m someone worth listening to. Instead I am calculating risk, like a computer running endless simulations: If I say X, will he think Y? If I smile now, will it look forced? If I ask about his soccer game, will it be obvious I noticed? Will he think I’m obsessed? The ammonia smell from the janitor’s cleaning cart wafts through the vent—sharp, chemical, makes my eyes water. I blink hard. It’s like it’s burning the inside of my nose, right into my brain, and for a second I’m grateful for the distraction. Maybe if I focus on the smell, I won’t notice how my heart is pounding too loud, how my hands are shaking just a little. I wonder if anyone else smells it. Should I mention it? Is that a weird thing to say? “Does anyone else smell ammonia?” Too random. They’ll think I’m trying to change the subject, or worse, like I’m just weird. I run through my stockpile of safe topics: The experiment. The worksheet. The upcoming quiz. His soccer game. No, not that. Too personal. He’ll know I pay attention. Is that bad? Is it desperate? He’s looking at me again. I meet his eyes, just for a second. Oh God, don’t look too long. I look down. Now he’ll think I’m shy or rude or both. I should say something. Now is the moment. “Um—” I start, but Jamie talks over me, and my voice is too soft, so no one hears. Relief and disappointment crash together: I tried, I failed, but no one noticed. That’s almost as bad as failing in public, but not quite. My ears are hot. I press my pencil into the worksheet, making a tiny dent. Maybe I can try again—maybe if I just speak up a little louder. I rehearse the sentence in my head: “I think the reason the disks floated faster in the light was because of the increased rate of photosynthesis.” Too formal? Should I use contractions? “I think it’s ‘cause of the photosynthesis.” No, now I sound like I’m pretending to be casual. Why is it so hard to sound like myself? I know what I want to say, but when I go to say it, it’s like my mouth is made of clay. The ammonia stings again and I stifle a cough. Would it be weird to take a sip of water now? Too conspicuous? What if my hand shakes and I spill it? I focus on the coolness of the water bottle in my hand, the condensation slick against my palm. I count the breaths between his words, between each laugh, waiting for a space where I can slide in a comment like a coin through a slot. I imagine saying something funny, something that makes him laugh, and for a moment, in my mind, I’m articulate and effortless. He laughs, not at me, but because of me, and everyone looks at me like I belong here. But then I remember myself, the real self, and the words tangle up again. Maybe I’ll just nod at what the others say, add a “yeah” or “that makes sense.” Safe. Invisible. But if I’m invisible, he’ll never notice me. If I try too hard, he’ll notice me for all the wrong reasons. He’s collecting the worksheets now, and for a split second, our hands brush as I pass mine over. Static electricity or maybe just my imagination, but it feels like a spark. I almost say “thanks,” but my voice gets stuck. I smile instead—small, tight-lipped, probably awkward. Did I smile too much? Not enough? Was my hand sweaty? Did he notice? The conversation moves on without me. The ammonia fades, but the buzzing in my head doesn’t. I replay the moment again and again, as if the right combination of words—if I could just find them—might make everything different. Might make me different. Next time, I tell myself. Next time, I’ll say something. Maybe.

Model Output:
I can already feel it, the prickle in my stomach, the way my jaw tightens. I can’t help it—I’m late to meet Jamie, and every step toward the cafe feels heavier. I keep imagining her waiting, checking her phone, rolling her eyes. “Always late,” she’ll mutter, probably texting someone else about how unreliable I am. I can practically hear it: “Why do I put up with this? She makes everything about herself.” I clench my fists in my pockets, practicing my defense. I’ll say, “I’m doing my best, you know. You could try understanding instead of judging all the time.” Even though I know she probably won’t say anything, the words coil up in my throat, tasting bitter. I catch myself in the hallway mirror before I leave my apartment—shoulders hunched, mouth tight, eyes darting. I look like someone about to be yelled at. I look like someone who deserves it. I turn away quickly, not wanting to see more. What if she’s already decided she doesn’t want to see me today? Maybe her “distant lately” isn’t just busyness, but pulling away, realizing I’m too much. She probably wants to end things, but doesn’t know how to say it. Maybe she’ll just… let things fade. I start picturing it: she’s sitting at the cafe, deliberately facing the door so she can see me come in, and she’ll have that look—half smile, polite, not really happy. I imagine her saying, “We need to talk.” I brace myself, rehearsing what I’ll say. “If you’re going to leave, just say it. Don’t drag it out.” I picture her startled, maybe angry. “Why do you always assume the worst?” she’d say, exasperated. And then I’d shut down, or lash out, or walk away. I picture myself walking out, holding the power, or at least pretending to. But then I replay it, differently. Maybe she’s not angry, but disappointed. “I just need space,” she’d say, and I’d say, “Of course. I get it. I always push people away.” I’d try to sound casual, but my voice would wobble. I’d feel the tears coming, furious at myself for being so weak. I’d wonder if she’d comfort me, or just sigh, embarrassed for me. I imagine her getting up and leaving without looking back. I feel the ache before it even happens. I check my phone as I walk, rereading her last text: “See you at 2? Looking forward to it :)” The smiley face looks fake now. I convince myself she added it out of obligation. I try to remember if her texts used to be warmer. Maybe I did something. Maybe she found out about that thing I said to Mark, or maybe she just got sick of my moods. I picture her telling someone, “She’s just too intense. It’s exhausting.” I want to get angry at her for that, even though I don’t know if it’s true. I feel the resentment start to simmer—a shield against the hurt that’s coming. I keep going, rehearsing. If she’s cold, I’ll be colder. If she’s distant, I’ll act like I don’t care. Maybe I’ll cancel at the last minute, say I’m sick, make her wonder. But I don’t want to. I want to see her. I want her to look at me and smile for real, to reach for my hand. I want her to say, “I missed you.” I want it so much it makes me angry. Needy. Pathetic. I get to the cafe. She’s already there, waving, her face brightening when she sees me. For a moment, I’m stunned. She stands up, hugs me tight. “I was worried you got stuck at work!” Her arms feel strong, grounding. I want to melt into her. But then panic spikes—what if she’s only doing this because I’ve made her feel guilty? I search her face for clues. Is she faking it? Is she overcompensating? I can’t trust it. I try to memorize the warmth of her hug, but even as I do, I think, “She’ll take it away soon.” We sit. She talks about her week, work stress, her roommate’s new cat. She laughs at my jokes, touches my arm. I feel lighter, almost happy. I sip my coffee, nod, make her laugh again. Maybe she really does like me. I let myself believe it, just for a second, and it’s terrifying. I want to ask if we’re okay, but I’m scared it’ll ruin everything. I imagine her sighing—“Why do you always need reassurance?”—and so I stay quiet. Between the stories and laughter, I hear her say, “I’ve missed you.” It’s exactly what I wanted, but I freeze. Do I believe her? I want to. I want to wrap myself in her words, let them soothe the ache. But a voice in my head whispers, “She’s just saying that so you won’t freak out.” I smile, say, “Me too,” but inside I’m already bracing for when she pulls away. She reaches for my hand, squeezes it. “Things have just been crazy, but I’m glad we’re here.” The squeeze lingers. I feel it all the way through me, like sunlight, and then—just as quickly—it’s gone, replaced by suspicion. “She’s preparing to let you down easy,” the voice says. I nod, but I’m already replaying everything. Did I talk too much? Was I too quiet? Did she look bored at any point? I wish I could just stay in the moment, believe in the good. For a flicker, I notice the spiral—the constant rehearsals, the way I armor up before anything’s even happened, the way I twist kindness into threat. I try to tell myself, “She’s here. She’s not leaving.” But it feels too risky to trust. She asks, “Do you want to do something after this?” I almost say no, to protect myself, but I hear how desperate I sound when I say yes. She smiles again, and I wonder if she sees right through me, if she’s tired of my need. I want to ask, but I’m scared of the answer. As we leave, she slips her arm around my waist. I feel wanted, for a second, and then empty, as if it’s already over. I look in the cafe window—my face is tense, uncertain, her face open, patient. I can’t make sense of it. I tell myself to stop, just stop. I want to believe her. I want to believe I’m enough. I want to stop rehearsing how she’ll leave before she’s even thought of it. But the voices keep coming, and I keep answering them, until the next moment of warmth interrupts, and then I fight to trust it, even as my mind edges toward the next rejection.

Model Output:
The moon cast broken shafts of pale light through the fractured roof of the old temple, illuminating the makeshift arena where stone tiles buckled and weeds claimed the floor. A ring of figures pressed close—faces tense, voices hushed—each marked by a red-and-black armband. On one side, supporters of the Jigen-ryū, backs ramrod straight, faces set in imperious scowls. Opposite, the Piguaquan crowd, rowdier, sleeves rolled, eyes bright with anticipation and barely concealed malice. At the center, two men squared off, tension coiled in their sinews. The Jigen-ryū fighter, Arata, stood tall and rigid, his hakama brushing cracked stone, posture radiating disdain. He settled into seigan-no-kamae, left foot forward, bokken gripped low at his hip—though the blade was wooden, the intent was anything but ceremonial. His glare cut across the space, promising both violence and contempt. Across from him, Jian, the Piguaquan adept, moved with restless energy. He wore loose, faded trousers, wrists wrapped in fraying cloth. His stance was low, weight distributed evenly, left arm extended, right coiled near his waist. He rolled his shoulders, neck twisting, eyes never still—measuring distance, seeking openings, the air around him alive with potential motion. A gong sounded, cracked but unmistakable. Arata exploded forward, a blur of black and red. His right foot slammed down, launching his entire body into a surging diagonal cut, the bokken streaking toward Jian’s collarbone with a thunderous *kiai!*. The air snapped with the force and arrogance of the strike—Jigen-ryū’s signature, overwhelming and direct. Jian slid back, pivoting on his right heel, the force of Arata’s assault passing inches from his chest. As Arata’s momentum carried him forward, Jian’s left arm snapped out in a whipping arc, palm aimed at Arata’s exposed ribs. The strike was fast, almost casual, but Arata twisted, catching the blow on his forearm, absorbing it with a grunt. Arata responded instantly, planting his rear foot and spinning on the balls of his feet, bokken now arcing horizontally toward Jian’s jaw. Jian ducked low, the tip of the wooden sword slicing the air above his scalp, and rolled laterally to Arata’s right. He used the momentum to spring up inside Arata’s guard, both palms open, lashing out in a double-handed strike aimed at Arata’s chest. Arata, anticipating the move, drove his knee upward, intercepting Jian’s attack. The impact jarred Jian’s arms, but he let his elbows collapse, rolling with the force, absorbing the blow. He spun away, dancing backwards, feet whispering across mossy stone, creating space while Arata regained his balance. Around them, the crowd pressed tighter, breathless. Wagers changed hands. Insults and encouragement rang out in equal measure. Arata’s eyes narrowed. He advanced, each step deliberate, corralling Jian toward a half-collapsed pillar at the temple’s edge. Sensing the trap, Jian feinted left. Arata lunged, anticipating, bokken aimed at Jian’s thigh. But Jian reversed direction, spinning inside Arata’s strike, his right arm lashing upward in a whipping backfist that smacked Arata’s temple. The sound echoed, sharp and shocking. Staggering, Arata snarled. He dropped low, sweeping his bokken at Jian’s ankles, a move meant to cripple. Jian leapt straight up, knees tucked, body folding mid-air. As he landed, he kicked out, his heel smashing into Arata’s shoulder, driving him back. The Jigen-ryū crowd howled in outrage; the Piguaquan side roared in delight. Arata’s pride stung more than his bruises. He surged forward recklessly, unleashing a flurry—three rapid strikes: overhead slash, thrust to the torso, upward cut. Each stroke was a masterclass in speed and precision, but Jian bent, twisted, and deflected, each movement circular, redirecting Arata’s force. The bokken whistled past, missing by a hair’s breadth every time. Jian seized an opening, stepping inside a wild cut. He grabbed Arata’s wrist and yanked, pulling him off-balance. With a pivot, Jian sank low, his left leg sweeping Arata’s feet, toppling the samurai-style fighter onto the cold stone. Arata rolled, using the momentum, springing to his feet, but lost precious ground. Jian pressed the advantage, delivering a flurry of open-handed chops—left, right, left—each narrowly evaded or blocked by Arata’s forearms. Sweat streaked both faces; blood trickled from Arata’s split lip. Jian’s breathing was rapid, his left eye swelling from that earlier knee. Neither yielded an inch. They circled, breath ragged, eyes locked. Arata slid sideways, positioning himself between Jian and the temple’s grand altar—a raised platform of stone that promised dead ends and tight quarters. Jian noticed too late; Arata lunged, driving him backward. Jian’s back struck the altar’s edge. Arata unleashed another salvo: a jab to the gut, a downward strike at Jian’s shoulder, and a feint to the head. Jian ducked, then slipped to his left, using the stone as cover. Arata’s bokken struck the altar, splintering wood and sending chips flying. Jian seized the moment, grasping Arata’s weapon arm, twisting it, and ramming his palm into Arata’s elbow. The bokken clattered to the floor. Now weaponless, Arata fell into a low stance, fists raised. The crowd surged at the ring’s edge, shouts feverish. Jian advanced, whipping his right arm in a circular arc, palm open, aiming at Arata’s jaw. Arata ducked, closed the distance, and drove his shoulder into Jian’s torso, tackling him to the ground. They crashed onto the shattered tiles, grappling for control. Jian snarled, twisting his hips, using his legs to scissor Arata’s waist, rolling them over. He rained short, chopping strikes onto Arata’s head and neck. Arata bucked, slamming his forehead into Jian’s chin, stunning him. He scrambled free, both men now on their knees, blood smeared across faces and arms. They rose together, battered, defiant. Arata, teeth bared, launched a last, desperate attack—a lunging punch, all his remaining strength behind it. Jian slipped aside, grabbing Arata’s wrist, spinning him with a dancer’s grace, and delivered a final, brutal palm strike to the base of Arata’s skull. Arata crumpled, collapsing to his knees, then onto his face, motionless. The temple fell silent. Jian staggered back, chest heaving, arms trembling—victorious. For a heartbeat, pride and hatred hung thick in the ruined air. And then, as money changed hands and cries of triumph and outrage broke out, the debt of blood and rivalry was paid—at least for tonight—on the altar of ancient stone and shattered pride.

Model Output:
The floor’s so polished I catch my own warped reflection every time I drop for a freeze. Slick as glass, not like the concrete back home, pitted and tattooed with bubblegum and spit. Here, the only grit is in my sneakers—the last time I’ll be allowed to wear them if Instructor Lee has his way. He’s pacing, arms folded, eyes like scalpels, watching me fumble through the second chorus. The speakers in each corner blast the bass line, not quite in sync, so the beat fractures—a stuttered echo that scrapes my nerves raw. I’m somewhere in the back line, sandwiched between two trainees with identical haircuts and knees that rise to chest-height on every battement. We’re supposed to move as one body—twenty kids, four rows, all angles and edges—but I keep catching my reflection, my arms a split-second too late, my chest pops too round. The move’s simple, on paper: step out left, right hand slices diagonally down, head snaps, chest locks, then pivot into a synchronized ripple, sharp as dominoes falling. But my body wants to ride the beat, not hammer it flat. I want to slide, not snap. Lee claps once, a thundercrack. “Again. From the top. No freestyle. I will not ask again.” I nod, sweat making my shirt cling, every muscle tight as barbed wire. My feet are too wide—habit from b-boying, always ready to drop into a six-step or windmill. Here, they want fifth position, heels kissing, toes out, a stance I only learned last month. The mirrors stretch the room into infinity, every mistake multiplying. I spot my own shoulder sagging, my left elbow too low. The girl next to me, Minji, glances over, lips pressed tight. I try to match her, raise my elbow, but it feels like someone’s cinching my joints with zip ties. On the count, we step left. I try to let the music fill me, but Lee’s voice cuts through the beat: “One, two, three, four!” Each number is a gunshot. My arm slices, but too much curve; I can’t kill the swing. Their heads snap like whiplash, mine lags, hair flying wild. My chest pop—supposed to be a lock, a freeze-frame—but muscle memory betrays me and it rolls, a wave instead of a stop. The ripple’s next. The move is a canon: the front row initiates, arms rising with blade-straight wrists, then each row follows, half a beat apart. Commercial choreography worships precision. My neighborhood crew, we’d toss the move around, let it bounce and break, let each person remix it. Here, I have to match Minji’s angle, Jinwoo’s timing, the line of Lee’s expectations. I feel my torso tense, try to lock my scapulae, but my shoulder twitches, out of sync. The ripple stutters, and Lee’s gaze lands on me. He stalks over. The other dancers freeze. His hand clamps my wrist, lifts my arm until it’s level. “Not like this. Like this.” His own arm snaps up, bicep tight, wrist flexed, no softness. “Again.” I try. My shoulder aches. The lock is foreign, a language I don’t speak. “You have power,” he says, low, for my ears only. “But no discipline. This is not the street. Here, you move as one.” I nod, but my gut twists. I watch my reflection. I look like a marionette, all strings and angles, nothing loose or wild. My heart beats in a different meter. We run the chorus again. I count under my breath—one, two, three, four—cramming myself into the spaces they leave. On the drop, the choreography calls for a floor sweep: right foot sweeps out, knee bent, hands plant down, left leg extended behind. I’m supposed to freeze, suspended, the image of athletic grace. But my body wants to flow into a windmill, muscle memory surging, the urge to spin and rise. I catch myself, wrench my body still, feel the tremor in my calves. The row behind me almost collides; I’m half a beat off. Lee yells, “Stop!” The music cuts. My breath comes ragged. Sweat drips from my chin. He walks the line, eyes raking over us. “You,” he says, pointing at me. “Again. Alone.” The others step back, their eyes a wall. I step to the front, heart in my throat. The music blares. This time, I force my feet into fifth, slice my arm down on the one, snap my head so hard my vision blurs. I lock my chest, freeze my face. On the floor sweep, I clamp the urge to spin, hold the pose, every muscle screaming. Lee watches, silent. I finish, chest heaving, hands locked at my sides. He nods, just once. “You can do it. But you do not want to.” The music pulses, daring me. I look at the mirrors, see my face carved in someone else’s pose. My neighborhood’s a world away—the subway, the broken streetlights, the cyphers where we’d battle until sunrise, trading power moves for respect. Here, I’m a ghost in someone else’s story. Lee’s voice is soft now, but sharp. “You have a choice. Your way, or ours. You want to stay, you move our way.” I stare at my hands, still trembling. I remember the first time I hit a freeze, the crowd’s shout, the way my body belonged to me. Now, every lock and snap is a cage. The other trainees watch, waiting. If I rebel—throw in a flare, let my body ride the off-beat—I’ll make a statement, but maybe lose my spot. If I conform, I’ll survive, maybe even shine, but at what cost? The music starts again. The beat’s a hammer, relentless. I step back in line. My feet close, heels kissing, arms at perfect angles—but inside, something’s breaking formation.

Model Output:
A single, giant hourglass dominated the center of the courtroom, its shimmering sand falling in slow, deliberate arcs that suggested the passage of time was being intentionally mismanaged. The benches of the Court of the Dreaming were filled with the usual suspects: a few moth-winged muses, a cluster of insomnia imps hissing quietly, and—clinging to the ceiling—a committee of cobwebbed anxieties. Dream, pale and imperious in his throne, looked as if he would very much rather be anywhere else. “**Call the case of First Love v. Mora,**” intoned the bailiff—who, today, was a patchwork of unspoken childhood fears in a badly fitting robe. First Love stood from the petitioner’s table with a nervous flutter. He was cherubic, with cheeks that blushed like sunrise in a guilty sky, and he clutched a bouquet of half-wilting daisies as if they might offer legal support. Next to him, his advocate—a silvery moonbeam in a suit—shuffled papers with the resigned air of one who has argued for the sanctity of adolescent fumbling far too many times. Across the aisle lounged Mora. She was all shadow and sharp smile, her hair a tangle of midnight, her eyes the color of sleep lost at 3 a.m. She stretched luxuriously in her seat, looking very much as if she owned not only the proceedings, but the entire concept of discomfort. “**Litigants, state your claims,**” Dream intoned. His voice was soft, but it pressed down upon the room with the weight of a thousand interrupted REM cycles. First Love’s advocate stood. “Your Honor, we maintain that my client is the original architect of the dream in question—a recurring episode for one Maximilian Reed, age fifteen, featuring all the hallmarks of First Love’s craftsmanship: awkward longing, flower-scented air, and a climactic near-kiss, always unresolved but suffused with possibility—” “—and hay fever,” muttered a moth-muse dryly, from the gallery. The advocate pressed on. “Recently, this dream has been...corrupted. When Max’s crush, one Emily Park, typically leans in to almost-kiss, she now *transforms*—her eyes grow black as coal, her teeth lengthen, her voice—according to Max—‘sounds like a radiator with bronchitis.’ She then mounts his chest, immobilizes him, and—well—feeds.” First Love wilted visibly. “He wakes up terrified,” he whispered. “He used to wake up...confused. But happy.” Mora’s advocate—a thin, reedy figure with the vague outline of a sleep apnea mask—rose, but Mora waved him aside with a taloned hand. “Your Honor,” she purred, “I’ll represent myself. I do my best work...personally.” She stood, every movement calculated to unsettle, and addressed the Court. “Look, I’m not denying I tweaked the script. But a girl’s gotta eat. You try subsisting on the dreams of Eastern European peasants alone. Gluten. So much gluten. Max here—he’s got *excellent* lungs. Pure, adolescent terror. Vintage stuff.” She fixed First Love with a sly grin. “And, really, who better than me to introduce him to the confusion of desire and dread? You *want* his formative romance to be memorable, don’t you? Nothing says ‘first love’ like a little existential paralysis.” First Love sputtered. “I—I designed that dream to be gentle! To foster hope and innocence!” Mora snorted. “Hope? Innocence? Have you *seen* the state of modern romance? I’m just updating the curriculum.” A ripple of snickers passed through the insomnia imps. Dream held up a hand, silencing the room. “This Court is unmoved by appeals to modernity. The question is one of jurisdiction. Mora, you are accused of unlawful subversion of a recurring dreamscape under Section 7 of the Dreaming’s Code of Craft. How do you plead?” Mora licked her lips. “Hungry.” Dream’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “Not a recognized plea.” First Love, emboldened by Dream’s irritation, rose. “If she’s allowed to stay, Max may never trust affection again! He’ll associate intimacy with suffocation and dread!” Mora shrugged. “Welcome to adulthood, kid.” The moonbeam advocate coughed. “Your Honor, if I may—this is not merely about nutrition. Mora’s presence warps the entire emotional arc. Max now wakes in sweat and shame. He’s begun reading Kafka.” Dream looked for a moment as if the hourglass sand might reverse under the force of his sigh. “Mora, you are permitted to hunt the nightmares of the guilty, the anxious, the overcaffeinated. Why target First Love’s careful work?” Mora leaned on the table, her shadow spilling across the daisies. “Because *that’s* where the flavor is, Dream. You ever tasted the breath of a boy on the edge of his first heartbreak? Exquisite. Besides, the rest of the nightmares are all taken—Grendel’s occupying the exam anxiety territory, and the shadow-dogs have the ‘falling and teeth’ franchise locked down. I’m just...diversifying.” The Courtroom filled with the low hum of restless dream-entities, all too aware of the tight market for terror. Dream tapped a finger against the throne, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in a closed chest. He glanced at the sand slipping away. “Very well. The Court will deliberate.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and the room held its breath. When he opened them, a flicker of mischief—a rare and worrying thing—danced in their depths. “Mora, you may feed—but only on the *almost*-kiss. You must give Max the same confusion, but you may not tip the balance into terror. You may haunt the moment, but you must preserve the hope. Should he awaken in dread, your access is revoked for a lunar cycle. Do you accept?” Mora considered, then grinned, a little less wolfish, a little more wistful. “Deal.” First Love clutched his daisies in relief. “Then let it be so,” Dream pronounced, and as the Court dissolved into mist and moths, the hourglass’s sand shimmered with a new, uncertain possibility—one where love and fear, hope and hunger, might yet learn to share the same dream.

Model Output:
A broken cart wheel lies abandoned near the village gates, the wood splintered and fresh. The scent of panic lingers in the evening air, mingling with the copper tang of distant blood. Moonlight, swollen and red as a wound, stains the muddy ruts of the road. Alucard stands just beyond the gates, a silhouette in crimson, his coat billowing in some wind only he seems to feel. Orange glasses catch the moon's reflection, glowing like the eyes of a wolf in the night. He grins, baring fangs. "How quaint," he murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They still believe running will save them." A flicker of violet flame dances in the darkness ahead. The horses are gone, the villagers scattered, but one figure remains—unbothered by terror, unmoved by the bloodshed that drove the others into the woods. Yennefer of Vengerberg stands with arms crossed, black hair a tangle against her pale skin, violet eyes gleaming with annoyance and curiosity. The scent of lilac and gooseberries drifts on the air, an incongruous softness in the night. "The mighty monster of London, come to sample peasant fare?" she says, voice edged with sarcasm. Alucard laughs, deep and rich, the sound echoing off the ruined stone walls. "And what brings a sorceress of your caliber to this little hamlet? Slumming for lesser mages, or simply lost?" Yennefer’s lips curve in a smile that cuts sharper than any blade. "I could ask the same, but I doubt you’d answer honestly. Vampires rarely do." He steps closer, boots silent on the churned mud. The air grows colder, shadows lengthening as if drawn to him. "And witches," he purrs, "are hardly paragons of truth. But you... no glamour, no illusions. You stand as you are." She lifts her chin, refusing to step back. "I’ve nothing to hide. Not from you." Alucard’s grin widens, the predatory glee in his eyes unmistakable. "Is that so? You’ve altered every inch of yourself to become what you are. I can taste the magic on you, heavy and desperate." His gaze lingers on her, hungry and appraising. "I wonder what you truly look like, beneath all the masks." Yennefer’s eyes narrow, violet flames crackling at her fingertips. "Careful, bloodsucker. Curiosity killed more than just cats." Alucard’s laughter is softer this time, dangerous. "But I am not so easily killed, sorceress." Their power dances between them, invisible but palpable. Alucard's monstrous essence seeps into the ground, the night itself bending to his will. Yennefer, unbowed, draws on the chaos of the ley lines beneath the village, her aura sharp as broken glass. He circles her, slow and deliberate, long coat trailing in the dust. "I've devoured many mages. Most scream; some beg. Few fight well enough to make it interesting." "And you," she says, "are just another monster who thinks he’s the exception. I’ve buried creatures older and uglier than you, Alucard." He stops, inches from her, the brim of his hat shadowing her face. "But none as beautiful, I suspect." Her laugh is a bitter thing. "Flattery? I expected more from the Bird of Hermes." He dips his head, lips curling. "Eating my wings to make me tame. Do you think me tame, Yennefer?" She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. "No. But you long for someone who might make you so." For a heartbeat, something ancient and sad flickers in Alucard’s gaze, quickly masked by arrogance. "Perhaps. And you? What do you long for?" Yennefer stiffens, magic swirling defensively. "Nothing you can give. Least of all eternity." She flicks her fingers, and the air bursts with the scent of wild violets. A sigil flares beneath Alucard’s feet, roots of light twisting up to bind him. He laughs, even as they snake around his legs, burning into undead flesh. "Delightful," he purrs, letting his body unravel into a cloud of shadows. The bindings grasp only smoke, and then he is behind her, whisper-cold breath at her ear. "You play well, sorceress. But do not presume to command me." Yennefer spins, violet fire blazing in her palm. She thrusts it toward his chest, and he lets the flames consume him, flesh melting to bone, then reforming with a flourish. He claps, mock applause ringing through the mist. "Bravo." She glares. "I don’t need your approval." "No," he agrees, eyes glittering. "But you crave respect. Power. You want to be more than what the world permits." "And you?" she challenges. "You hide from death, but you hunt it, too. Which do you fear more: living forever, or finally ending?" He is silent, for once. The moon bleeds above them, painting his face in crimson. "It is not fear," he says at last, "but hunger. For release, or for challenge—I am no longer certain." Their standoff stretches, neither yielding, magic and monstrosity poised on the razor’s edge. The abandoned wheel creaks in the wind, a reminder of flight and failure. Yennefer lowers her hand, the flames dying. "We could spend all night circling each other, monster." Alucard bows, sweeping his hat in an elegant arc. "And what a night it would be, under this blood moon." She snorts. "I don’t dance for anyone." He smiles, wide and wild. "But you might, for someone worthy." She considers him, head tilted, eyes unreadable. "Perhaps. But not tonight." He straightens, his shadow stretching over the broken cart. "Then another time, sorceress. The night is long, and so is memory." Yennefer turns, her scent trailing like a challenge. "Careful, vampire. Next time, you may not find me so forgiving." He watches her go, laughter echoing through the empty gates. The broken wheel spins once in the wind, and the blood moon watches over them both.

Model Output:
Chain-link fences within the yard rattle whenever an inmate passes by. The air’s thick with humid boredom, the kind that turns minutes into an eternity. Jolyne Cujoh lounges on a cracked bench, boots up on the tabletop, eyes half-lidded. Her butterfly tattoo peeks out from under the sleeve of her jumpsuit. She watches the yard through the blue-green haze of late afternoon, counting the guards, memorizing the cameras. Always ready. That’s when she notices the new face. A woman walks through the gates, her step unhurried, almost serene. Auburn hair pulled back, crisp white shirt and slim black tie pressed to perfection. She doesn’t belong here; she stands out like a glass of wine at a cockfight. The other inmates give her a wide berth, instinctively wary. The guards, too, seem uncertain—unsure if they should salute or cower. Jolyne’s eyes narrow. There’s something off about her. Nobody smiles that softly in a place like this, and nobody moves with that much poise unless they’re untouchable. The woman makes her way toward Jolyne’s table, stopping just short of the bench. “Is this seat taken?” Her voice is gentle, melodic, but something in the cadence makes Jolyne’s skin crawl. “Yeah,” Jolyne says, not budging. “By someone with more balls than you.” The woman laughs, a tinkling sound, almost mocking. “I’m Makima. I hear you’re a…special case here.” Jolyne shrugs. “If there’s no Mickey, this shit ain’t Disney. You want something, or are you just here to make friends?” Makima sits, folding her hands neatly. Her yellow eyes don’t blink. “You’re very direct. That’s admirable. You’re Jolyne Cujoh, aren’t you? I’ve heard rumors. They say you can unravel yourself into string.” She says it like she’s discussing the weather. Jolyne meets her gaze, unflinching. “Yeah, and if you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself tangled up in it.” Makima tilts her head, studying Jolyne as if she’s a particularly interesting exhibit. “Humans are so fascinating when they resist. You’re not like the others here.” Jolyne sits up, boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud. “Enough with the creepy compliments. What’s your deal?” Makima’s lips curve. “I’m here on official business. There have been… disturbances. Inmates disappearing, guards turning up dead. Management suspects supernatural involvement.” She leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m very good at controlling situations like this.” Jolyne snorts. “Control, huh? You think you can control me too?” Makima’s eyes glint, pupils narrowing. “Everyone can be controlled, given the right motivation. Some just take more effort than others.” Jolyne feels a chill work its way down her spine. She can sense something—an oppressive weight, like invisible strings tightening around her limbs. Stone Free stirs inside her, muscles tensing. She’s dealt with Stand users before, but this is different. This woman radiates quiet menace, like a serpent sunning itself on a rock. “You really believe that?” Jolyne says, forcing a smirk. “You ever try to leash a hurricane?” Makima’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I have my ways. Why don’t you show me what you can do?” The yard seems to hold its breath. Even the distant clatter of metal and raised voices recedes. Jolyne’s fingers twitch, a strand of blue string unspooling from her wrist. It snakes under the table, looping around Makima’s ankle. Makima glances down, unfazed. “Beautiful ability. You can unravel, re-form, attack from anywhere.” She meets Jolyne’s gaze. “But what happens if your strings get tangled?” Jolyne’s heart pounds. She yanks the string, aiming to trip Makima, but the woman doesn’t budge. Instead, Jolyne feels a sudden, crushing pressure in her chest—like hands squeezing her lungs from the inside. Her vision blurs, but she grits her teeth, forcing Stone Free to keep unraveling, splitting her body into thinner and thinner filaments. Makima stands, stepping over the table. Her shadow falls across Jolyne, cold and absolute. “You’re very strong. But you’re not the only one with tricks.” Jolyne spits blood on the ground, glaring up. “You want to see a trick? Try this.” Stone Free bursts from her back, a muscular humanoid Stand flickering into view. It swings a fist, fast as lightning, toward Makima’s face. Makima doesn’t move. The Stand’s punch stops inches from her, frozen midair. Jolyne’s strings tremble, unresponsive. For a horrifying moment, she can’t move her own body at all. Makima leans down, her breath warm on Jolyne’s ear. “You should be careful who you pick fights with, Jolyne Cujoh. Some people play with dolls. Others play with strings.” Jolyne grits her teeth, forcing Stone Free to flex. The paralysis snaps, her Stand’s fist whistling past Makima’s cheek, slicing a strand of her hair. Makima steps back, unfazed, but there’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “You’re not so easy to break,” Makima says, straightening her tie. “That makes you valuable.” Jolyne wipes her mouth, smirking. “And you’re not as untouchable as you think. I don’t care who you are. You come at me again, I’ll unravel you like cheap yarn.” Makima’s smile returns, brittle as glass. “I look forward to seeing you try.” The tension lingers as Makima turns and walks away, her heels clicking on concrete, the air around her warping with invisible authority. The yard exhales—guards and inmates alike resuming their routines, as if nothing happened. Jolyne leans back, sweat cooling on her brow. She knows danger when she sees it, and Makima is pure poison. But Jolyne’s never been one to let someone else pull her strings. This prison just got a whole lot more interesting.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-XXXX (Unclassified Anomaly – Temporal Communication Event) **Level:** 3 (Restricted) **Assigned Researcher:** Dr. Miriam Levenson --- ### Researcher Log - Dr. Miriam Levenson #### Day 1 I should preface this log by stating I am not prone to hallucinations, nor have I experienced any prior psychological distress. My work with SCP-████ has been demanding, but not outside our usual stress parameters. This morning, while reviewing containment logs in my office, I found a folded note tucked inside my daily planner. The handwriting was unmistakably mine. The message read: > “Miriam— > Don’t trust the alarms. When they go off, do NOT go down to Level 4. Wait for confirmation. > —You, from 2 days ahead.” I checked with Security. There had been no breach or alarm. I dismissed it as a prank. --- #### Day 2 I found another note, slipped under my office door overnight: > “Miriam— > If you see Dr. Valdez, do not let him into the containment wing. He’s not himself. > —You” I confronted Dr. Valdez at lunch. He seemed normal, if confused by my sudden suspicion. The security footage showed no one near my door after hours. I submitted both notes to Site-77’s lab for handwriting and ink analysis. Results: handwriting matched my own, but ink composition yielded anomalous trace elements—not from any office pen, not even standard lab stock. This was flagged to Dr. Ikeda, Site Director. --- #### Day 4 I couldn’t sleep. My office felt watched. I began to question if I was experiencing some form of psychosis. Counseling recommended increased rest and reduced caffeine intake. Third note appeared inside my locked desk drawer: > “Miriam— > You can’t trust your memory. The breach already happened. You just can’t remember. Check the file you keep hidden in your desk. > —You, from after” I have no hidden files in my desk. I emptied every drawer. Nothing. I started to doubt my own recollections. --- #### Foundation Addendum – Security Investigation *Following Dr. Levenson’s reports, a Foundation investigative team installed covert surveillance in her office and quarters. Security checks confirmed no unauthorized personnel, no physical tampering. Analysis of the notes found trace isotopes of promethium and an unknown carbon allotrope. Temporal signature analysis: inconclusive. No evidence of time displacement, but possible low-level reality destabilization.* --- #### Day 6 I now keep a log of every action, every interaction. Another note, this time in my pocket after lunch: > “Miriam— > They’re watching you through the cameras. Don’t trust what you see in the footage. The breach starts there. > —You” I asked Security to review the footage from lunch. No one was near me. No one placed anything in my pocket. I began to wonder if I was losing time. I started carrying a body camera, checking the feed obsessively. The Foundation’s psychiatry team flagged me for “possible reality testing disorder.” --- #### Day 7 Fourth note appeared inside my lab notebook, page torn and stained: > “Miriam— > The alarms are fake. The alarms are real. You’re looping. If you want out, write down the number 6. > —You, you, you” I wrote the number 6 on my palm. Nothing happened. The note’s ink, when tested, contained trace DNA matching my own cheek swab. I have no memory of writing it. --- #### Foundation Addendum – Containment Crosscheck *At this stage, Foundation containment teams considered possible involvement from SCP-████ (a cognitohazardous entity with memetic manipulation abilities) and SCP-███ (a temporal anomaly). Both were confirmed fully contained, with no related activity or breaches.* --- #### Day 9 I started suspecting everyone. I stopped trusting my own handwriting. My hands shook so badly during routine logs I could barely sign my name. Another note, this time scrawled on the bathroom mirror in black ink: > “MIRIAM—WAKE UP > YOU’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE. > THE BREACH STARTS AT 10:17. > YOU CAN STILL STOP IT. > —YOU” I checked the time: 09:58. I called Site Security, warning them of a possible breach at 10:17. They ran an emergency lockdown drill. Nothing happened. No breach. No alarms. They are starting to avoid me in the halls. Ink analysis: identical anomalous signature. Not from any site supply. Not from any pen I own. Forensic team detected faint electromagnetic activity around the mirror, but nothing conclusive. --- #### Day 10 I found a note burned into my desk surface, the letters charred but readable: > “stop writing logs > they’re reading everything > hide in the archives > you won’t make it otherwise > —you” I haven’t slept in 36 hours. I feel watched, even in the dark. My own handwriting looks foreign. I tried to stop writing, but my hands keep moving, documenting everything. I can’t stop. I have to keep track. --- #### Foundation Addendum – Psychological Evaluation *Dr. Levenson was placed under mandatory observation. Psychological evaluation inconclusive; no clear indicators of psychosis, dissociative disorder, or external memetic influence. Surveillance footage shows her going about her duties, apparently alone, but security logs note brief periods (2-3 minutes) where her presence is not recorded by any camera or sensor—coinciding with each note’s appearance.* --- #### Day 11 I don’t know what’s real. I found three notes today: one in my lunch, one in my shoe, one hidden in the backup server room. > “No one is coming.” > “You already failed.” > “You aren’t Miriam. Not anymore.” I cannot recall writing any of them. I am afraid to sleep. I am afraid of what happens when I am not awake. I keep waiting for the breach. I know it’s coming. Or maybe it already happened, and I just can’t remember. I asked Dr. Ikeda to remove me from duty. She said I’d already been removed two days ago. I have no memory of this. My logs show nothing. --- #### Foundation Addendum – Ongoing Investigation *Research ongoing. No evidence of temporal displacement, but repeated anomalous signatures in each note. Psychological manipulation by an unknown entity remains a possibility, but no cross-contamination detected among other staff. Dr. Levenson’s cognitive function remains mostly intact, but subject’s perception and memory coherence are now considered unreliable.* --- #### Day 12 I am writing this now because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know if these are warnings, threats, or loops in my own fractured mind. I keep finding notes, but they don’t make sense anymore. > “I’m sorry.” > “I tried.” > “You tried.” > “We all failed.” If this is a breach, it’s inside me now. If anyone ever reads this log, please check the ink. It doesn’t match any pen I own. I don’t know if I am still Miriam Levenson. I don’t know if I ever was. --- **[END OF LOG]** **Note:** Investigation into SCP-XXXX remains open. Temporal or memetic anomaly not yet confirmed. Dr. Levenson is under observation pending further events. All notes preserved for analysis.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-7881 **Object Class:** Keter **Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-7881 manifestations are to be secured under Foundation control immediately upon discovery. Mobile Task Force Lambda-4 ("Locksmiths") is tasked with identifying, surveilling, and, if necessary, neutralizing public access to SCP-7881-1 instances (the doors) in urban and rural abandoned structures globally. Embedded Foundation agents within municipal infrastructure and urban exploration forums are to monitor for reports matching SCP-7881's characteristics. Any civilians entering SCP-7881-2 (the archive) are to be detained, debriefed, and amnesticized. All explorations of SCP-7881-2 must be approved by at least two Level 4 personnel. Unauthorized access is grounds for termination or reassignment. O5 Council members are expressly forbidden from entering SCP-7881-2 pending investigation into prior unauthorized entries. --- **Description:** SCP-7881 is the designation for a phenomenon in which a series of identical, unmarked wooden doors (SCP-7881-1) manifest in abandoned buildings worldwide. SCP-7881-1 instances display no distinguishing features—regardless of local climate, history, or architectural style, each is a heavy, six-panel wooden door with a tarnished brass knob and no markings. Notably, many SCP-7881-1 instances exhibit extreme weathering, rot, or graffiti inconsistent with the age or condition of the building in which they appear, suggesting the doors predate their surroundings. Upon opening and passing through SCP-7881-1, subjects enter SCP-7881-2, a vast extradimensional archive. SCP-7881-2 is constructed in an architecturally impossible manner: hallways and chambers loop impossibly, ceilings stretch into darkness, and visible sections float unsupported above apparent voids. The archive contains millions of documents, books, and artifacts stored in labeled boxes, files, and shelves. The interior lighting is uniform and sourceless. Documents within SCP-7881-2 reference a global civilization unknown to current history, destroyed by an event described only as "Containment Failure Zero." Some files reference organizations, individuals, and anomalies matching those currently under Foundation purview, though under alternate names (e.g., "The Custodians," "The Black Key"). Personnel files exist for current Foundation members, including those born decades or centuries after the apparent dating of the documents. SCP-7881-2 is patrolled and periodically cleared by entities resembling human hazmat teams (hereafter SCP-7881-3). These entities remove and seal sections of the archive, transporting materials through unseen exits. SCP-7881-3 entities avoid contact with exploration teams, fleeing rapidly when approached. --- **Addendum 7881-1: Exploration Log Excerpts** **Log 7881-E-03** *Exploration Team:* MTF Lambda-4 ("Locksmiths") *Entry Point:* SCP-7881-1, abandoned textile mill, Manchester, UK **Transcript:** **Team Lead (Agent Voss):** Entering SCP-7881-1. Door's older than the building—heavy mold, flaking paint, but the hinges are silent. **Agent Price:** (Camera pans) Immediate entry opens to a corridor, shelves stacked floor to ceiling. No dust, despite the age. **Agent Voss:** Passing case files—text is English, but the script is archaic, almost pre-Gutenberg. **Agent Price:** Pulling a file: *Document Excerpt:* "Custodian Log, Year 1437 of the Black Key. Subject: Potential Breach—Verdant Engine. Protocol: Reseal, Reassign. Incident Commander: [Name Redacted]." **Agent Voss:** None of these organizations match our records exactly, but 'Black Key' shows up in old Foundation ciphers. **Agent Price:** (Pausing) Movement—three humanoids, hazmat suits, white with blue stripes. They're boxing files, moving quickly. **Agent Voss:** *[Attempts contact. SCP-7881-3 entities look over shoulders, then retreat, dragging boxes into a darkened stairwell.]* **Agent Price:** They left a box behind. Label reads "Personnel: Custodian 4 / Voss, Alaric / Clearance: O5." **Agent Voss:** That's my surname. Date on file: 1721. That's impossible. --- **Log 7881-E-09** *Exploration Team:* Dr. Ramirez, Researcher Kim, Agent Leung *Entry Point:* SCP-7881-1, derelict theater, Detroit, USA **Transcript:** **Dr. Ramirez:** This door's got more graffiti than the rest of the building. Looks decades older. **Agent Leung:** Archive is colder here. Shelves are emptying—note the dust outlines. **Researcher Kim:** Found a personnel roster: *Document Excerpt:* "Council Minutes: The Custodians, Session 0. Attendance: Custodian One (M. ███████), Custodian Three (H. █████), Custodian Five (A. █████). Motion: Archive Descent Protocol. Result: Unanimous." **Dr. Ramirez:** These codenames—format matches our O5 Council. **Agent Leung:** (Whispering) More hazmat entities, this time with handcarts. One dropped a folder: *Document Excerpt:* "Directive: Removal of all records pertaining to SCP-████. By order of Custodian Five. Unauthorized personnel to be expunged." **Researcher Kim:** (Muttering) They're erasing history. --- **Log 7881-E-12** *Exploration Team:* Agent Nakamura, Dr. Sokolov *Entry Point:* SCP-7881-1, abandoned hotel, Vladivostok, Russia **Transcript:** **Dr. Sokolov:** Archive is more labyrinthine here. Multiple split levels, floating walkways. **Agent Nakamura:** Many shelves freshly emptied. **Dr. Sokolov:** (Finds a directory) *Document Excerpt:* "Personnel File: O5-3, Codename 'Haruspex.' Date of Entry: 1643 CE. Assignment: Archive Oversight." **Agent Nakamura:** That's impossible. **Dr. Sokolov:** There's a visitor log—names match current O5 roster. Last entries are recent, within the past year. **Agent Nakamura:** The O5s have been here, without authorization. Some of these signatures are fresh—ink not even dry. --- **Addendum 7881-2: Recovered Document Fragments** 1. **“This is the last record. The Black Key has fallen, and the world is lost to the Event. Archive will remain for Custodians’ return or their inheritors. If you are reading this, learn from our failure.”** 2. **“Containment Failure Zero: Initiated by breach of Protocol Prime. All records of anomalies expunged. The Custodians are erased, but the Archive persists.”** 3. **“It is the Archive that remembers when the world forgets. The doors will open until all records are removed, or until the new Custodians reclaim their charge.”** --- **Note:** Investigation into unauthorized O5 Council access to SCP-7881-2 is ongoing. All personnel are reminded: the Archive predates the Foundation, and may outlast it. Further expeditions are suspended pending review.

Model Output:
**Chapter Four: Under the Storm Vaults** The air on Gráneth was heavy, nearly liquid, thick with the vapor rising from the city’s canals. In the morning, an endless silver rain had drummed on the glass vaults above the consulate, and now, as dusk rose, it clung to the stone in a pearling mist. Envoy Tey Araul, newly arrived from the Intercolonial Diplomatic Corps, pressed the palm-lock at a side gate and stepped into the street, drawing the deep hood of their cloak close. Protocol forbade such excursions, but Tey’s nerves thrummed with a restless need to see beyond the high, filtered windows of officialdom. The city—called Míenat by the locals, but rendered “Stormhold” in the briefings—was a labyrinth of arching bridges, open plazas, and clustered dwellings that clung to the ancient bones of human settlement like barnacles. The street was slick and uneven, the stones worn smooth by generations of feet, some broad, some narrow, some with the slight, unmistakable splay of the web-toed Adapted. Tey’s boots splashed through shallow puddles. Around them, the people of Gráneth moved with a grace born of long adaptation. Some were tall, with elongated limbs and pale, blue-streaked skin; others were short and wide, built to endure the city’s perpetual dampness, their faces broad and their hairless scalps glimmering in the rain’s refracted light. Tey felt the weight of their own offworlder’s body—narrower-shouldered, darker-skinned, wrapped in the unfamiliar bulk of the regulation cloak among the city’s sparse, flowing tunics and loose, water-wicking wraps. A market square opened before them, alive with scent and color. Stalls of woven reed and plastic sheet offered bowls of floating kelp and iridescent fruit, spiced roots stacked beside fillets of eel and bins of glistening, spiral-shelled mollusks. Tey paused, the unfamiliar flavors prickling their nose. A child, blue-marked and barefoot, tugged at their cloak, eyes wide with curiosity and not a little suspicion. The child’s mother, only slightly less curious, murmured a greeting in the local dialect, clipped and sing-song, before ushering the child away. Tey moved on, past the vendors and the street musicians—one strumming a stringed instrument shaped like a crescent moon, another coaxing mournful notes from a shell horn. The music was not as the briefings had described: it was not all melancholy, nor all strident. There was laughter and barter, and the easy, practiced negotiations of a people long accustomed to difference. The envoy stopped to watch a group of Adapted children play a game with a floating disk, their webbed toes gripping the slick stone as they leapt and spun. Above, the storm vaults glowed with the last blue of daylight. *Nothing like the reports,* Tey thought, recalling the files: “Tensions high. Genetic divergence has led to increased insularity, stratification. Risk of violence.” But here, at ground level, there was only the friction and harmony of a city alive in itself. They returned by a different route, heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden knowledge and the fear of discovery. The consulate’s door recognized their thumbprint with a quiet click. Inside, the walls glowed with the pale, filtered light of the vaults. Waiting for Tey was Command’s face, projected in harsh lines above the comm. “Envoy Araul. You left the secured perimeter. This is a breach.” Tey bowed their head. “I needed to understand the situation firsthand, sir.” A pause, weighted with bureaucratic disapproval. “The situation is delicate. The Minister of Science will see you at once. Do not deviate from your brief.” Tey changed into a simpler tunic, left the cloak behind, and walked the short, echoing corridor to the Minister’s chambers. Minister Karsun awaited them in a room lined with sealed books and polished stone. Broad-shouldered, hairless, their skin marked by the faint blue tracery of the Adapted, Karsun’s eyes were sharp and dry. “You must be Envoy Araul. Offworlder. I trust your journey was not too… *disorienting*?” Tey inclined their head. “I adjust quickly, Minister.” Karsun gestured for Tey to sit. “We are told you bring solutions. Yet you walk our streets as if searching for problems. Is it curiosity, or mistrust?” “I wished to see Gráneth as it truly is, not as the reports say.” The Minister’s mouth curled in a humorless smile. “Reports say what they must, to those who must believe. Tell me: what did you find?” Tey hesitated. “Not division. Not the way the files described. I found a city alive with difference, but not at war with itself.” Karsun’s gaze sharpened. “And if you had found discord, would you have intervened? Would you have called down the Intercolonial Fleet to bring us to peace?” Tey met the Minister’s eyes. “I am not here to judge. Only to listen, and to help if I can.” “Help,” Karsun echoed. “A dangerous word. You see us as a problem to solve, Envoy. But our divisions are our history—our families, our bones. We have shaped ourselves to this place. Would you unmake that?” Tey took a breath. “Adaptation is not failure. Nor is unity always peace. I saw children playing together, not measuring webbing or skin.” “Children are not asked to choose sides,” Karsun replied. “But they will be, as they grow. That is the risk: not violence, but forgetting who we are.” Tey leaned forward. “Isn’t there a way to remember, without closing every door? To be Gráneth—and still be part of humanity?” The Minister studied Tey for a long moment. “You speak as if belonging were a matter of choice. For us, it never was. For you, perhaps it is.” Tey felt the weight of the storm vaults above, the city’s breath, the living water beneath the stone. “Perhaps that’s why I came. To learn what it means to belong to more than one world.” Karsun’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Then listen well, Offworlder. This city is not yours to fix. But perhaps, if you are wise, it might be yours to witness.” The meeting ended, as such meetings do, with formalities and promises of future cooperation. But as Tey left the Minister’s chambers, they felt the eyes of the city on them—not hostile, but measuring, as Karsun had measured them. Outside, the rain began again, gentle now, and the city’s music rose to meet it.

Model Output:
**Biopunk — Polymerase Chain Reaction** The sun set behind the fractured skyline, bathing the city’s skeleton in a chemical dusk. Rain hissed through holes in the roof as Lira knelt over her battered thermal cycler, hands steady despite the static of hunger in her veins. The cycler—a hacked-together box of aluminum, scavenged heating elements, and a salvaged Raspberry Pi—clicked and hummed, straining to maintain the precise temperature shifts needed for the polymerase chain reaction. Lira watched the old biotech giant’s logo—“NexiGen”—peeling on the reagent canister she’d repurposed for buffer solution, a relic of the world that built itself to die. She uncapped a vial—milky, viscous, the last of the viable wheat DNA they’d traded for last spring. According to the faded “LICENSED: GEN 57” imprint, this strand was made to fail, designed by NexiGen to unravel after one generation. It was already starting to degrade; she could taste it in the air, an ozone tang. Still, it was all they had. In the next room, the rest of the settlement waited, breaths shallow with anticipation. Food was running low. Last year’s engineered barley had gone sterile, as planned. That’s why she was here: to hack the system, to force the DNA to propagate one more time. A knock—three, then two—rattled the heavy plastic sheeting that served as a door. Lira froze, then covered the cycler with a crate lid. “Come in,” she called. The visitor pushed aside the sheeting. He was tall and wiry, a patchwork of faded tattoos and old burn scars. “You Lira? I’m supposed to have something for you.” She scanned him, noting the bulge at his jacket’s chest. “Who sent you?” The man shrugged, glancing at her makeshift lab. “Word is you can do the impossible. I got a contract from the River Market. You make seeds that grow, I pay in medical—real stuff, not knockoff biotics.” She eyed the battered cooler he carried. “Show me.” He opened it, revealing a handful of vials and a blister pack of gene therapy patches. Lira’s mouth went dry. There, sealed in foil, was a strip marked “CureGen-Delta: Cell Regeneration.” Real medicine—untested, of course, but still more valuable than a week’s food. “What’s the catch?” she asked. “Client wants tomatoes with resistance to the black rot. Not your usual stuff. They want the old traits back—real flavor, not just calories.” Lira nodded, calculating. Black rot was a death sentence for most crops now, since the rot had adapted to the obsolescence code in commercial strains. She’d need to splice in ancient genes—if she could find them. “I need the seed stock,” she said. “And an hour.” He passed her a sealed bag of shriveled tomato seeds. “Be quick. Market gets jumpy if we’re late.” She set to work, hands moving with a practiced efficiency. Her pipettes were old ballpoint pens, their insides sterilized with vodka and heat. She measured the enzyme mix—reconstituted from lyophilized powder, scavenged from a university’s ruins—into the canister. The buffer solution fizzed, a reminder that it, too, was on the edge of expiration. With a flicker of pride, she glanced at her PCR setup. The heating block was a repurposed CPU cooler, temperature regulated by a stack of scavenged thermistors and code she’d written herself. The sample tubes were old insulin vials, flame-sterilized and stoppered with parafilm. This was the world now: biotech on the bones of the old. She loaded the tomato DNA, coaxed the polymerase from its slumber, and set the cycler to run. As the machine whirred, she pulled a battered notebook from her pack—part lab journal, part confession. She thumbed through sketches of gene maps, splicing diagrams, and, on the last page, a list of names: those she’d lost to failed experiments. Obsolescence wasn’t just a corporate trick. It was a curse that lingered in the marrow. The man paced, eyeing her work. “You ever try that stuff?” he asked, nodding to the gene patches. Lira hesitated. “Once. When my lungs started breaking down. It worked, after a fashion. Grew scar tissue in the wrong places. Couldn’t sleep for days.” He grinned, grim. “Upside?” “I don’t get sick anymore. Not in the usual ways.” She flexed her fingers, where faint greenish veins pulsed beneath the skin. The cycler beeped—a hopeful sound in the gloom. She retrieved the amplified DNA, pipetting it into a microcentrifuge cobbled from an old drone’s motor. She spun down the debris, then drew off the clear solution, a drop of hope. With careful hands, she soaked the tomato seeds in the modified DNA. The treatment wouldn’t last more than a generation—two, if they were lucky. But for now, it was enough. She handed the treated seeds to the man. “Plant them soon. Keep them warm, moist. Don’t let the Market take more than half, or you lose the line.” He nodded, counting out the gene therapy patches. “You ever want another job, come by the River. They could use someone with your hands.” She pocketed the medicine, feeling its weight—promise and peril, both. “I’ll think about it.” He left, vanishing into the greasy twilight. Lira slumped to the floor, exhaustion settling in. The patch would help, maybe rebuild the damage her last experiment had done to her joints. Or maybe it would twist her cells into something new, something less human. She didn’t care. She’d bought another season for her people. Outside, the city crackled with the sound of rain on plastic and broken glass. Lira closed her eyes, listening to the heartbeat of her jury-rigged machines, feeling, for a moment, the fragile pulse of life pushing back against planned extinction. Tomorrow, she’d scavenge more canisters. Tonight, she’d hope the seeds would grow.

Model Output:
The transfer vessel's air filtration system hummed with a mechanical drone, steady and omnipresent, a modern lullaby for the restless. Arthur Neegan sat on a plastiform bench, hands folded in his lap, staring at the dull red glow of Mars through the viewport. The surface below was a tapestry of mining scars, the telltale silver shimmer of Azra veins catching the last rays of the sun. He wondered how many others had been shuttled off the planet under such ambiguous circumstances—probably not many. And certainly not with an armed Antares retinue dressed in grey-and-cerulean, quietly efficient, their "diplomatic" insignia a mere fig leaf for authority. One of them—her name was Lieutenant Shira, if he recalled—stood at the hatch, arms folded and expression unreadable. "We'll be docking in two minutes, Mr. Neegan," she said, voice all clipped politeness. "You'll find the Antares delegation quite... eager to speak with you." He gave a noncommittal nod. "I hope their eagerness doesn't involve handcuffs." She smiled thinly. "That depends on your cooperation." The vessel shuddered as it docked, magnetic clamps locking with a satisfying thud. Arthur barely had time to stand before the hatch cycled open, revealing a corridor of brushed steel and indirect lighting. The Antares insignia—a stylized twin star—repeated at regular intervals along the walls. He was escorted down the passageway, boots echoing, the retinue forming a loose but unbreakable cordon. The meeting room was a paradox: intimate yet impersonal. A single circular table stood in the center, surrounded by grav-cushioned chairs upholstered in imitation leather. Holo-displays, currently muted, flickered along the far wall. At the head of the table sat a woman, her hair silvered not by age but fashion, her uniform pristine, adorned with the insignia of an Antares Attaché. She gestured to the chair opposite her. "Mr. Neegan. Please, sit." He obeyed, acutely aware of the silent guards stationed at the periphery. She studied him for a moment, blue eyes cool and analytical. "My name is Attaché Lira Vos. I represent the interests of the Antares Authority in this sector. I trust your journey was... uneventful?" Arthur shrugged. "Aside from being 'invited' at gunpoint—yes, quite smooth." She smiled, a measured display of teeth. "Direct. I like that. Let's speak directly, then. You own Plot 2478, registered to Neegan Holdings, correct?" "I do." "And you are aware of the Azra deposit beneath your claim?" He hesitated. "I suspected. The core samples—" "Spare me the feigned ignorance," she interrupted, tone sharpening. "Our orbital spectrometry confirms an Azra vein running almost a kilometer deep, with purity levels surpassing anything found in the last two years. Do you know what that means?" Arthur felt a chill, despite the room's regulated climate. "It means everyone will want it. And everyone will want me out of the way." Vos leaned forward, hands steepled. "Precisely. The Antares Authority is prepared to make you a very generous offer, Mr. Neegan. In exchange for exclusive mining and research rights to your claim, we will deposit a sum in your account sufficient to buy a small moon. Additionally, you and your family will receive full Antares citizenship, with all attendant protections." Arthur considered. "That's quite the carrot. And if I refuse?" Her smile vanished. "You would be free to do so. The Authority respects private property—officially. Unofficially, there are other parties far less... diplomatic than us. The Sagan Conglomerate, for instance, is already probing your claim boundaries with seismic resonators. The Jovian Enclave has dispatched a delegation—armed, I might add—to the sector. And there are rumors of a clandestine Terran consortium willing to employ 'deniable assets' to secure Azra for their own uses. I am offering you safety, Mr. Neegan. And certainty." Arthur glanced at the guards. "So I sign over my life's work, and in return, you protect me from being vaporized by some other interest." Vos nodded. "That is the essence of civilization, Mr. Neegan—exchanging chaos for order, uncertainty for stability. Azra is not mere metal. It is the fulcrum upon which interstellar power now pivots. With it, a nation could leapfrog a century of propulsion technology. Or obliterate a rival outpost in minutes." Arthur exhaled slowly. "And what do you plan to do with it?" She regarded him with a hint of respect. "Research, of course. Harness its properties for controlled, peaceful applications. The Authority is not blind to the dangers. Unchecked, Azra could plunge the Solar League into an arms race that would make the Plutonium Crisis look like a schoolyard squabble." He snorted. "That's the party line. But you're still mining it. Still stockpiling." Vos inclined her head. "We are not idealists, Mr. Neegan. We are pragmatists. Better the Authority than the alternatives." A silence settled. Arthur's mind raced. His father’s words echoed: *On Mars, nothing is free except the dust.* He’d come to the red planet for freedom, for the chance to build something permanent. Now, that permanence was a ticket in a cosmic game he’d never asked to play. He looked up. "Suppose I take your deal. What happens to the miners? To the locals? The ones who came here with nothing but a lease and a pick?" Vos's gaze softened, just for a moment. "Their contracts will be honored. Antares will assume all obligations. In fact, we intend to expand operations—legally and transparently, under Authority regulation. There will be work, and it will be safer than the current... cowboy arrangements." "And if I refuse?" he pressed. She straightened. "Then you will be returned to your claim. But I cannot guarantee your safety. Nor can anyone else. The race for Azra has already begun. It will not wait for your deliberations." Arthur considered the swirling red of Mars through the porthole—a world both ancient and raw, now a pawn on a galactic board. He felt the weight of a thousand lives pressing down on him, and the heavier burden of his own conscience. Vos slid a data-slate across the table. "The offer stands for twenty-four hours. After that, I cannot say what will happen." He took it, fingers brushing the cold alloy. "You make it sound like I have a choice." She smiled, this time with genuine sympathy. "In this universe, Mr. Neegan, we all have choices. The real question is whether we like the options." The room fell silent, save for the steady hum of the air filtration—the only constant in a world where everything else was up for grabs.

Model Output:
The red light in the darkroom always makes Elliot’s eyes look even softer, like the world’s turned the saturation knob down except for him. I’m not sure if he knows I’m watching him, how I track the way his nimble fingers brush the developer tray, or how his hair—black, with some streaks I can’t tell the color of in this light—curls just under his jaw. He’s talking about his process, voice barely above the hum of the vent fan. “I just… I like the way the chemicals make the image appear from nothing. Like it’s always there but hidden.” I watch a print bloom beneath his hands. His sleeves are rolled up, ink stains smudged on pale wrists. I clear my throat, trying to refocus. “It’s like magic,” I say, but it comes out rougher than I mean. I’m used to being the one in charge—assertive, decisive, the one who tells models where to stand and lovers what I want. But with Elliot, I feel this urge to tread gently, to not disturb the strange, shy world he builds around himself. He glances at me, lips twitching. “Yeah. Magic.” He hesitates, eyes flicking away. “Dani, can I… ask you something?” My heartbeat jumps. “Yeah, you can ask me anything.” I try to sound casual, but my voice cracks a little on ‘anything.’ He shifts, hair falling into his eyes. “Do you… ever feel like the person you are doesn’t match what people see? Like your outsides don’t fit what’s inside?” I look at him, at the way he bites his lip, and for a second I want to reach out, tuck that stray lock behind his ear. But I stop myself, unsure if it would comfort or embarrass him. “Sometimes,” I say, honestly. “Most people think they know exactly who I am, just because I wear boots and leather and cut my hair short. But it’s… more complicated.” He nods, relief shivering through his shoulders. “I think I’m… I don’t know. Not exactly a guy, not exactly not.” His hands worry an edge of paper. “I like the word ‘boy,’ but sometimes it feels like a costume. Sometimes I want to be softer, or—” He stops, cheeks darkening even in the red light. I want to say something clever, or comforting, but all I can do is nod. I’m fascinated by him, by the way he’s breaking himself open for me. I’m used to clarity, to sharp lines, but Elliot is all gradients and shadows. “Is that weird?” he asks quietly. “No,” I say. “It’s… beautiful.” I surprise myself with how much I mean it. “You get to decide who you are, how you show up.” My voice is gentler than I expect. “Honestly, I envy that. I always feel like I have to be this one thing, all the time.” He looks at me, and for a moment it’s like the air shimmers between us. “I like how you are,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “I never know what you’ll say, but it always feels… safe.” That undoes me a little. I’m always the one who makes things happen, who leads, but with Elliot I want to let him come forward, to draw him out of his shell. And yet—I’m still me, still hungry for the spark between us, the way my pulse drums when he’s close. I reach for the stack of photo paper, meaning to slide a new sheet into the enlarger, but my hand slips, knocking the box open. Light from Elliot’s phone—he’s checking a reference image—spills onto the exposed sheets. We freeze, and then both laugh, startled and breathless. “Shit,” I groan, inspecting the paper. “It’s all ruined.” I should be mad, but all I feel is a ridiculous relief that the tension’s broken. Elliot’s grin is crooked. “We could… experiment. Maybe use it for some weird collage?” He sounds more confident now, emboldened by the accident. “Yeah?” I lean in, teasing. “You gonna take charge now, Elliot?” He blushes, but I see a spark in his eye. “Maybe. I could try.” I don’t quite know what to do with the excitement that bubbles up in me. I’m drawn to his ambiguity, the way he’s both unsure and bold in the same breath. I’m used to desiring people who are all edges, who declare: this is who I am. With Elliot, I want to discover him, let him open at his own pace. He starts tearing the exposed sheets, arranging the scraps into a mosaic. “I think I like the idea of not being finished,” he says. “Like, being able to change, to play. It’s scary, but also kind of… freeing.” I watch his hands, the way he moves, and I realize I’m attracted to all of it—the uncertainty, the softness, the way his style is both armor and invitation. I wonder what that says about me. I’ve always thought I was into confidence, clarity, a certain kind of masculinity or femininity. But maybe what I want is someone brave enough to be something new. “Elliot,” I say, voice quieter. He looks up, and I hesitate, feeling the shift in power. “If you ever want to try things—different pronouns, new names—around me, I’m game. I won’t get it perfect, but I’ll listen. I want to see you, however you want to be seen.” He smiles, a little wobbly but genuine. “Thanks, Dani. That means a lot.” We work in silence for a while, piecing together our ruined paper, making something strange and beautiful out of the mess. The red light glows around us, and I feel a new kind of chemistry—one that isn’t about who’s in charge, but about discovering where our boundaries dissolve. Maybe I’m not as certain as I thought about what I want, or who I’m supposed to be attracted to. But right now, in the hush of the darkroom, it doesn’t matter. There’s just the magic of something appearing from nothing, and the thrill of seeing someone—really seeing them—for the first time.

Model Output:
**Stolen Moments in Roma** **1. Collision Course** The first time Ben saw her, he was fixated on the small print in his battered blue guidebook, deciphering the difference between Baroque and Renaissance ornamentation on the Trevi Fountain. The world was an orchestral blur of tourists, clicking cameras, and the slap of water against marble. He didn’t register the shriek of an engine until it was nearly too late. A red Vespa screeched to a halt inches from his knees. The woman astride it, helmet askew, scowled at him with dark, flashing eyes. Her hair, a tangle of espresso waves, stuck out beneath the helmet. A streak of blue and yellow paint—almost artistic in its randomness—marred the Vespa’s right fender. “Dio mio! Attenzione! You want to die in the street today, professore?” she snapped. Ben dropped his guidebook. “S-sorry! I—I—wasn’t—” He fumbled for Italian, “Mi dispiace! Uh, I was just—” She cut him off with a raised brow and a smirk. “Tourists. Always looking up, never looking where you’re going.” He managed a sheepish laugh. “I suppose I’m, er, living up to the stereotype.” She snorted, dismounting in one fluid motion. “Alessandra,” she announced, offering her hand, her nails chipped and painted traffic-light red. “And you are…?” “Ben. Benjamin Reed. I’m, uh, here on sabbatical. I teach at—well, it doesn’t matter.” He shook her hand. Her grip was strong, warm, and surprisingly gentle. She appraised him—a tall, slightly stooped man in rumpled linen, with spectacles and a sunburnt nose. “You walk like you carry too many books, Ben. Are you lost?” Her smile was mischievous, inviting trouble. He hesitated. “Not lost. Just…detoured.” She laughed, a peal of sound that seemed to bounce off the ancient stone. “Perfect. I like detours. Come on.” Before he could protest, she grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward her Vespa. “Wait, what—?” “Rome is wasted on the careful. Get on.” He stared at the battered, paint-scarred bike. “Is it…safe?” Her eyes sparkled. “Define safe.” **2. Wind in the Blood** Ben clung to the back of the Vespa as they zigzagged through traffic, Alessandra weaving between delivery vans and oblivious tourists. Roman sunlight flickered through alleyways, painting his knuckles chalk-white as he gripped the seat. Her laughter—reckless, infectious—rose above the din. “Relax, professore! You trust me, yes?” “Er—yes! I mean, I think so!” She swerved abruptly, brushing the curb. “Good. Hold your guidebook tighter, not the seat. That’s where the real danger is: letting go of the rules.” She grinned at him in the mirror. They stopped in a cramped piazza, overlooked by crumbling ochre buildings and a graffiti-tagged fountain. She hopped off, beckoning. Ben stumbled after her, his heart racing. “You ever try supplì?” she demanded, gesturing at a tiny, crowded shop window. Ben blinked. “Rice balls?” “Not rice balls. Supplì.” She winked at the vendor, speaking rapid-fire Italian. Two piping hot parcels exchanged hands. Alessandra bit into hers, letting the cheese stretch between her teeth. He followed suit, burning his tongue. “Oh. That’s…delicious.” She beamed, satisfied. “You learn quick.” As Ben fumbled for his wallet, Alessandra nudged him aside, dropping a few coins on the counter. He didn’t notice her palm a small souvenir magnet from the till, slipping it into her pocket with a sly flourish. **3. The Art of Mischief** They wandered through Trastevere, Alessandra leading the way. She darted into a church, dragging Ben past a startled nun. Inside, sunlight filtered through colored glass, painting the marble floor in fractured rainbows. Alessandra leaned close, voice softening. “See that painting?” She pointed to a Madonna framed in gold. “I used to steal prayers here as a child. Not coins, not candles—just wishes.” Ben smiled, charmed despite himself. “Is stealing prayers a Roman tradition?” She grinned. “Only for the hopeless. Or the hopeful.” Her gaze flickered to the votive candles, then to him. “Which are you?” He considered. “A bit of both, I think.” She nodded approvingly, then—without warning—plucked a single rose from a floral arrangement by the altar, tucking it behind his ear before he could protest. “Now you look like a poet. Or a fool.” He blushed, caught between mortification and giddy delight. **4. Outlaws in the Afternoon** The day spun faster. They slipped into the courtyard of a palazzo, Alessandra pretending to be his guide. She tossed out historical facts, some true, some invented ("Napoleon used to bathe his horse here, you believe?"), her accent rolling over his name like a caress. At a bustling street market, she challenged Ben to bargain for a scarf in broken Italian. He stammered through the transaction, but when he turned around, Alessandra already wore a different scarf, its price tag conspicuously absent. They ducked into a gelateria, sharing a cup of pistachio and blood orange. Ben watched her, entranced by the way she licked the spoon with a conspiratorial wink. “Do you always do this?” he asked quietly. She shrugged. “Do what?” He hesitated. “Steal little things. Hearts. Routines.” Her expression turned enigmatic. “Only when someone is asking to be stolen from.” **5. Evening at the Edge** Dusk bled into twilight. Alessandra led Ben to the Ponte Sisto, the city glowing gold behind them. The Tiber flowed sluggish and dark below. They leaned on the balustrade, the city humming in the distance. Ben felt a strange buoyancy, the rules of his old life loosened, drifting downstream. Alessandra dangled her feet over the edge, lighting a cigarette. “You know, Ben, most people come to Rome searching for something. History, art, themselves. What did you come looking for?” He met her gaze, steady for the first time. “I didn’t know until today.” She smiled, slow and genuine. “Brave answer, professore.” Their hands brushed. For a moment, the city faded: just her, him, and the hush of coming night. She stubbed out her cigarette, tossing the stub into the river. “My shift is over. But the night is young, and I think you owe me a wish at the Trevi.” He laughed, exhilarated and unmoored. “Lead the way.” They strolled back through the labyrinth of Rome, side by side. The city felt different now—dangerous, beautiful, alive. As they reached the fountain, Alessandra tossed a coin over her shoulder, not bothering to wish. Ben followed suit. She turned to him, eyes sparkling. “Tomorrow, professore?” He nodded, helplessly smitten. “Yes. Tomorrow.” She grinned, mounting her battered Vespa. “Try not to get run over while you wait for me.” With a roar and a wave, she vanished into the Roman night, leaving Ben standing in the afterglow, his heart racing as wildly as any stolen moment.

Model Output:
The hum of the Outpost is a low, steady thrum—air recycler, music from the corner console, miners talking like they’re still in their helmets. Down the bar, someone’s laughter clashes with the clink of ice. The glass in my hand sweats, and my rag is only half doing its job. “Net, you see this menu?” Old Ral asks, peering at the holo like it’s written in Martian. “Where’s the synth-lager gone?” “Third row, Ral. Scroll down,” I say, already halfway to the next customer. Ral’s a regular, all sharp elbows and stories about the ‘good orbits’ before the mining guilds turned cutthroat. The door hisses open, and something shifts. Not the air, not the gravity, but the mood. Out of habit, I glance over—just in time to see a stranger slide onto a stool. She’s got skin like dark copper, eyes sharp as asteroid glass, and hair—no, tentacles—knotted in a way that says she’s spent hours trying not to care. She looks tired. Not just shift’s-end tired, but bone-tired, soul-tired. She doesn’t look up. “Vega whisky, neat. Better make that a double.” I pour. The whisky’s deep gold, distilled somewhere you have to bribe three officials just to get water. As I slide it her way, her hand trembles. She snatches the glass like someone might take it from her. “Long shift?” I ask, a little softer than usual. She laughs, but there’s no humor. “You could say that. Or: long escape. Take your pick.” Something crashes at the far end of the bar—a glass, by the sound of it. A hush falls for a second, then someone mutters an apology. I flick a glance at the mess, but my hands are already on autopilot, serving, wiping, topping up. I keep my eyes on the stranger. “Rough docking?” I try. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a standard cycle. Her tentacles twitch. “Didn’t dock. Drifted in.” She throws back the whisky. “You run this place?” “I tend this place,” I say. “Name’s Nettle. Nets, if you’re feeling friendly.” She considers. “Nets.” She rolls it around in her mouth like she’s checking for bitterness. “Call me Iri.” Ral leans in from his stool, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “You from the mining flotilla, or one of those research ships?” Iri gives him a look that could strip paint. “Neither.” Ral shrugs, but he won’t back down. “We don’t see many fresh faces. Especially ones packing…those.” He gestures vaguely at her tentacled hair. “You a Modder?” Iri stiffens. “Not by choice.” The air gets prickly. I see tension ripple through her shoulders, and I know that look—I’ve worn it myself. The look of someone who’s had to run, who’s learned to keep their stories close. I lean in, elbows on the bar. “You’re safe here,” I say, voice steady. “Whatever’s chasing you, it’s not welcome.” She studies me like she wants to believe it. “Funny. Last place I heard that, I had to jump out an airlock.” “Outpost isn’t like the others,” I say, and I hope it’s true. “We have our own rules.” I nod at Ral. “First rule: no prying.” Ral grumbles, but he raises his glass. “To minding our business, then.” He drinks, and the tension eases a notch. Iri sips her double, slower this time. “How long you been here, Nets?” I wipe a wet ring off the bar. “Long enough to know who not to trust. Long enough to stop running.” She arches an eyebrow. “So you’re hiding too.” I laugh, surprised at myself. “Aren’t we all?” She cracks a smile, just for a heartbeat. It’s gone just as quick. The door hisses open again. This time, it’s Bren, one of the younger miners, trailing a cloud of lunar dust and looking nervous. He scans the room, sees Iri, freezes. His face goes pale. Iri’s hand tightens on her glass. She doesn’t look at him, but I see her jaw clench. Bren sidles up. “You, uh… you new?” “I’m drinking,” Iri says, not unkindly. “That’s all.” Bren glances at me, then leans closer, voice low. “Some folks on the dock, they were asking about a ship. Unmarked. Said it drifted in—no registry, no beacon. Sound familiar?” Iri doesn’t move. “You should get back to your friends.” Bren’s not taking the hint. “They said whoever was on it might be…dangerous. Maybe carrying something.” I slam a glass on the bar, not hard, just enough to get his attention. “Bren. You want trouble, go outside. Otherwise, drink or move along.” He looks at me, then at Iri, then back at me. “Just saying. We got rules.” “Yeah,” I say. “And one of them is don’t start fires you can’t put out.” He scowls, but steps away, muttering under his breath. Iri lets out a slow breath. “That how it is here? Everybody watching, waiting for someone to slip?” “Sometimes,” I say. “But most folks just want a quiet drink and a little peace.” She nods, eyes distant. “Peace. That’d be nice.” A miner stands up, a little too fast, chair scraping. The racket draws eyes. “I heard about that ship too,” he calls, voice loud and ugly. “Whoever docked it, maybe they should answer some questions.” Iri’s hands go still. I watch her, watch the crowd. Tension coils through the room. A glass crunches underfoot somewhere, a harsh echo. I raise my voice, calm but firm. “That’s enough. Anyone got a problem, they talk to me, not my patrons.” The miner hesitates. He’s young, bluffing for his friends. “We just want to know who’s bringing trouble here.” “Trouble finds its own way,” I say. “Tonight, it’s not welcome.” The room holds its breath. Iri drains her glass. “I can leave,” she says, soft, but I can see how much she means it. “If it keeps your peace.” I shake my head. “You stay. I’ll handle the rest.” Iri looks at me—really looks, as if measuring whether I mean it. Whatever she sees, it’s enough. She nods, just once. Behind us, the Outpost’s hum resumes, uneasy. The night goes on, but nothing’s settled. Not yet.

Model Output:
The air here is thick, sweet and humid, a syrup you have to force into your lungs. I’m still wearing my Tennessee flannel—stupid, heavy, sticky—and I have a duffel that smells like my old room, which is a smell I never want to be near again. There’s a saxophone somewhere close, rising above the chaos, and it sort of sounds like how I feel: wild, a little desperate, and out of place. I keep moving, because if I stop I’ll have to think. About Mom’s face, the way her jaw locked when I said the words. About how the phone was still in her hand, and the counsellor’s voice crackled out—“concerning behavioural patterns”—like I was a broken car part, not a person. About how I ran before she could say anything else. New Orleans is a riot of color and noise. Bourbon Street isn’t even real life. It’s like someone turned the saturation up until the world started to bleed. There’s a guy painted head to toe in silver, pretending to be a robot. A woman in a purple dress and a mask laughs too loud into her phone. The saxophone player’s case is open and somebody drops a five in, and the coins jangle with a sound that’s almost hopeful. I find myself drifting toward the edge of Jackson Square, where the crowds thin just enough that I can breathe. I sit on the curb, hugging my duffel. I have about thirty dollars left, and zero idea what to do next. “Hey. You got a smoke?” I look up. There’s a kid, maybe my age, maybe a little older. Short, wiry, with hair buzzed so close their scalp glints in the sunlight. They’re wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt that says ‘DEFUND YOUR DAD’ in marker. Their eyes are sharp, like they’re measuring me for something. “Don’t smoke,” I say, a little too defensive. They smirk. “Didn’t ask if you should. Asked if you got one.” I shake my head, and they plop down next to me anyway, way too close. I tense up. Back in Tennessee, you don’t sit this close to strangers unless you want a fight. Here, I guess, the rules are different. The kid eyes my duffel. “You just get in?” “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. Like I do this every day. They nod, like they get it. “I’m Jules,” they say. “Been here three weeks. You?” “Taylor.” Jules pulls their knees to their chest. “Where’d you come from?” I hesitate. Part of me wants to lie, invent some badass story, but then I remember: this is the real deal now. No more made-up drama. “Tennessee,” I say. “Ran away last night.” Jules whistles, low and impressed. “Serious. You got people looking for you?” I shrug. “Probably.” We sit in silence for a minute, listening to the saxophone. I wonder what Jules’s story is. I wonder if it matters. Maybe here, you get to start over. “You got somewhere to stay?” Jules asks. I shake my head. “Not yet.” “There’s a shelter by the river,” they say. “But you gotta get there early. Fills up quick.” I nod, pretending I’m going to check it out, but I know I won’t. I don’t want to be packed in with a bunch of strangers, all of us smelling like fear and old sweat. Jules seems to get it. “You hungry?” I nod, and my stomach growls right on cue. Jules grins and stands up. “Come on. I know a spot.” I follow. We weave through the Quarter, Jules ducking into alleys and cutting across courtyards like they own the place. They move with a quick, jumpy energy, glancing over their shoulder every few steps. I try to keep up, clutching my duffel like it’s a life vest. We end up at a little corner store. Jules grabs two bananas and a bag of chips, then flashes the cashier a crooked smile. “Put it on my tab, Mr. Roy?” The old man behind the counter sighs but rings it up. “You bring me that five you owe, or I’m calling your mama.” Jules just grins and winks at me. “He’s bluffing. My mom’s in Lafayette.” We eat on the curb, watching the world go by. It feels almost normal. Jules peels their banana, considers me for a second. “So, what’s your deal, Taylor? You look like somebody who just ripped the Band-Aid off.” I laugh—surprised at the sound of it. “You could say that.” “You queer?” Jules asks. Not mean, just direct. I nod. “Trans.” Jules bumps their shoulder against mine. “Me too. Welcome to the club.” I feel something loosen in my chest—a knot I didn’t know was there. Maybe I’m not as alone as I thought. “People here don’t care much,” Jules says. “Not like back home. Still gotta watch your back, though. Some folks got old ideas.” I nod. “It was bad back in Tennessee. My mom… she just looked at me like she didn’t even know me. Like I was some kind of alien.” Jules spits a banana seed into the gutter. “Parents can be assholes.” We sit in silence for a while. I let the saxophone music wash over me. “So what now?” I ask. Jules grins, flashing a gold canine. “Now we survive. Come on. I’ll show you where you can stash your stuff. Safer than dragging it everywhere. Then I’ll teach you how to make a few bucks.” I hesitate—trust isn’t easy, not anymore. But Jules feels real, solid, like someone who’s had to figure out the rules on their own. “Okay,” I say. “Lead the way.” As we walk, I realize I’m scared, yeah—but not just of what might happen. I’m scared because for the first time, maybe ever, I get to choose what happens next. The saxophone fades behind us. The city opens up, wide and wild, and I step forward, one foot in front of the other, into whatever comes next.

Model Output:
**My Apocalypse Buddy** Midas woke to the sound of Chewy’s mechanical eyelids clicking open and closed, producing a noise somewhere between a cicada and a man with a bad cough. The animo-tronic koala was not, strictly speaking, alive, but after the Collapse, the definition of “alive” had become more flexible than Midas’s morals. “You drooled on my fur again,” Chewy rasped through his tiny speaker, which had become slightly more sinister after losing its bass in the Acid Rain Incident. Midas wiped his chin, blinking through the morning’s dust. “Consider it moisturiser. You’ve been looking… arid.” Chewy’s LED eyes flickered. “If I could feel, I’d be offended. But I can’t, so I’m not.” He flexed his stubby arms. “What’s on the agenda today, Captain?” “Same as yesterday.” Midas rummaged through his battered rucksack, pulling out a tin labeled *Chicken Surprise* (the surprise being that it was, in fact, chicken). “Find food, avoid death, and—if the universe is feeling generous—locate a place that doesn’t smell of burnt plastic and despair.” Chewy whirred thoughtfully. “I saw something last night. On the wall of that old train carriage. Graffiti.” Midas perked up. “Graffiti? You mean, the ancient art of misspelling and crude anatomy?” “No.” Chewy’s head swiveled. “It said, ‘Refuge lies beyond the Thorned Gate. Seek the blue hand.’ And then there was a drawing of a… well, it might’ve been a hand. Or a duck.” Midas considered this. “Quests are for people with options. We have… less than options.” “Technically, I’m not a person,” Chewy said, “so it’s your call.” Thus decided, they set out into the wilds, which were now less wild and more “selectively toxic.” The city’s bones jutted from the earth, draped in vines and the occasional aggressive squirrel. The “Thorned Gate” proved easy to locate—mainly because it was the only fence in a ten-mile radius still upright, and festooned with brambles thick enough to repel a particularly determined rhino. “I’ll boost you,” Chewy said, which was optimistic, given his entire body mass was equivalent to a family-sized bag of crisps. Midas snorted. “At least you’re not afraid of tetanus.” Thirty minutes, two ripped sleeves, and a string of new expletives later, Midas and Chewy tumbled through the gate, landing face-first in a patch of nettles. “That went well,” Chewy observed, picking thorns from his synthetic fur. “Better than last time,” Midas grunted. “Fewer bees.” Onward they trudged, searching for any sign of a blue hand, duck, or otherwise. The underbrush was thick, and the wildlife had evolved a taste for polyester and confusion. At one point, a raccoon attempted to mug Chewy for his batteries, but was scared off by Chewy’s war-cry (“I AM CHEWY, DESTROYER OF WORLDS!”), which echoed through the trees like a malfunctioning air horn. By midday, Midas’s stomach was staging a protest that could be heard from orbit. “If we don’t find this refuge soon, I’ll be forced to eat another tin of Chicken Surprise. I don’t think my insides can take the surprise.” “Look.” Chewy pointed with a stubby arm. There, painted on a ruined signpost, was a blue hand. Or possibly a blue duck. Imagination was required. They followed the trail, which promptly led them into a bog of questionable intent. “I hate this,” Midas muttered, as his boot squelched somewhere between mud and what was hopefully just more mud. Chewy, floating cheerfully on the surface due to his low density, said, “In adversity, we learn who we are. Apparently, I am a buoy.” Several hours, two detours, and one encounter with a flock of territorial pigeons later, they reached a clearing. At its center, a hatch in the ground, rimmed in faded blue paint. Above it, a sign: *SAFE HAVEN—KNOCK FIRST*. Midas exchanged a look with Chewy. “Think it’s a trap?” Chewy’s eyes flickered. “Given our luck, definitely. But it’s a new kind of trap. That’s almost refreshing.” Midas knocked. The hatch creaked open an inch, revealing the muzzle of a shotgun and a single bleary eye. “Password?” croaked a voice. Chewy leaned in, eyes glowing. “Duck.” A long pause. The hatch closed, several bolts slid, and then, with a groan, it opened wide. Inside was a cramped bunker, smelling of beans and desperation. The inhabitants—three people and a dog with half an ear—looked as ragged as Midas felt. They eyed Chewy with suspicion. “He’s with me,” Midas said, as Chewy attempted to look non-threatening, which was difficult for a talking koala with scorched fur. The leader, a woman with a buzzcut and an eyepatch made from a bottlecap, gestured them in. “You brought food?” Midas produced the tin of Chicken Surprise. The reaction was immediate and unanimous. “We don’t do surprises,” the woman said, and in unison, the inhabitants pointed to the ladder. Chewy and Midas found themselves ejected, blinking in the sunlight. “Better luck next apocalypse,” the woman called after them. They trudged home through the gathering dusk, silent save for the whir of Chewy’s joints and Midas’s stomach rumbling. At the Thorned Gate, Midas paused. “Was it all a waste, Chewy?” Chewy’s LED eyes blinked. “We didn’t die. That’s better than most days.” Midas scratched his chin. “True. Maybe tomorrow we try the other direction.” Chewy nodded sagely. “As long as it’s not uphill.” Their shelter—three walls and a tarp—never looked so inviting. Midas lay down, Chewy at his side, and for a moment, the world seemed less bleak. At least until the raccoon returned, this time with reinforcements. But that, as they say, was a problem for tomorrow.

Model Output:
The bell over the shop door chimed violently, as though someone had tried to rip it free. Gwenydd looked up from behind the counter, a battered copy of *Howl’s Moving Castle* in her hand, just as a man in a soaked pea coat all but fell inside, slamming the door behind him. He pressed his back to the wood, breathing hard—a mess of dark curls, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that flicked immediately to her like a startled deer. Gwen recognized him, of course. Everybody did. Hard not to, when his face was plastered across the bus stop just three doors down. Rhys Llewellyn. The Rhys Llewellyn. He grinned, dazzling, like a spotlight had just flicked on in the dusky shop. “Afternoon,” he said, too loud, as if he were on stage. “You haven’t seen me, right?” Gwen arched a brow. “That depends. Are you about to rob me or buy a book?” He laughed, a little breathless, glancing over his shoulder. “Neither, unless you’re selling invisibility cloaks. Or—” He ducked as a camera flash pulsed outside the window, “—a rear exit.” She set her book aside. “You’ve got about thirty seconds before Mrs. Evans from the bakery next door comes in for her usual,” she said. “She’s got better gossip instincts than the Daily Mail.” Rhys’s eyes widened, concern flickering under the charm. “You’d sell me out that quick?” “I didn’t say I’d sell you out,” Gwen replied, folding her arms. “I just said you’re running out of time to be invisible. There’s a difference.” He edged away from the door, hands up in mock surrender. “Alright. I surrender. Please don’t feed me to the wolves, Miss…?” “Gwen. Gwenydd Morgan. This is my shop.” He seemed to like the sound of her name, rolling it around in his mouth. “Gwenydd. Pretty.” He glanced around. “And this is your kingdom, then?” She shrugged. “If you like dust and receipts for company.” Rhys advanced toward the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I could hide in the stacks. Blend in with the Tolstoy. I give a mean brooding stare.” She snorted. “You’d last about five seconds before you started monologuing.” His eyes sparkled. “You wound me.” He pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “That’s my bread and butter, you know. Monologuing.” Gwen was determined not to smile, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re not on camera now.” Rhys glanced at the window, where the shadows of photographers hovered. “If I’m not on camera, do I even exist?” He tried to make it a joke, but it landed heavy in the stillness. She hesitated, feeling the sudden shift in him. “That’s a dramatic question for a Tuesday.” He grinned again, but it was tighter now. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.” He picked up a battered copy of *The Mabinogion* from the counter, turning it over in his hands. “You ever get that? Feel like you disappear when nobody’s looking?” Gwen considered him, taking in the restless energy, the way his fingers drummed against the cover. “Not really. I’m good at being invisible. Comes with the job.” He looked at her, earnest now. “What’s that like?” She shrugged, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. “Peaceful. Most days. Some days a bit… lonely, I suppose.” Rhys nodded, thoughtful. “I envy that. The peace, I mean. I can’t seem to go anywhere without people wanting something.” He offered a lopsided smile. “Except you, apparently.” She met his gaze, steady. “I haven’t decided if I want anything yet.” He laughed, the sound echoing in the small shop. “Brutal. You know, you’re the first person today who hasn’t tried to take my picture, get my autograph, or—God help me—ask me to say a line from ‘Dragon’s Heart’.” He dropped his voice into a comically deep register. “‘With me, my brothers! For glory!’” She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “That film was terrible.” He put a hand to his heart again, mock wounded. “You’re a menace, Gwenydd Morgan.” “I’m honest.” He grinned, looking genuinely delighted. “I could use more of that.” For a moment, the only sound was the rain against the windows. Gwen fiddled with a bookmark, not quite meeting his eyes. “So… why the running, really? Paparazzi can’t be the only reason someone ducks into my shop like their life depends on it.” Rhys hesitated, then leaned in, voice softer. “Sometimes it feels like if I stop… if I let them see I’m tired, or scared, or just not up for it, the whole thing will collapse. Like I’ll vanish.” He tried to smile. “Years ago, my first big role, I froze on stage. Couldn’t remember a single line. Stood there, sweating under the lights. The director hissed at me from the wings, ‘Just smile, Llewellyn. They love you when you smile.’ So I did. And they clapped. And I thought—maybe that’s all I need to do. Smile, and they’ll never know.” Gwen was silent, watching him. Her voice was quieter when she spoke. “You don’t have to smile in here, you know.” He looked at her, something raw in his eyes. “Are you sure?” She nodded. “I’ve got some tea in the back. And a chair. You can hide as long as you want.” He grinned, softer this time. “You’re not as immune as you pretend, are you?” She flushed, looking away. “You’re not as charming as you think.” He laughed, real and unguarded. “That’s a first. Gwenydd Morgan, you might be the only honest person in Wales.” She moved out from behind the counter, brushing past him toward the tiny kitchen. “Come on, then. Tea. But you’re washing your own mug.” He watched her go, a smile tugging at his lips, and followed—leaving his public self behind, if only for a little while.

Model Output:
Aya’s boots whispered over the slick black stones, the hush of her companions behind her. The underhold’s iron door loomed before them, its glyphs smoldering faintly, the air thick with lamp-oil, whale grease, and the sharp tang of ozone that always came with the eldritch devices of the guild. The stillness was so complete that Aya could hear the blood humming in her own ears, each heartbeat a hammerstroke within her chest. The only sound from beyond was the slow drip of water—somewhere far below, a cistern collecting the brine that pervaded every brick of Morska. Katra’s voice, low and choked with nerves, broke the silence. “Feels like we’re walking into the whale’s mouth, Aya.” Aya forced a smile, though none could see it beneath her mask. “That’s where the best bones are, Kat.” She pressed her palm to the sigil-plate; the cold of the metal bit down to her bone, reading her pulse, her intent—her lie. The lock sighed open, and with a glance to Simeon, she pushed through. The passage yawned before them, damp as a tomb, lined with the whale-oil lanterns that twisted the shadows into wild, writhing shapes. At the far end, the vault door stood open, a dark mouth in the stone. Simeon tensed at her side, hand on his revolver. “Stay close,” Aya whispered, her voice trembling only a little. She drew the immateria to her, a silken thread in her mind’s grasp, ready but hidden. They stepped into the vault, boots echoing on the flagstones. The artifact—a carven scythan idol, all slick black curves and runes that seemed to crawl under the skin—sat upon a pedestal of bone and brass. But the room was not empty. From the gloom beyond the idol, a figure stepped forward, her silhouette unmistakable, even as the gaslight flickered over the sharp planes of her face. Guildmistress Ruvina, the Sea-Widow herself—her hair swept back with pins of whalebone, her eyes sharp as harpoons, her lips curled in a half-smile devoid of warmth. “Well, well,” Ruvina drawled, her voice like the creak of old ropes. “If it isn’t the little night-moth and her rats.” At her flanks, two brutes in oilskin coats raised their scatterguns, and behind them more figures emerged, pale in the lantern-glow, eyes glinting with oily malice. Aya froze—caught between bolting and bargaining, the immateria flickering at her fingertips. But Ruvina’s gaze pinned her to the spot. “Thought you’d slit the guild’s belly and take what falls out, did you?” The mistress’s boots rang on the stone as she stalked closer. “You think I’m so easily caged, child?” Katra spat, “We saw the constables drag you off. Whole street saw it.” Ruvina laughed, the sound echoing against the damp stone. “Constables are as easy bought as a dockside whore. I wanted the city to think me gone, so the rats would crawl into daylight. And here you are. Unmask her.” The two brutes seized Aya, wrenching her arms behind her back before she could react. Cold hands tore away her mask, and the gaslight fell upon her face—pale, aristocratic, eyes wide with terror and fury. Ruvina’s smile widened, sharklike. “Ah. The little Hamilton girl.” Her voice curled around Aya’s name like a noose. “Did you think your pretty face and your mother’s sorcery would keep you safe, child?” Simeon lunged forward, but a gun barrel cracked across his jaw, sending him sprawling. Katra was forced to her knees, her eyes wild. Aya’s mind raced—a thousand calculations, all for naught. The immateria, that dark, whispering presence, squirmed at the edges of her thoughts, but she held it back. Too many guns, too many eyes. Ruvina crouched before her, eyes like black pearls. “Tell me, Miss Hamilton—how shall I balance the scales? I have traitors, thieves, and a little witch. The city would pay handsomely for you—your father twice over, the constables tenfold. Or perhaps I keep you, let you rot in the dark, until the guild is whole again.” Aya forced herself to meet those pitiless eyes. “You need me alive. If I vanish, my father will turn the city upside down. The constables will swarm your operations. If you ransom me, he’ll pay—but he’ll never stop coming.” Ruvina’s gaze flicked to the idol. “And what of your little talent? The immateria runs in your blood, I hear. Your mother danced at the end of a rope for less.” Aya’s throat tightened; the memory of her mother’s execution swung before her like a pendulum. She swallowed the bile rising in her mouth, forcing herself to speak. “You know what I can do. You’ve seen it. Let me be of use. Spare my companions and I’ll serve you. I’ll protect the guild’s secrets.” Katra hissed, “Don’t trust her, Aya—” But Ruvina silenced her with a gesture. “Bold,” the guildmistress murmured, circling Aya like a crow. “But I wonder—is it loyalty, or fear? What would you do to survive, little moth? What would you give me?” Beyond the walls, a foghorn moaned—once, twice, thrice—echoing through the weeping stones of the underhold. Aya’s mind reeled. The city above was waking, the tides turning, and here she was, unmasked and helpless, her secrets bleeding into the cold air. She bowed her head, voice trembling. “Whatever you ask. I can summon things—things you’ve only seen in nightmares. Let me prove my worth.” Ruvina studied her, the silence stretching taut as wire. At last, she nodded to her men. “Bind them. Lock them in the lower crypts. I’ll decide their fate when the tide turns. And you, Miss Hamilton—pray your father’s gold is worth more to me than your blood.” Rough hands seized Aya, dragging her to her feet. As she was marched away, she caught one last glimpse of the idol, its eyes winking in the guttering light. The future narrowed to a single, cold point: survive the night, or join her mother in the dark. The stone door clanged shut behind her, and the underhold swallowed her screams.

Model Output:
The jukebox spits static and a tired riff, bleeding through the smoke-choked haze of the bar. Spike Spiegel leans back on a splintered stool, a half-empty glass of bourbon dangling loosely from his fingers. The neon signs outside cast sickly blue and pink stripes across his face, catching on the tired lines beneath his mismatched eyes. He’s already smoked through half a pack, the ashtray a graveyard of crumpled butts. He notices her before she notices him. It’s hard not to. Revy storms in like a summer squall, combat boots clapping on sticky linoleum, twin pistols holstered low on her hips. Her eyes cut through the gloom, sharp and predatory, scanning the crowd for trouble. Or maybe just for fun. She orders a bottle, not a glass, and drains a swallow before she even sits down. The barkeep flinches at her glare and retreats, leaving her alone at the counter. Spike watches her in the mirror behind the bar—her dragon tattoo twisting as she lifts her drink, the way her lips curl around the rim. He’s seen killers before, but she wears it like a badge. He slides off his stool and ambles over, casual as a stray cat. “You the one here for the McGrath job?” Revy’s eyes flicker, sizing him up. “Maybe. You the other asshole they hired?” Her voice is a low growl, all Brooklyn bite and gunmetal. Spike grins, lazy and lopsided. “Guess that makes us partners, huh?” She snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy. I work alone.” He shrugs, lighting another cigarette. “Whatever happens, happens.” They drink in silence, the jukebox skipping through the same battered verse. The bar’s other patrons have started to notice—two predators circling, each wondering who’ll draw first blood. Spike keeps his hands where she can see them, but his posture is loose, practiced, every muscle ready to coil. Revy’s fingers drum on the bar, close to her holsters. “So,” she says, voice edged like a broken bottle, “what’s your angle? You look like you’d rather be dead than here.” Spike exhales smoke, letting it curl between them. “Death’s overrated. I just like the chase.” He glances at her with a crooked smile. “And you? You look like you’re here to start a war.” She tilts her head, mouth quirking. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just wanna see if you’re as good as they say.” She leans in, close enough for him to smell the whiskey on her breath. “Think you can keep up, pretty boy?” He doesn’t flinch. “Depends. You any good with those toys, ‘Two Hands’?” Her eyes narrow, and for a heartbeat, the air crackles with tension. Then she laughs, throaty and dangerous. “You wanna find out?” The bar erupts in chaos as a trio of local toughs, mistaking the moment for weakness, decide to make their move. Spike is a blur—he ducks a wild punch, pivots, and plants his boot in one guy’s gut. Revy’s already moving, pistols out, twin flashes of chrome and thunder. She doesn’t shoot to kill, but her shots are surgical—kneecaps, shoulders, hands. Spike appreciates the restraint, even if it’s only to save bullets. When the noise dies down, bodies groaning on the floor, they stand back to back. Spike’s suit is rumpled, Revy’s lip is bleeding, but neither looks winded. “Not bad,” she says, holstering her guns. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” Spike flicks his cigarette away. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a trigger-happy psycho.” She grins, a flash of teeth, and for a second something soft glimmers behind her eyes. “Buy you a drink?” “Thought you’d never ask.” The bottle empties quickly. They trade stories, half-truths and lies, neither willing to admit how much they’re enjoying the company. When the bounty’s location comes up, neither is surprised to discover they’ve both been double-crossed. The job’s a setup—someone wants them to take each other out. They leave the bar together, the jukebox still whining the same old song. Outside, rain slicks the street in oily rainbows. They find a cheap motel nearby, more out of necessity than trust—there’s nowhere else to regroup, and too many eyes on them in the city. The room stinks of mold and stale sweat. They sit on opposite beds, guns on the covers between them. The silence drags, heavy with something neither wants to name. “Why’d you come in here with me?” Revy asks, voice stripped raw. “You don’t know me.” Spike lights another cigarette, his gaze distant. “Same reason you did. Figure if you wanted me dead, you’d have done it already.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t trust you, cowboy.” He exhales smoke, eyes half-lidded. “Wouldn’t expect you to.” The air buzzes, thick with unspoken challenge and something darker. She stands, gun in hand, and closes the distance between them. Spike doesn’t move, just watches her with that lazy, half-amused smirk. Her voice is a whisper, dangerous. “I could shoot you right now. Take the whole bounty for myself.” He looks up at her, unafraid. “Go ahead. Might save me some trouble.” Their eyes lock, electric. For a second, the world narrows to the space between them—the blood on her lip, the smoke on his breath, the click of safety catches. She leans in, her gun pressed to his chest. His hand comes up, slow as sunrise, to rest against her wrist. Neither pulls the trigger. The moment stretches, taut as piano wire, unresolved and perilous. Then she pulls back, laughing, breathless and wild. “Next round’s on you, cowboy,” she says, and sits on her own bed, gun in her lap, eyes never leaving his. Outside, the neon flickers. Inside, the storm between them only grows.

Model Output:
I remember the taste of cold air that night, sharp as pennies against my tongue, and the way my boots crunched over frostbitten grass as Astrid led me through the fields. Even now, all these years later, I can still picture the little pocket torch swinging from her wrist, its beam bobbing over stone and shadow, making the world seem smaller, as if the darkness pressed in behind us like a held breath. She wore her father’s old army jacket, sleeves stuffed with wool, and a knitted cap tugged low enough to hide most of her face except for that determined little smirk. “We have to be quiet,” Astrid whispered, though the nearest farmhouse was a kilometer away and the only other sound was the wind combing through stunted birches. “If the spirits think we’re just mucking about, they’ll ignore us. Or worse.” She made it sound like a dare. That was Astrid—always so certain, as if the world bent itself around her explanations. I followed her partly because I was afraid not to. I was sixteen, an outsider in a village where everyone’s grandmother had once delivered someone else’s baby, where the old words still lived in kitchen corners and between the lines of the local paper. I told myself it was just another midnight game. Nothing more. The burial mound was low and broad, mossy, half-swallowed by the roots of a willow tree. Astrid said it was older than the church, older than our country, built by hands that never wrote anything down. We’d brought with us a wool blanket, a thermos of coffee that steamed in the cold, and a little tin box rattling with things Astrid called “offerings”—salt, a crust of rye bread, a lock of her own hair. She’d made me bring something too: a ring my mother gave me, back when we still lived in Stockholm, back when I thought the world was a bus ride away. Astrid spread the blanket on the mound, then crouched, tracing a circle in the frost with a stick. “Sit here. Cross-legged. Don’t let your knees go outside the line. If you feel something tugging, hold on.” “To what?” I asked, but she only grinned, teeth bright in the torchlight. We sat together, knees touching, and Astrid arranged the offerings in front of us. She poured a line of salt along the edge of the circle, her hands steady as she murmured something in a language I barely recognized. It could have been Swedish, or it could have been something older, twisted and worn smooth by centuries of repetition. The wind seemed to pause, listening. “We have to be patient,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “You can’t force them. Just sit. Listen. Think about what you want to know.” “What if I don’t want to know anything?” Astrid shrugged. “Then think about what you’re willing to give up.” We waited. The cold crept up through the blanket, numbing my legs. I tried to focus on the questions Astrid had said we could ask—who spread the rumor about Elin? Why did Mattias never look Astrid in the eye?—but my mind kept drifting. I thought about my old room in Stockholm, the hum of traffic, the smell of warm laundry, the way my parents had argued in low voices before the move. I wondered if they’d notice I was gone, if they’d even care. Somewhere behind us, a fox barked. Astrid’s eyes flicked up, but she didn’t move. Then, just as my eyelids began to droop, the church bell rang. Once. Just once, echoing over the fields. Astrid stiffened beside me. “There’s no service tonight,” she whispered. The sound lingered, a shiver in the air. I thought I heard footsteps in the frost, slow and deliberate, but when I turned my head, there was nothing—just the willow’s branches stirring in the wind. I tried to laugh, but my voice caught in my throat. “Did you hear that?” I breathed. Astrid nodded, her face suddenly pale. “Don’t break the circle. No matter what.” The torch’s beam flickered. I felt something—a pressure, like the air thickening, pressing in on my skin. My heart hammered, and I told myself it was just the cold, just my imagination. But then I saw a shape at the edge of the circle: nothing more than a shadow, darker than the darkness, shifting against the grass. My hand crept to my mother’s ring, pressing it into my palm until the metal left a mark. Astrid began to chant, her voice shaking. I didn’t understand the words, but I felt them, as if they were being spoken inside my own head. For a moment, it seemed the mound beneath us was breathing, rising and falling with each word. The wind picked up, stealing the salt from the circle, scattering it into the night. “Linnea,” Astrid hissed, “give it your offering. Now.” I fumbled, dropping the ring onto the frost. It looked so small, so ordinary against the ancient earth. The shadow pulsed, stretched, and I saw—no, I only thought I saw—faces in the mist above the mound. Eyes, mouths, watching. The church bell rang again, though this time I was sure it was only in my head. Then, as suddenly as it began, the heaviness passed. The air snapped cold again, and I realized I was shaking, my teeth clattering so loudly I thought they’d break. The torch’s beam steadied. The shadow was gone. Astrid reached out, squeezing my hand. Her palm was clammy. “We should go.” We gathered our things in silence. I left the ring where it lay. As we trudged back through the fields, I glanced over my shoulder just once and saw nothing but moonlit grass and the shape of the mound, unchanged. But I felt different—emptied out, as if something had been taken, or maybe as if I’d left something behind. Later, lying in bed with the covers pulled to my chin, I tried to tell myself we’d only scared ourselves. That the bell was a trick of the wind, the shadows only tricks of the mind. But when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of the mound, and the faces in the mist, and the sound of a bell ringing out over fields older than memory. I never saw my mother’s ring again.

Model Output:
I lie on my back, left knee crooked, heel pressed into the black vinyl of the treatment table. The lights here are too bright, the air too clean. I stare up at the ceiling tiles, counting the holes, pretending I don’t smell the faint trace of eucalyptus in the lotion, or the sweat of every other broken body that’s passed through this place. “Ready?” His voice is somewhere between clinical and something else I don’t want to name. I know that voice—spent years hearing it beside me in the gym, thrumming with competition, now smoothed over into professional calm. Alec. My old training partner. The one who kept going when I couldn’t. “Yeah,” I mutter. He’s standing at my side, clipboard set aside, his hands bracing my thigh just above the knee. He’s cut his hair short since our last meet, jaw shadowed with stubble, sleeves pushed above his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flex as he readies to move my leg. I know those muscles. I remember racing him in sprints, always half a step behind, now a decade behind in every way that matters. “Quad set,” he says, and I grit my teeth. “Tighten the muscle here.” He taps the thick slab of my quadriceps, right above the kneecap. His touch is precise—two fingers, a gentle but insistent pressure. I flex, try to squeeze the muscle, but the signal from my brain to my leg falters, fizzles out. A spasm of pain shoots up my thigh, sharp and electric, like the moment everything tore. “Good. Again.” His hands don’t move. I can feel the heat of his palm, the way his thumb anchors me. I try to focus on the wall instead, on the big laminated poster of the human musculature—glossy, color-coded, every tendon and insertion labeled. I used to know all those names; now they feel like strangers. “I can’t believe you do this for fun,” I say, voice thin. He doesn’t answer, just nods, watching the way the muscle quivers under my skin. “Last one. Hold for five seconds.” Four, five. My hamstring cramps, a deep ache that makes me want to curl up and disappear. He notices, of course. He always did. “Let’s stretch you out.” He moves around the table, his presence constant, his back broad in my peripheral vision. He bends my knee gently, one hand cradling the heel, the other steadying at the patella. His touch is businesslike, but it’s still him. I try not to think about the last time I saw him in shorts, sweat gleaming on his chest, the way I used to catch myself looking too long. He lifts my heel, guiding my knee toward my chest. The hip joint protests—a dull, grinding resistance. He pauses, eyes flickering to my face. “You’re guarding.” “I’m not.” “You are.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Breathe.” He leans into the stretch, his chest close above my shin. I can smell the faintest hint of his cologne, something woodsy. I hold my breath, resisting the urge to move away or closer, I’m not sure which. “Tell me when you hit the edge,” he says. His fingers slide to the back of my thigh, the pads rough from years of chalk and barbells. He’s close enough that I can see the faint line of a scar on his forearm—one I remember from a bad fall, years ago. The stretch intensifies. The head of my femur grinds in the socket. I can feel the tension in my hip flexor, the way the muscle seizes, and then—just a little—gives. It’s not pain, not really, but the memory of pain, a threat echoing up through tissue and bone. “There?” he asks. “Yeah.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend. He holds, keeping the pressure steady. I can feel his breath, slow and deliberate. The heat from his hands seeps into my skin. I’m too aware of the way my body betrays me—sweat prickling at my hairline, the slight tremor in my thigh. He eases my leg down, not letting go until my foot is flat on the table. “Other side.” I shift, awkward, trying to arrange the ruined meat of my other leg. The incision scar is still puckered and angry, a roadmap of failure. He doesn’t comment, just repeats the process, his hands gentle but uncompromising. “Hamstring stretch this time.” He lifts my heel, extends my knee until the leg is straight, perpendicular to the table. He braces my knee in one palm, fingers spread wide, the other hand supporting my heel. The tendons behind my knee burn as he pushes, slow and inexorable. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Breathe into it.” I let the air out in a shudder, feel the deep pull along the back of my thigh, up into the glute. My foot twitches involuntarily, toes flexing. He notices, adjusts his grip, and the movement sends a jolt through me—half pain, half something else, raw and electric. “You always hated this stretch,” he says, a smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth. I close my eyes, try to ignore the flush creeping up my neck. “Still do.” He holds the stretch, both of us silent. The only noise is the hum of the lights overhead, the faint creak of the vinyl as I shift. His hands never slip, never falter. I wonder how many bodies he’s worked on since we last spoke, how many times he’s listened to someone else’s pain. “Relax. I’ve got you,” he says quietly. I almost laugh. Of course he does. He always did. He lowers my leg, slow and controlled, his hands tracing the path of the muscle as if memorizing it anew. I catch his gaze, and for a moment, something flickers between us—old rivalry, old longing, all mixed up with the humiliation of my broken body and the heat of his skin. He steps back, puts the professional mask back on. “Table edge. Sit up. Let’s try some weight-bearing.” I swing my legs over, wincing as the injured one protests. He stands close, too close, hands hovering just in case. I catch a glimpse of the muscle chart again—red and blue, every connection mapped out. I used to know where I belonged in that system. Now all I know is the space between his hands and my skin, the border between agony and something that might be hope. He kneels, aligning my ankle, his fingers guiding my foot flat to the ground. Our eyes meet. Neither of us mentions the way my breath catches, the way his hand lingers a second too long. The line between pain and relief, between memory and desire, is thin as a nerve. “Ready when you are,” he says, voice low. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready— not for this recovery, not for him, not for the uncomfortable, necessary ache of being touched by someone who once knew me whole.

Model Output:
The jade felt slick, almost oily, in my palm—though that might have been my own sweat. I pressed my thumb over the little fox’s hollowed eyes, right pocket of my uniform heavy with its presence as I crossed from the foreign factories into the maze of alleyways behind. The air was thick with the stink of river mud and rotting fruit, and somewhere a butcher sang a coarse song, voice broken by opium or age—I could never tell which. It was not yet noon and already my hands trembled. I pressed them together, knuckles white, as I passed a ragged group of coolies bent over their rice bowls. One of them spat at my boots, the effort barely worth it. I kept my eyes low, the gold trim of my epaulettes hidden beneath a borrowed shawl. A familiar hiss greeted me at the mouth of Peacock Lane. “Merrick! English dog, you come late today.” It was Ah Fai, idling under the awning of his stall, lips purpled by betel. He fingered his scales with exaggerated care, coins stacked like tiny, greasy towers. The alley behind him stank of cloves and pig offal. I forced a smile. “Business at the docks. Captain’s orders.” My tongue felt thick, mouth dry as old parchment. He grinned, gold tooth glinting. “You always have business. The Captain not see you since—how many days? You forget how to salute, lieutenant?” I brushed past him, into the darkness of his shop. “Don’t start with me, Fai. You have it?” He produced a small packet from behind his register, wrapped in oilskin. “Good poppy, straight from the hills. You pay double.” He set it on the counter, tapping the packet with a chipped fingernail. I fumbled for coins, heart thumping. Not enough—never enough. I set my last few shillings on the counter, hoping he’d not count. “That’s all for now. I’ll have more by evening.” His face twisted. “You owe two nights already. No more trust, Merrick. You want this, you pay.” My fingers closed hard over the jade. I felt the fox’s tail, worn smooth by worry. “There’s a ship coming in, the *Swan*. I can get you gunpowder—enough for a month’s trade.” He considered. Nearby, a woman coughed—a deep, rattling sound. “Gunpowder is good. You bring by midnight, I give you half now.” He split the packet, pushing one piece across to me. “No tricks. I know where you sleep, Englishman.” I nodded, voice gone. The relief was almost pain. I pocketed the poppy, feeling the heat of withdrawal in my chest, behind my eyes. Outside, the afternoon sun pressed against the world, flattening every sound. My boots scraped on the stones as I made my way to the riverfront, breath shallow. The water was the color of old coins, junks drifting in a haze of woodsmoke. “James!” A hand caught my sleeve. It was Hargreaves, cheeks flushed from drink or fever, his uniform as rumpled as mine. “You missed the inspection. Commander’s in a foul mood.” I licked my lips. “Business in town. Looking for supplies.” He squinted at me, eyes sharp. “You look like death, mate. Come take a drink—the *Pig & Lantern*’s quiet now.” I shook my head. “Can’t. I’ve shipments to arrange.” He laughed, too loud. “Shipments! You mean debts. Keep your nose clean, James. They’re watching you.” He faded into the crowd, laughter echoing. I pressed on, passing a boy selling lotus cakes, the sweet scent turning my stomach. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the packet. On the wharf, I found old Mr. Liu, hunched over a crate of tallow. His beard was yellowed, hands knotted. “Mister Merrick,” he rasped, “you come for the powder?” I nodded, glancing over my shoulder. “I need a pound. Tonight.” He peered at me, eyes like wet stones. “Dangerous. English not supposed to trade with us. Your captain—” “He won’t know.” My voice was hoarse. “I’ll pay twice the market. Silver, not coin.” He scratched his chin, considering. “Half now. Half when you bring the money.” He fished a cloth bundle from beneath the crate, the faint tang of sulfur rising. “You take care. You walk with ghosts, lieutenant.” I slipped him the coins, hands numb. “We all do, Mr. Liu. Some of us just see them clearer.” The sun crept lower as I made my way to the Red Lantern, an upstairs den perched above a house of gambling and girls. The steps were narrow, worn smooth by a thousand desperate feet. At the door, a girl with a scar across her chin eyed me. “You late today, English.” I forced a smile. “Tell Madam Lin I have business.” She led me inside, the air thick with lamp oil and burnt sugar. Men sprawled across mats, faces slack, the world’s cares melted away. I found Lin at her table, counting silver. “You bring payment?” she asked, barely glancing up. I set the packet on the table, the gunpowder beside it. “Trade. I need a pipe.” She sniffed. “You always need. You always pay late.” I pressed the jade in my pocket, the urge like a fever. “Please, Lin. Just a pipe.” She waved me away, calling for an attendant. I followed him to a shadowed corner, kneeling as he prepared the lamp. The world narrowed to the flicker of flame, the hollow click of the pipe’s bowl, the scent rising like incense—sweet, earthy, impossible to resist. The first taste was a punch behind my eyes, a slow unwinding of pain. My hands stilled; the ache in my bones faded to a distant echo. I leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. Someone spoke beside me—a merchant I half-knew, his voice like water on stone. “Lieutenant, you vanish for days. The officers talk.” I laughed, the sound brittle. “Let them talk. They know nothing.” “Your debts are many. Even Ah Fai grows impatient.” I rolled the jade between my fingers, the fox’s ears rounded by use. “A man does what he must.” He nodded, eyes distant. “We all do.” As the lamp guttered, the city outside faded to a dull roar—boats creaking, laughter from the gambling hall, the faint toll of bells. Somewhere, far off, the Royal Navy’s ensign snapped in the breeze. I pressed the jade tight, wishing it would whisper some comfort, some way out. But it was silent, as always, and the night crept in, heavy as the river’s silt. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I would be better. But for now, the dragon slept, and I with it.

Model Output:
A wind, faintly sulphuric, gusted through the lower slopes of Hades. The boulder waited, as it always did, at the bottom. Sisyphus, as he always did, strolled up beside it with a faintly amused smile and a stack of letters tucked under one arm. “Crow, ready?” he asked. Crow, perched on a nearby dead olive branch with a quill in his beak and a pair of pince-nez balanced precariously on his beak (for effect more than utility), gave a grumpy caw. Crow was only here for the gossip, but Sisyphus had learned to appreciate his editorial talents. Sisyphus rolled his shoulders, set his feet against the slope, and nodded. “Let’s begin. First letter.” Crow cleared his throat, which sounded rather like a frog being stepped on, and read: **Dear Sisyphus,** **My partner always leaves the dishes in the sink, and says they’re ‘soaking’. It’s been three days. Am I wrong to think this is just a polite way of never finishing chores?** **Sincerely, Soaked in Sparta** Sisyphus grinned, pushing the boulder with one hand as he dictated. “Dear Soaked, Ah, the ancient art of ‘soaking’. Many have tried to master it, but few achieve enlightenment. I find—” (pause for a grunt as the boulder resisted, purely out of tradition) “—that the best way to resolve such things is not to fight the tide, but to introduce a new current. Try soaking the cutlery in something artistic. Beetroot juice, perhaps. In my experience, nothing motivates a person to wash up like the prospect of eating off a plate that’s turned a mysterious shade of purple. Alternatively, ask if you can soak the bills for three days before paying them. Fair is fair.” Crow, scratching in the margin: *Or, you could just get a new partner. Or a goat. Goats eat everything.* Sisyphus: “Crow, that’s not helpful.” Crow: *Neither is beetroot juice. Next letter?* The boulder, feeling neglected, lodged itself against a rock. Sisyphus gave it a gentle nudge, like one would a stubborn donkey. Crow rustled the next parchment. **Dear Sisyphus,** **I feel stuck in my job, but I’m afraid if I leave, I’ll regret it. How do you know when it’s time to move on?** **Signed, Treading Water** Sisyphus considered, watching the boulder trundle ahead of him. “Dear Treading, ‘Stuck’ is a feeling, not a destiny. I’ve found that sometimes the world expects us to keep doing one thing because we’re good at it, or because it’s easier for them if we stay where we are. But you’re not a tree. If you feel the urge to move, perhaps try a small migration first. Take a class, start a hobby, or switch which foot you put your sandal on first in the morning. If the world doesn’t end, you might be ready for a bigger leap. If you do go, send a postcard. New paths are good for the soul.” Crow wrote, then added: *If you get fired, you can always blame me. Crows are used to being scapegoats. Scapecrows, really.* Sisyphus, pausing as the boulder hit a pebble and shuddered ominously: “Do you want to read the next one, Crow?” Crow: “If it’s from the Minotaur again, I swear—” Sisyphus: “No, it’s from someone calling themselves ‘Cupid’s Casualty’.” Crow made a show of rolling his beady eyes. **Dear Sisyphus,** **My ex keeps texting me late at night to ‘catch up’. I still have feelings, but I know it’s not good for me. What should I do?** **Regretfully, Cupid’s Casualty** Sisyphus leaned into the boulder, which seemed to listen in as he pondered. “Dear Casualty, Nighttime is for sleeping, not for reliving heartaches. If you’re tempted to reply, consider leaving your laurel wreath on silent or, better yet, giving your ex’s number to a particularly chatty satyr. But if you must respond, do so in the morning, when the sun is up and your heart has sobered. You deserve someone who wants to catch up at noon, not only at midnight.” Crow, scribbling: *Or just reply with a picture of your sock drawer. Works every time.* Sisyphus chuckled. “You speak from experience?” Crow: “I have a lot of socks.” The boulder, having grown sentimental, paused for a moment halfway up the hill. Sisyphus patted it kindly. “We all have our moments,” he murmured. Next letter. Crow, with a flourish: **Dear Sisyphus,** **How do you deal with difficult people at work? My supervisor insists on micromanaging everything, even how I sharpen my quills.** **Sincerely, Pecked at Work** Sisyphus grinned, glancing at Crow, who bristled. “Dear Pecked, Difficult people can be like boulders: heavy, immovable, and prone to rolling over your toes if you’re not careful— Crow, don’t look at me like that, it’s just the one metaphor. Try to find out what your supervisor needs to feel in control—sometimes it’s as simple as letting them pick the ink color. If all else fails, record their instructions and play them back as a motivational chant. It may annoy them enough to stop.” Crow, scribbling: *Or just start sharpening the quills with your beak. No one argues with a beak.* The boulder, bored, resumed its slow ascent. Crow, in full oratorical mode, read the last: **Dear Sisyphus,** **Does life have meaning, or are we all just rolling the same boulder every day?** **Wondering, Not Wandering** Sisyphus smiled. Sunlight (or something very much like it) glinted off his bald head as he regarded the horizon, which stubbornly refused to get any closer. “Dear Wondering, Meaning isn’t something you find at the top of the hill. It’s more like the friendly nod you give the boulder every morning. It shows up because you do. Try to find one small thing each day that makes you smile—a good meal, a warm breeze, a letter from a stranger. Do that, and you’ll find meaning rolling up alongside you. And if all else fails, start an advice column. I guarantee, you’ll never run out of letters. Or hills.” Crow, finishing the last flourish, added: *Or get a boulder. They’re very grounding.* Sisyphus gave the boulder a final push, watching as it teetered—then, with classic timing, rolled right back to the bottom. Crow gathered the letters. “Same time tomorrow?” Sisyphus nodded, content. “Of course. The mail never stops.” Above them, the boulder waited, patient and round. Crow took flight, letters clutched in his claws, already cawing editorial suggestions for tomorrow’s post.

Model Output:
INT. DEN DEN TOWN – AFTERNOON The air hums with the neon buzz of electronics, snippets of J-pop, and the persistent game sounds leaking from the arcades. YUKI (16), shouldering a battered backpack, moves with careful steps between displays of synth modules, trailing her fingers along a boxy Roland as if it might bite. She stops, head cocked. Over the clamor, a sharp, joyous guitar solo slices through—urgent, familiar. Her hand hovers, then she follows the sound. EXT. ARCADE ENTRANCE A crowd clusters around AOI (19), loose-limbed and grinning, her blue hair catching the light. She shreds through “Cruel Angel’s Thesis,” fingers flying, her battered red guitar slung low. People cheer, coins clink in her open case. Yuki lingers at the edge, half-shadowed, headphones askew. She watches, transfixed. The song ends. The crowd thins, but Aoi catches Yuki’s gaze, eyebrows arching. AOI (still catching her breath) Didn’t take you for an Eva fan. YUKI (startled, voice tiny, adjusting headphones) Um—I—uh, it’s… it’s a good arrangement. AOI (grinning, wiping sweat from her brow) You think so? I made up half of it on the spot. I get bored with the original solo. YUKI It was… really fast. Clean, too. You have… uh, really good left-hand technique. AOI (mock bowing) Arigato, sensei. You play? YUKI Ah, just… synths. Mostly. I don’t… really do live stuff. AOI (leaning closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially) Synths, huh? Like, analog? Modular? YUKI (lights up, fidgeting with the strap of her backpack) Yeah. Uh, I have a Korg MS-20 at home. And some Eurorack stuff. I was just… looking for a multimeter, but… Her headphones slip. She pushes them up with a nervous laugh. AOI You build your own modules? YUKI Sometimes. It’s… cheaper, if you can solder. And, um, you can make weird sounds no one else has. AOI That’s so cool! I’m kind of jealous. I tried to build a fuzz pedal once and almost set my apartment on fire. (noticing Yuki’s headphones) Those look heavy-duty. You a secret DJ, too? YUKI (shaking her head, headphones slipping again) No, just… I like the isolation. The city’s loud. AOI (smiling gently) Yeah, I get that. You want to try my guitar? YUKI (eyes widening, recoiling slightly) Oh—no, I… I wouldn’t know what to… (trails off, face red) AOI (shouldering her guitar, playfully) It won’t bite. Promise. YUKI I… my fingers are more for buttons and faders. Not strings. AOI Fair enough. (packing away gear) Hey, I’m starving. Want to grab some sushi? There’s a place with a conveyor belt around the corner. My treat, if you tell me what the weirdest patch you’ve ever made is. YUKI (flustered, glancing between Aoi and the electronics shops) Uh, I… I don’t want to, um, bother you. You probably have friends to meet… AOI Nah. You seem interesting. And you know about synths, so you’re automatically cooler than half the people here. YUKI I… uh… okay. I mean, if—if you want. I’m not… (trails off, headphones slipping again) AOI (lightly taps the headphones into place) There. You good? YUKI (managing a smile) Yeah. AOI Awesome. Let’s go before all the good salmon’s gone. INT. KAITENZUSHI RESTAURANT – BOOTH Plates of sushi circle lazily. Aoi grabs a maguro with chopsticks, popping it in her mouth. AOI So, Yuki, right? Tell me about your weirdest patch. YUKI (nervous, fidgeting with her napkin) Um… okay. So, I—uh—once I set up this feedback loop with a delay and a ring mod, and it started making these, like… metallic whale noises? My mom thought the microwave was broken. AOI (laughs, delighted) That’s amazing! Did you record it? YUKI Yeah. It’s on my Bandcamp, but… no one really listens. AOI Send me the link! I love weird stuff. I mean, I play anime songs for tourists, but my real band’s into noise rock. YUKI Noise rock? AOI Yeah, you know, all feedback and chaos. You’d fit right in. With your whale microwaves. YUKI (smiling, a little more confident) Maybe… I could bring my synth sometime. If you want. AOI Definitely! We could jam. Or at least scare the old guys in the park. YUKI I’ve never… played with anyone before. AOI First time for everything, huh? (leans forward) So, why synths? Why not, I dunno, piano or guitar? YUKI (shrugging, quietly) I like… making my own sounds. Stuff that doesn’t exist yet. Sometimes it’s just… noise, but it feels like mine. AOI That’s so cool. I wish I could build something from scratch. All I do is play fast and hope no one notices my mistakes. YUKI You’re… really good. AOI Thanks. (smiles, softer) You’re easy to talk to, you know that? YUKI (surprised) Me? I’m… not. Usually. AOI You are with me. (grins) Maybe it’s because you know about ring mods and whale songs. YUKI (can’t help but laugh, shy but happy) Maybe. AOI Let’s eat. After, I’ll show you my secret spot for busking. No one bothers you there, unless you want them to. Yuki nods, headphones slipping once more. AOI (laughs, gently nudges them back up) We gotta get you some better cans. YUKI (smiling, this time not so shy) Maybe you can help me pick them out. AOI Deal. The plates keep circling, and their conversation goes on, winding into the neon-lit Osaka evening.

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**Chapter 7: Tick Tock, Tick Tock** There were three things Alex Chambers hated about Mondays: the cafeteria’s mystery meat, pop quizzes, and being late. So, when his brand new DynaBand smartwatch buzzed on his wrist as he sprinted up the school steps, he groaned. 8:12 AM. First period started at 8:10. He heard Mr. Winthrop’s voice echoing down the hall. “Late again, Mr. Chambers?” Alex ducked into a bathroom, heart pounding. He’d begged his mom for the DynaBand, mostly because everyone else in seventh grade had one. But this version was different—his dad had gotten it for half price from some tech conference. He slumped against the cold tile, fiddling with the watch. He scrolled past heart rate, calories, and then a strange icon: a spiraling clock, gold and glowing. Curious, Alex tapped it. Suddenly, the world dissolved into a dizzying blur of color. He felt a brief, sickening lurch in his stomach. The bathroom floor vanished beneath him, replaced by the familiar clang of his alarm clock. Alex jolted awake. 7:15 AM. Monday. Again. He blinked. Had he dreamed being late? No—he remembered everything. He stared at his wrist. The DynaBand’s spiral icon pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. He grinned. “No way.” He got ready at a leisurely pace, savoring breakfast and even brushing his teeth twice. He strolled into first period with time to spare, flashing Mr. Winthrop a cocky smile. * The day breezed by. When a dodgeball caught him in the face during gym, Alex snuck into the locker room and pressed the spiral again. Flash. Stomach lurch. He was back in gym, ball still in the air. This time, he dodged. At lunch, when his crush, Tessa, laughed at his joke, but then spilled water all over his lap, Alex rewound again—this time, to before he’d spoken. It was perfect. Like having unlimited do-overs. But by third period, Alex had a headache. His skin felt tight. In the bathroom mirror, he noticed his cheeks looked...sharper. Almost like he’d lost his baby fat overnight. Weird. * Later, while waiting for his mom outside, Alex noticed the stray cat again. It was always hanging around the school dumpsters, orange with odd black stripes. Today, it sat on the curb, eyes fixed on him. When their gazes met, the cat’s pupils widened, and it let out a low, rumbling growl that sounded almost...disappointed. “Shoo,” Alex muttered. But the cat didn’t move. Instead, it blinked slowly, as if it recognized him. An uneasy shiver ran down his spine. * That night, Alex examined his reflection. Was it his imagination, or were his shoulders broader? His voice cracked as he called goodnight to his mom. She poked her head in, frowning. “Are you feeling all right? You look…different.” “Just tired,” he mumbled, pulling the covers over his head. * The next morning, Alex noticed something else: his clothes felt tight. His hands looked bigger, and there were faint shadows on his upper lip. The DynaBand’s spiral icon was brighter than ever. At school, people treated him...strangely. Tessa blushed when she saw him. Mr. Winthrop called on him for answers he’d never have known before. The eighth graders nodded at him in the hall. Even the lunch lady gave him an extra helping of fries. By lunchtime, Alex was panicking. He ducked into the bathroom and stared at the mirror. He looked at least fifteen. There were hints of acne on his forehead, and his voice was deeper. With trembling hands, he scrolled frantically through the DynaBand’s settings. A new warning flashed: *Caution—excessive temporal rewinds may accelerate biological aging. Consult manual.* He almost laughed. “No manual came in the box.” Alex pressed the spiral icon again, desperate to undo what he’d done. This time, the world shifted more violently. When the dizziness faded, the school was different. The colors were off—faded, like an old photograph. The halls were empty and echoing. The bulletin boards were covered in posters for clubs and teams Alex had never heard of. The date on the DynaBand read: *April 3, 2019*. He gasped. He’d gone back years. A door slammed. Down the hall, a young girl—maybe ten, with familiar brown hair—walked past. She looked just like Tessa, only much younger. She stared at Alex, confused. The air felt thin. Alex tried to retrace his steps, but the school twisted and warped, hallways looping impossibly. It was like the building itself was rejecting him. He ran outside, desperate for anything familiar. The world was quieter, grayer. The stray cat sat on the curb, exactly as before. But this time, as Alex approached, the cat hissed and arched its back, fur bristling. Its eyes glowed gold, just like the spiral on his watch. A terrible thought dawned on him. What if every rewind wasn’t just aging him, but unraveling time itself? What if he’d erased his own place in the timeline—maybe even Tessa’s, or his family’s? He looked at the DynaBand. The spiral pulsed faster, as if urging him. His hands shook as he pressed the icon one last time. “Take me back. Please.” The watch whirred. The world blurred, colors swirling, everything dissolving. * Alex gasped, blinking in the harsh morning light. He was sprawled on the school steps, backpack under his head. His hands were small and familiar again—no trace of stubble, no broad shoulders. The DynaBand on his wrist was dark and dead, the spiral gone. He sat up. Kids streamed into school, laughing and shouting. Tessa waved at him from across the courtyard. Mr. Winthrop grumbled at the door. Everything was…normal. Alex exhaled in relief. But as he stood, he caught sight of the stray cat. It watched him, eyes knowing and ancient. This time, it did not blink or hiss. Instead, it turned and slinked away, tail flicking, as if satisfied. Alex shivered, clutching his wrist. The DynaBand stayed dark. He decided, then and there, that some Mondays were meant to be survived, not rewound. And as he walked into school, he couldn’t shake the feeling that time, like a cat, never truly forgets.

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The boardwalk swelled with evening voices, laughter curling through the salt-thickened air. The sodium lamps above flickered with the fitful pulse of old neon, their jaundiced light painting sharp hollows beneath eyes and cheekbones. The shooting gallery was a garish riot of painted ducks and tin stars, the barkers’ shouts blending into a low, throbbing soundtrack. She hovered at the edge of the crowd, pulse tapping at her throat. Her gloved fingers toyed with the clasp of her handbag—a stalling gesture. She could still walk away. She could turn, dissolve into the blur of faces, and vanish. But she stayed, senselessly drawn, her mind circling the phrase: **his locks**. As if she’d always known him, though she’d met him only once—if that dark, electric encounter could even be called a meeting. “You’re early,” a voice said, smooth as velvet dragged over broken glass. She turned. There he was, half in shadow, watching her. His hair—those unruly, impossible curls—caught the sickly light, each strand glinting blue-black. His expression was unreadable, though the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested amusement. Or maybe warning. She found her voice, barely. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” He stepped closer, and the crowd seemed to recede, as if they were in a bubble of dimness and hush. “Were you hoping for that?” His tone was casual, but his gaze was not. She hesitated, feeling the old, familiar war between instinct and curiosity. “I suppose I wouldn’t blame you. After last time.” A smile, slow and dangerous. “If I took offense so easily, I wouldn’t have invited you here.” He gestured toward the shooting gallery. “Do you like games?” She looked at the rifles lined up along the counter, the painted targets spinning lazily. “Not these kind.” He laughed then—not loudly, but enough to draw a glance from the barker, who quickly looked away. “Not these kind,” he echoed. “And what kind do you prefer?” She realized she was holding her breath. “The kind where I know the rules.” His eyes glittered. “Rules are for people who fear losing.” A shiver started at the base of her spine and worked upward. She tried to tell herself it was only the sea breeze, but it wasn’t only that. “And you?” she asked, stepping up to the counter beside him. “Do you ever lose?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up one of the battered rifles, weighing it in his hands. “Sometimes losing is the point.” He offered it to her, handle first. She hesitated, then wrapped her fingers around the wood. Their hands brushed—a spark, or a warning, or both. She raised the rifle, lined up a duck in her sights. She could feel his eyes on her, as if he were willing her to miss, or perhaps hoping she’d surprise him. She fired. The shot rang out, startlingly loud. The duck spun and fell, a bell clanging in triumph. “Well done.” His voice was closer now, behind her ear. She could feel his breath, warm and almost intimate. “You don’t seem like someone who likes to lose, either.” She lowered the rifle, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with marksmanship. “I suppose I’m not.” He reached past her, placing a coin on the counter. “Another round?” he murmured. She turned to face him, their proximity electric. “Why did you want to meet me here?” The question escaped before she could weigh its implications. He looked at her for a long moment, the sodium light catching strange, golden flecks in his dark eyes. “Because this place is honest,” he said, softly. “Everything here is a wager. You put something at risk, you might win, you might lose. No masks.” She almost laughed at that—here, of all places, with its masks and charades and cheap prizes. But something in his tone kept her silent. “Are we wagering, then?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He leaned in, so close she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, sense the tension in his shoulders. “Aren’t we always?” A carnival bell pealed somewhere behind them, sharp and shrill. She flinched, only slightly, but he noticed. He smiled—not kindly, but not unkindly, either. “You don’t have to stay,” he said, and there was a challenge in it, or perhaps an invitation. She thought of the promise she’d made herself, that she’d never let anyone have this kind of power over her again. And yet, here she was, on a boardwalk at dusk, with a man whose name she didn’t know and whose intentions were as murky as the sea beyond the pier. But wasn’t it the danger that made it compelling? The possibility of being undone—not by violence, but by something more insidious? By desire, or curiosity, or the simple, aching need to be seen? She stared at his lips, at his eyes, at the shadows moving across his face. “Maybe I want to stay,” she said, surprising herself. His hand found hers, their fingers tangling. He squeezed—not hard, but enough to remind her that this was a choice, and she was making it. “Then let’s play,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous promise. They stood together at the edge of the carnival’s noisy heart, two silhouettes drawn together by something neither quite trusted. In the flickering light, his features shifted—now tender, now wolfish—so swiftly she couldn’t say which was real and which a mask. Her own reflection shimmered in his eyes, a woman she barely recognized. The world seemed to contract around them, the edges blurring into a whirl of sound and shadow. Every nerve in her body thrummed with anticipation and fear, the two so closely entwined she could no longer tell them apart. She squeezed his hand back, just once. “What are the stakes?” He smiled, slow and secretive. “You’ll find out—if you’re brave enough to keep playing.” She let herself be led into the carnival’s electric dusk, the taste of danger sweet and unfamiliar on her tongue. And somewhere, deep inside, she realized she had already lost more than she’d meant to wager.

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**Caribou Season at the Lodge — Chapter Two** The next morning, the world beyond the window was gray and thin, like the bones of a dream dissolving in daylight. JT woke with the uneasy sense that he’d spent the night drifting just below the surface of sleep, never quite able to break free. In the half-light, the shadows on the ceiling twisted into antlers, and the wind outside made the windowpanes shudder in their frames. He lay still, listening to the slow, measured breathing of Mike in the bunk above, and the distant, arrhythmic cough of their father in the main room. Downstairs, the woodstove’s glow cast the kitchen in a flickering orange haze. JT poured himself a mug of coffee, thick with grounds, and sat at the table, watching steam curl and vanish. No one spoke for a long time. Mike picked at his breakfast, eyes ringed with sleeplessness. Their father sat with his back to the window, his gaze distant and fractured, as if he was still standing in that fogbound clearing, hand outstretched toward something he could not reach. “You boys ready?” their father asked, voice hoarse with disuse. Mike nodded, but JT hesitated, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, searching for words that refused to come. Instead, he stood and pulled on his coat, the canvas stiff and cold against his skin. He felt eyes on him—the photograph of his mother on the mantel, the mounted caribou rack looming above the hearth, the woods pressing up against the glass. He forced himself to move. They set out in silence, the world muffled by frost and cloud. JT lagged behind, boots crunching in the hoar, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His mind kept circling back to the moment in the clearing—the way his father’s hand had trembled, the awful, tender stillness in the buck’s eyes, the sense of something watching from just beyond the line of trees. As they trudged up the slope behind the lodge, Mike fell back, falling into step beside him. “You all right?” he asked, voice low. JT shrugged. “Just tired.” Mike nodded, but his eyes lingered, searching JT’s face for something unspoken. “Dad seems off, huh?” JT let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah.” They kept moving, the trees swallowing them one by one. The forest was different this year. The trails they’d walked since they were children felt subtly altered, their familiar landmarks askew. JT’s feet knew the route, but each turn led somewhere strange—a patch of birch where there should have been spruce, a streambed running dry when it should have been swollen with melt. They were almost to the ridge when Mike stopped short, nodding toward a dark shape just visible through the trees. “Look,” he whispered. JT followed his gaze. At first, he saw nothing but the tangle of undergrowth and frostbitten saplings. Then, slowly, it resolved: a squat, sagging structure, half-swallowed by the forest, its roof caved in and door hanging askew. JT felt a chill crawl up his spine. He knew the stories. Everyone did. The old hunting cabin, abandoned since before he was born. Some said a poacher had died there, lost in a blizzard and found weeks later by a search party who wouldn’t speak of what they’d seen. Others claimed the place was still inhabited, not by any person, but by something left behind when the last hunter vanished. “Let’s check it out,” Mike said, a crooked grin breaking across his face, bravado masking unease. JT hesitated, but Mike was already pushing through the brush. He followed, heart thumping in his chest. The cabin was smaller than JT remembered from the stories, its walls warped and blackened by rot. The windows were blind with grime. Something about the place made JT’s teeth ache, as if the air itself was heavier here, thick with the memory of old griefs. Mike stepped up onto the sagging porch. The boards groaned under his weight. “Hello?” he called, voice cracking. Silence answered. JT’s breath steamed in the cold, mingling with the faint scent of woodsmoke and something older—musk and earth, and beneath it, the copper tang of blood. Mike nudged the door with his boot. It swung inward with a slow, reluctant shriek. Inside, the cabin was dark and close. Dust hung in the air, catching the thin light that trickled through the broken roof. A battered cot slumped in one corner, blankets moldering. Antlers—dozens of them—hung from the rafters, bone-white and tangled, casting spidery shadows on the walls. “Creepy place,” Mike muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. He poked at a pile of debris with his rifle. Something skittered out and vanished in the gloom. On the far wall, someone had scratched words into the wood, letters gouged deep and uneven. JT squinted, trying to make them out. *DO NOT STAY* A gust of wind rattled the cabin, and somewhere above them, something heavy shifted, sending a shower of dust down onto their shoulders. “Let’s get out of here,” JT said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Mike hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Place gives me the creeps.” They stepped back into the open air, the forest pressing in on all sides. JT glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone—or something—watching from the darkness within. The windows remained empty, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed, of eyes hidden just beyond the threshold. As they made their way back toward the lodge, JT kept silent, the image of the antlers lingering in his mind. He wondered who had hung them there, and why. He wondered about the words carved into the wall—who had written them, and what they’d seen. They rejoined their father on the rise above the valley. He stood with his back to them, staring out at the distant treeline, rifle forgotten at his feet. For a moment, he seemed impossibly small, dwarfed by the enormity of the woods. Mike cleared his throat. “We found the old cabin.” Their father flinched, shoulders tightening. He didn’t turn around. “Stay away from there,” he said, voice flat. “Nothing good in that place.” JT felt a sudden surge of cold, the kind that starts in your bones and works its way outward. He looked at his brother, searching for reassurance, but found only his own fear reflected back at him. As they started the long trek home, the sun dipping behind the trees, JT caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows—a flicker of pale antlers, impossibly tall, gliding between the trunks. He blinked, and it was gone. All the way back to the lodge, he felt the forest breathing around him, close and watchful, biding its time.

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**Hell is Other Demons** Lucifer Morningstar, Prince of Lies, Lord of Hell, woke to the sound of chewing. It was a wet, metallic rasping, as if someone were gnawing on a suit of armor with the determination of a beaver and the dental hygiene of a goblin. He sat up in bed—black silk sheets, of course, stitched by the souls of particularly fussy couturiers—and glared into the gloom. Cerberus, his one-headed hellhound (budgetary cuts, don’t ask), was enthusiastically working on the leg of the Iron Throne. Again. “Cerby. Please. I need that,” he said, voice smooth as spilled oil. Cerberus paused, tail wagging. It looked at Lucifer with eyes full of infernal adoration and a mouthful of iron shavings. “Don’t give me that look,” Lucifer sighed. “If you chew through the leg, I’ll have to hold court on a beanbag chair, and you remember what happened last time.” Cerberus, undeterred, resumed gnawing. Lucifer swung his legs off the bed and padded to the bathroom, tripping over a pile of Brutus’s paperwork. Brutus, his pit fiend accountant, had a thing for itemized damnations. Lucifer had a thing for avoiding them. He stared at himself in the obsidian mirror. Perfect hair, flawless skin, eyes like dying stars. He looked every inch the Lord of Hell, except for the smudge of lipstick on his collar—yesterday’s, and not his shade. Lilith’s, he realized, and his heart performed that irritating pang it had gotten into the habit of lately. They were in an “off again” phase, which in Hell counted as progress. The last “on again” phase had ended with a rain of toads and a three-week strike by the Department of Eternal Torment. But she’d been dropping by more often, and not always to set things on fire. Sometimes just to talk. Or, well, argue about who left the portal open last time. He dressed—charcoal suit, blood-red tie, no socks, because he was a rebel—and descended to the throne room. The air was thick with the scent of brimstone and existential regret. Demons milled about, clutching clipboards and tormented souls. Cerberus followed at his heels, still chewing. “Morning, Your Darkness,” Brutus grunted, thrusting a stack of forms at him. “The Circle of Gluttony is requesting extra tar. The Circle of Sloth says the tar is making them too energetic.” “Tell Gluttony they can have the tar if they share it with Sloth,” Lucifer said, slumping onto the throne. It creaked ominously. He glared at Cerberus, who drooled a rivulet of molten steel onto his shoe. There was a commotion at the door. The kind of commotion that precedes either a coup, or Lilith. It was Lilith. She swept in, all black leather and impossible cheekbones, carrying a bag of groceries and an expression that had started wars. The demons parted like the Red Sea. “Nice throne,” she said, eyeing the chewed leg. “Compensating for something?” Lucifer gave her his most dazzling, most insufferable smile. “Only for your absence, darling.” She rolled her eyes and tossed the bag onto his lap. Out spilled pomegranates, a bottle of gin, and a magazine titled *Infernal Interiors: 666 Ways to Organize Your Torments*. “Thought you might want to eat something other than despair and self-pity for a change,” she said, perching on the armrest. Cerberus bounded up and licked her face. She scratched his ears, and for a moment, Lucifer felt an ache that was almost mortal. “So, what brings you here? Other than the usual desire to undermine my authority and criticize my décor?” She shrugged, plucking a pomegranate from the pile and biting into it. Red juice stained her lips. “I was bored. And I thought you might have finally fixed the hot springs in Lust.” Lucifer winced. “I sent a work order three centuries ago. The maintenance imps unionized.” She smirked. “You always were terrible at labor relations.” There was a silence, punctuated only by Cerberus’s chewing and a distant wail of the damned. Lilith flipped through the magazine, critiquing the color palette of the torture chambers. Lucifer watched her, feeling something dangerously close to hope. “So,” she said at last, “Are we still not talking about last Tuesday?” He stiffened. “I thought we agreed—” “You agreed. I stormed out. There’s a difference.” He picked at a loose thread on his suit. “You set the River of Sighs on fire.” “You left the door to Limbo open and the philosophers got everywhere.” He tried to muster indignation, but it fizzled. “They’re still quoting Plato in Envy. It’s chaos.” She grinned, wicked and dazzling. “Admit it, you missed me.” He wanted to say something clever, something deflecting. Instead, he said, “The throne’s not the same without you criticizing it.” She put her head on his shoulder, just for a moment. Cerberus, sensing the shift, curled up at their feet and gnawed contentedly. A scream of “Boss!” shattered the moment. Brutus stood at the door, waving a flaming memo. “The lost souls are rioting again. Someone told them about the new afterlife app.” Lilith stood. “Duty calls, O Prince of Hell. Try not to get us both damned, will you?” He caught her hand as she turned to go. “Dinner tonight?” She considered. “If you fix the hot springs.” He grinned. “Deal. I’ll have Brutus send a strongly worded letter.” She vanished in a swirl of black feathers. The throne room felt emptier, but lighter, too. Lucifer leaned back, summoned a glass of gin, and let Cerberus chew. Hell could run itself for an hour. After all, love was the only torment he couldn’t delegate.

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The clamor of Rome woke me before sunrise, as it did every morning. Even within the high walls of the ludus, the city’s heartbeat thudded: the distant rattle of carts over stone, the bray of donkeys, the shouts of vendors announcing bread and olives, the ever-present tang of smoke and humanity. Beneath my thin blanket, sweat already pricked my skin; the late summer air thickened with the promise of another blistering day. I sat up, my body aching from yesterday’s drills, and for a moment, I simply listened. The world outside was beginning—while I, Darius of Thrace, remained caged in the belly of Rome, a beast fattened for spectacle. The others in my cell block stirred, their mutterings in Greek and Punic and guttural Gaulish swirling with the dust motes. A rat scurried near the corner, pausing to sniff at a crust of bread I’d hidden beneath my cot. I tossed it the bread and watched as it vanished into a crack in the stone. Sometimes I envied the rats their freedom, their small, unnoticed lives. Better a thousand days in shadows than a single hour under the sun’s cruel eye in the arena. But the gods had not granted me such a fate, and I had learned to endure. I stood, stretching until my joints cracked, and traced the scar over my right rib—a gift from a Numidian’s trident, half a year ago. A lucky wound, the medicus had said; another inch and I’d be gnawing dust with the rat. I wondered if the gods had favored me then, or simply grown bored with my struggle. I washed my face in the basin, bracing at the cold. The water tasted faintly of rust and sweat, but it was clean enough for our ranks. As I scrubbed, I whispered a prayer to Hercules, my patron and comfort. My mother had told me his stories in the cool forests of my homeland, far from the stink of the Tiber. He had labored and suffered, endured cruelty and scorn—yet always he had risen, stronger for his trials. Sometimes, I fancied the son of Zeus walked beside me, unseen, his club slung over his shoulder, grinning at the folly of mortals. The morning meal arrived in battered wooden bowls: barley porridge, a wedge of cheese, a few wrinkled figs. We gathered in the training yard, the sky above already white with heat. Titus, the lanista, watched us from the shade, his arms crossed, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. I ate with the others, listening to the thump of pestles from the bakery beyond the walls, the laughter of children chasing each other through the alleys. For them, today was another festival, another chance to see men bleed and die for the Senate’s glory. “Darius,” murmured Felix, the Carthaginian, jerking his chin at the street beyond. “Hear them? Already betting on us. They say the Emperor himself will attend.” I nodded, swallowing a mouthful of porridge. The Emperor Domitian, may the gods preserve him—or not. His face, plump and cold as marble, stared from every coin and statue. He had made the games grander, bloodier, a gift to the mob for their loyalty. Bread and circuses, they called it. Feed the people, distract them with violence, and they forget their hunger, their taxes, the soldiers at every corner. I wondered what Hercules would think of such games. Would he approve of our strength, our stubborn will? Or would he pity us, slaves and freemen alike, pawns for the Senate’s pride? After breakfast, we cleaned our gear. The scent of oiled leather and metal filled my nose, mingling with the sharper reek of sweat and blood. My helmet, battered but serviceable, bore a crude carving of the lion’s head. I ran my thumb over it, recalling the story of Hercules and the Nemean beast—the impossible labor, the triumph over death. I was not the hero of my own tale, but the memory steadied my heart. The medicus passed among us, checking wounds, dispensing a bitter draught to those with fevers. He paused at my side, his hands gentle as he pressed at my rib. “Good,” he grunted. “You’ll need your strength.” I forced a smile. “Perhaps the gods will grant me an easy match.” He snorted. “The gods grant nothing in Rome. Only the Emperor does.” We laughed, but the words lingered. In the shadow of the Palatine, the Emperor’s will was law, and men like me were little more than property. Yet in the ring, for those brief moments, we became something else—symbols, heroes, monsters. The crowd roared for us, hated us, loved us. They hung their hopes on our survival or our deaths. It was a strange sort of power, fleeting but intoxicating. As the sun climbed, we trained—sword drills, shieldwork, running laps until our legs shook. The sand beneath my feet burned, the air thick with the stink of bodies and the sharp, sweet tang of laurel from the gardens beyond the walls. I lost myself in the rhythm, the clatter of wood on wood, the barked orders of the trainers. Sweat ran down my back, pooling in old scars. At midday, we rested in the shade. I watched a line of senators’ litters glide past the ludus gates, their bearers struggling under the weight of Rome’s power. Below, beggars jostled for coins, children darted between wheels, and the scent of roasting meat drifted from a nearby tavern. Somewhere, a woman sang a lullaby in a tongue I half-remembered from home. I closed my eyes and prayed again to Hercules, asking for strength, for mercy, for an end to this endless struggle. Not for escape, not anymore. I had learned the futility of hope. But perhaps, in the eyes of the gods, endurance was its own kind of victory. When the bell rang for the afternoon drills, I rose and followed the others into the sun, my heart steady, my mind clear. I was Darius, son of Thrace, gladiator of Rome. I bore my chains with pride, for in the arena—even for a moment—I was more than a slave. I was legend, if only in the eyes of a hungry, restless city.

Model Output:
**The Lighthouse Keeper** --- **Letter One** *11 March 1954* Ma, St. Abbs Head Lighthouse Berwickshire Dear Ma, Arrived this morning. Cold wind off the North Sea, sharp enough to flay the skin. The lighthouse stands tall on the cliff, whitewashed, a right proud thing. Mr. Ferris, the senior keeper, showed me round. He’s got a voice like gravel in a tin. Room’s small. Bed, table, stove, window looking right over the water. No one here but Ferris and me, and the wind. Feels like it’ll take some getting used to. Missing you and the bairns already. Send word when you can. Love, Alec --- **Telegram** *22 March 1954* MOTHER, 36 BALMORAL TERRACE GLASGOW ALL WELL STOP WEATHER WILD STOP SEA LIKE IRON STOP MISS YOUR BREAD STOP ALEC --- **Letter Two** *30 March 1954* My Dear Alec, We are glad of your letter. Your brother Jamie says you must be daft to live on a cliff, but I told him it’s honest work. Your little niece Rosie asked if you have met any seals. We are all well, except your Da’s knee is worse in the damp. I baked a loaf for you but Jamie ate it. Next time I’ll hide it. Don’t let the wind get in your bones. Write when you can, son. With love, Ma --- **Letter Three** *15 April 1954* St. Abbs Head Lighthouse Ma, Tell Rosie there’s seals aplenty. They come up on the rocks beneath the foghorn, fat as old men. Sometimes I talk to them, daft as it sounds. Ferris says I’ll be barking before summer’s out. The wind’s worse at night, and the fog creeps in. Last week a fishing boat missed the headland by yards—sounded the bell, but we couldn’t see a thing. Ferris says you must trust the light to do its work. I dreamt of home last night. Kitchen warm, your bannocks on the table. Woke up shivering. Wish I’d more to do here. Just the sea and the lamp. Love, Alec --- **Letter Four** *8 May 1954* My Alec, Rosie laughed at your seal stories. Jamie says you’ll have a pet one soon. Your Da says he’ll try to visit if his knee allows, but you know what he’s like. I worry you’re lonely up there. There’s talk at the mill of cutbacks; more folk out of work. You’re lucky to have a post, though I wish it were nearer. If you see any boats in trouble, say a prayer for them. The sea doesn’t care whose son you are. Take care, son. All my heart, Ma --- **Letter Five** *1 July 1954* St. Abbs Head Lighthouse Ma, Summer’s here but it’s no warmer. Ferris took sick—cough that won’t shift. Doctor came from Eyemouth, says it’s his chest. I’ve the watch alone most nights. Last week, a storm near tore the roof off. Lighthouse shook like a child’s toy. I kept the lamp burning, but I was scared, Ma. Proper scared. Thought of you and Da, and it steadied me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for this life. The silence gets big, if you know what I mean. Thinking too much, maybe. Tell Da to mind his knee. Kiss Rosie for me. Your son, Alec --- **Letter Six** *18 August 1954* Dearest Alec, I was glad for your letter, though I wish you’d not keep your troubles from me. You were always quiet, even as a wee lad. But you can tell your old Ma anything. If the nights weigh heavy, remember we’re thinking of you. I put a picture of St. Abbs Head on the mantle, so you’re with us, in a way. Jamie has a job at the docks—he says he’ll send a postcard if he sees your light from the water. We all miss you, Alec. Write soon. Love, Ma --- **Letter Seven** *30 October 1954* St. Abbs Head Lighthouse Ma, Ferris died last week. Slipped away in his sleep. I sat with him till the men came from Eyemouth. The place is emptier than ever now. Sometimes I swear I hear footsteps in the passage. Maybe it’s just the wind, or maybe old Ferris checking the lamp. There was a shipwreck off St. Abb’s Brow last night. I saw their flare and set the horn blasting, but the rocks took them. Three men lost. Couldn’t sleep after. I keep thinking, if I’d done something different… But I’ll mind the lamp, Ma. For them, for you. Your Alec --- **Letter Eight** *15 November 1954* My dear boy, I am sorry for Ferris. He sounded a good man. Do not blame yourself for the sea’s moods. You can only do your part. I spoke to Father McBride—he said you are doing God’s work, keeping folk safe. I believe it too. Come home for Christmas, if you can. Even just for a night. There’ll be a place at the table, and Rosie’s saving you a painted shell. With all my love, Ma --- **Letter Nine** *24 December 1954* St. Abbs Head Lighthouse Dear Ma, The relief keeper’s come, so I’m coming home tomorrow! Tell Rosie to keep the shell safe. Tell Jamie I’ll beat him at cards. It’s been a hard year. Some nights I thought I’d lost myself in the wind. But your letters kept me steady. That, and the lamp. See you soon, Ma. Your loving son, Alec --- **Letter Ten** *2 January 1955* 36 Balmoral Terrace, Glasgow Alec, my boy, The house is warmer for having you in it. Rosie hasn’t stopped talking about the lighthouse and your stories. Jamie says you snore like a seal, so you’ve brought the sea home with you. Don’t forget you are loved, wherever you are. The lamp will wait, and so will we. All my love, Ma ---

Model Output:
I always notice the door first. It’s a compulsion. Tonight, it’s an old Schlage lever, the kind you could bypass with a slip of plastic or a jiggled bobby pin. I clock the camera above the hostess stand—half-obscured by a fake fern, probably not even recording. The restaurant’s Wi-Fi is unsecured, SSID “TRATTORIA_GUEST,” and—without thinking—I’ve already started running through potential exploits in my head. But I’m not here for that. I’m here for her. Sarah. She’s already at the table when I walk in, nervously rearranging her silverware. Red hair, black glasses, a T-shirt with the old Magic: The Gathering “Black Lotus” promo art peeking out from under her blazer. I feel a small, unexpected jolt of kinship. She stands up to shake my hand, and I try to focus on the human connection. We get to talking. It’s easy, easier than I expected. She’s sharp, funny, and she absolutely thrashes me in a debate about whether Lightning Bolt is the most overpowered one-mana spell of all time. She knows the difference between modern and legacy formats, and she’s got stories from back in the day about waiting in line for booster packs at local game shops. I catch myself smiling, genuinely. I’m not thinking about buffer overflows or weak admin passwords. I’m not even thinking about the waitress’s iPad POS system, which I noticed is running a three-year-old version of iOS. I’m not thinking about any of it. And then, as if on cue, Sarah pulls out her phone to show me a photo of a foil Tarmogoyf she won in a tournament. I catch it out of the corner of my eye: the unlock pattern. A lazy “C,” starting at the top left and looping counterclockwise. My brain lights up like a Christmas tree. It’s a textbook example—simple, predictable, and, statistically, the third most common pattern after “L” and “Z.” I can see the smudge-trails on the glass, even in the dim light. I can break this in under ten seconds, and every instinct in me wants to point it out. I bite my tongue, but only for a moment. “You know, that’s a pretty weak unlock pattern,” I say, before I can stop myself. Her head snaps up. She blinks, confused, then defensive. “Excuse me?” Shit. I try to soften it. “Sorry. It’s just—old habit. I used to be, uh, on the other side of the fence. Black hat stuff. I notice things like that. Occupational hazard, I guess.” She’s not smiling anymore. “Do you just—what, watch people’s passwords all the time?” I stammer. “Not… not on purpose. It’s just, patterns jump out at me. I’m reformed, I swear.” She laughs, but it’s tight. “That’s… reassuring.” The air at the table shifts, a little colder. She puts her phone away, screen down. I wonder if she’s regretting the date. I try to steer the conversation back to safer ground. Magic cards. Fandoms. Our shared love of the original Baldur’s Gate. But now I’m hyper-aware. Every time she mentions something personal—a pet’s name, her hometown, her mother’s maiden name (why did she have to mention that her mother’s last name is “Grady”?)—I can almost see her security questions falling into place. First concert: “Oh, I saw Barenaked Ladies when I was twelve. My dad took me.” Favorite teacher: “Mr. Kovalchuk, high school physics. He made us launch potatoes at the football field.” Favorite color: “Green. Always green. It’s the most versatile color in Magic, don’t you think?” It’s like she’s reading me her digital obituary, one recovery prompt at a time. I can’t help it. I mentally assemble her profile: - Full name (Sarah Elizabeth Crane, mentioned offhand) - Mother’s maiden name (Grady) - Hometown (Muncie, Indiana) - First concert (Barenaked Ladies) - Favorite color (green) - Favorite teacher (Kovalchuk) I could own her accounts in half an hour, tops. Stop. I grip my fork too tightly. I try to focus on her eyes, the way they light up when she talks about winning with a janky elf deck. She’s not a mark, I remind myself. She’s a person. But the impulse is always there—a background process, scanning, parsing, analyzing. I was never addicted to the breach itself. I was addicted to the puzzle, the art of it. I want to apologize. To explain. Instead, I say, “Sorry if I made things weird. I’m just… wired to look for weaknesses. Not just in systems, but in people.” She looks at me, really looks at me. “And what do you do when you find them?” That lands. I search for the truth, something raw and real. “I used to exploit them. Now I try to help people see what they can’t. Sometimes it comes out wrong.” She leans back, arms crossed, considering. “I guess I should thank you for the tip,” she says, almost smiling. “But maybe next time, don’t point out all my vulnerabilities on the first date.” Relief flickers through me. There’s still a chance. We order dessert. She tells me about the time her brother tried to summon a demon using a Magic: The Gathering rulebook and a pentagram drawn in ketchup. I laugh, and the tension finally breaks. But part of me is still cataloging, still building the mosaic of her online presence, still tracing the outlines of all the ways she could be broken into. It’s not something I can turn off. I’m not sure I ever will. But for tonight, I try—to see her, not her vectors. To connect, not to compromise. Maybe that’s the real hack.

Model Output:
I should say hi. Just “hi.” That’s normal, right? Normal people say hi all the time. I imagine it: I look up, catch his eye, casual smile, “Hey.” He smiles back, maybe says something about the project. I laugh, not too loud. We get started. Easy. But I don’t do it. I’m standing here, my fingers gripping the edge of the lab table so hard my knuckles are white, and the only thing I can hear is the squeak of the projector every time Ms. Corcoran flips to the next slide. It sounds like a mouse in a blender—horrible, high-pitched, and impossible to ignore. He sits down next to me. I can smell his shampoo, something green and clean, like pine needles after rain. Don’t say that out loud. “You smell like a forest” is not a thing people say. I don’t say anything. I just stare at the worksheet in front of me. My brain is spinning, spinning, spinning. He’s right here. Right here. He has nice hands—long fingers, bitten nails. I should look up. I should say something. I should— “Do you want to do the first question?” he asks, voice low, careful. My mouth opens. “Sure.” It comes out so soft I’m not sure he hears. I nod, just to be safe. My heart is pounding. The first question is about Newton’s second law. I know this. F = ma. Simple. Words float in my head like bubbles: “Well, actually, if you look at the way acceleration is affected by mass—” But I can’t say any of them out loud. I write “F = ma” on the worksheet, my handwriting neat, round, every letter perfectly formed. He leans in. I freeze. “So, if we have the force and the mass, we can find acceleration, right?” I nod again. Yes. Yes, that’s right. Say something. Say, “Exactly.” Say, “Yeah, so, if the force is twelve newtons and the mass is three kilograms, the acceleration would be four meters per second squared.” Say anything. My mind rehearses it, over and over, like a script. But my tongue gets thick and clumsy, and I just nod, a little too fast. He waits. The silence stretches. The projector squeaks again. I flinch. He notices. Great. Now he thinks I’m weird about projectors. I force myself to look up. Eye contact. Human beings do that. My eyes flick to his face and dart away, like a bird afraid of landing. He’s drawing a little rocket in the margin of the worksheet. I watch his pencil move, the careful lines. I want to say, “That’s really good.” Or maybe, “Do you like drawing?” Or—no, no, not, “I like rockets too,” because that sounds like I’m just copying him. I imagine saying, “That’s cool, did you see the Artemis launch last month?” but what if he didn’t? What if he doesn’t care? What if he thinks I’m showing off? I rehearse: “Nice rocket.” But my voice will shake. It always does. I realize I haven’t said anything for a full minute. He probably thinks I’m stuck up. Or stupid. Or just boring. I should say something, anything. “Do you want to do number two?” I manage, voice so quiet I almost whisper. I clear my throat, try again, a little louder. “You can do the next one, if you want.” There. That’s normal. Sharing the work. He smiles, quick and crooked, and it makes my stomach do a weird flip. “Thanks.” He starts writing, his handwriting slanted, messy. Not like mine. I want to say, “You write fast,” but what if that’s an insult? What if he thinks I’m criticizing him? I stay quiet, biting the inside of my cheek. The projector squeaks again. I try to focus on the worksheet, but my brain is running a hundred conversations at once. What if I ask him about his favorite science topic? Would that seem too eager? What if I say something dumb and he laughs, not in a mean way, but in a way that means he’ll go tell his friends later, “She’s kind of weird”? I imagine it: the way his friends would look at me, the way they’d smile, not unkind but not friendly either. I feel hot behind my ears. He’s finished the second question. He hands the paper back, almost brushing my fingers. I pull my hand back too fast. Stupid. Now he thinks I’m scared of him. I swallow. “Thanks,” I say, voice barely audible. I want to ask if he wants to split the last two, but suddenly I can’t remember how words work. I try to smile. I think it looks fake. I wish I could see my own face, just to check. I wonder if he notices how tight my shoulders are, how I keep tugging at my sleeves. I run through a checklist: Don’t fidget. Don’t stare. Don’t avoid eye contact too much. Don’t make too much eye contact. Don’t talk too much. Don’t be too quiet. Don’t sound desperate. Don’t sound bored. Don’t be weird. The projector squeaks again. I look up, startled. He glances at me, eyebrow raised, like he’s about to say something. I panic. “Sorry,” I blurt, though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. He looks confused. I want to melt into the floor. I bite my lip. Okay, I’m messing this up. He probably thinks I’m strange. I imagine what I could say to fix it. “I just, uh, hate that sound.” Too random. “It’s really loud, isn’t it?” Too obvious. “Projectors are weird.” Stupid. I clamp my mouth shut. He goes back to drawing in the margin, a little planet this time. I want to ask if he likes space, if he wants to be an astronaut, if he thinks aliens are real. I want to say, “I think about leaving Earth sometimes, just to see if I could be braver somewhere else.” But that’s not normal. That’s something you keep inside. We finish the worksheet in silence. He hands it to me to check over. I do, scanning for mistakes, circling the answers, writing “Good job!” in tiny letters at the top. I hope he doesn’t think I’m being sarcastic. The bell rings, sharp and sudden. He stands up, gathering his stuff. “See you,” he says, easy. I want to say, “Bye,” but it sticks in my throat. He’s gone. I exhale, slumping against the table. My heart is still racing. I replay every word, every nod, every squeak of the projector, cataloging all my tiny failures. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say hi. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get it right.

Model Output:
Shower. Clothes. Phone charger—where’s the charger? I swear I left it by the bed, but now the cable’s gone and my phone hovers at 8% like a countdown to disaster. If it dies, I’ll miss her text. If she cancels and I can’t reply, she’ll think I’m blowing her off. She’ll think I don’t care. Or worse, she’ll be relieved. I check the mirror: too much eyeliner, not enough sleep. She’ll notice. She notices everything. What if she’s just coming out of obligation? She said she’s “looking forward to catching up,” but maybe that’s code for “I have to get this over with so you’ll stop asking.” I can hear her voice, light but brittle: *I just think we need some space. You’re a lot sometimes. Maybe too much.* I rehearse my reply, again, as I pull on my jacket. “I know I can be intense. I just care about you. I’m sorry.” That’s pathetic. It sounds needy. What if I say, “Sorry you feel that way”? No, that’s cold. I can’t win. I can’t say the right thing because there isn’t a right thing. She’s already decided, in this scenario, and I’m just thrashing around in the shallow end, pretending I can swim. The phone lights up. 6%. “On my way! Can’t wait to see you :)” She uses the smiley face. Does that mean she’s faking enthusiasm, or genuinely excited? I scroll through our old messages, searching for patterns. The punctuation is the same as before. Maybe she’s just consistent, not distant. And yet I can feel her pulling away. The last time we were together, she hesitated before hugging me goodbye. Or did she? Maybe I imagined it. But it felt like hesitation, and that’s enough to set the whole spiral in motion. I try to remind myself: “You catastrophize. You know this.” But the knowledge is just a thin layer of ice over the lake; it cracks as soon as I step on it. I pull my shoes on, wondering if they’re too scuffed. If she sees the scuffs, she’ll think I’m a mess. She’ll wonder why she ever thought I was attractive. She’ll tell our mutual friends that she’s dodged a bullet. Maybe she’s already talked to them. I imagine her at brunch with Julia and Max, shaking her head. *She’s just so much. I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells around her.* They all nod. They’ve all noticed. “You have to take care of yourself,” Julia says. “You can’t save everyone.” I’m not everyone, I want to scream. I’m just me. But in their conversation, I’m a problem to be solved, a weight to be shed. I try to imagine a version where she just hugs me, laughs, tells me she missed me. That script feels foreign in my mouth, like a language I learned but never spoke aloud. Still, I rehearse it, just in case. If she does say she missed me, I have to look surprised but not desperate. I have to say “me too” in a way that sounds casual, not clawing. I search my brain for the right tone. Nothing feels right. Down the stairs, phone at 4%. I text her: “Almost there, phone dying!” She responds instantly: “No worries! See you soon.” No period, just the exclamation point. Is that good? Or is it trying too hard? I tell myself to breathe, to notice the evidence: she’s coming, she’s texting, she wants to see me. But my brain shouts over the facts, painting rejection in every gap. I walk to the café, each step heavy. I picture her already there, scrolling her phone, annoyed I’m late. I picture her looking up, face blank, saying, *We need to talk.* Or maybe she says nothing, just gives me that look, the one that says she’s already gone. But when I get there, she’s at a corner table, waving when she sees me. Her smile is wide, real. She stands to hug me, arms warm and tight. *I missed you,* she says, squeezing my shoulders. For a moment, I actually feel it—like sunlight through dirty glass. I want to collapse into it, to believe it. But then, as I sit, I wonder if she’s overcompensating. Maybe she feels guilty. Maybe she’s just good at pretending. I watch her face for signs—a flicker of boredom, a yawn, a glance at her phone. She’s telling me about her week, about work and her roommate, and I nod at the right places, but my mind is running parallel tracks: the words she says, and the words I imagine her thinking. *You’re too much. You’re exhausting. I can’t do this anymore.* She laughs at something I say, her hand resting on mine across the table, and it feels so good it almost hurts. I cling to the warmth of her palm, trying to believe it’s real. “I love spending time with you,” she says, and I feel the words like a lifeline, but immediately I question them. If she loves spending time with me, why did she take so long to reply to my text Tuesday night? Why did she cancel last weekend? I want to ask—desperately, hungrily—*Do you really mean it? Are you sure?* But I know how that sounds. I know it can drive people away. I swallow the words, but they burn my throat. My phone, face-down on the table, vibrates. 2%. I flip it over, distracted. She notices. “Everything okay?” she asks. Her tone is gentle, concerned. I hear: *Are you bored? Are you waiting for someone else?* I stammer, “Yeah, just battery,” and she smiles, unconcerned. She reaches across, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m really glad we’re doing this,” she says. I nod, but my brain is already writing the after-action report: Maybe she just wants to keep things easy, avoid conflict. Maybe she’s being nice so the breakup won’t be explosive. I feel the urge to pull back, to armor myself with resentment before she can hurt me. I start constructing a defense in my mind: *She’s the one who’s inconsistent. She’s unreliable. I don’t need someone who makes me feel this way.* The story is ready, just in case. Yet as she talks about seeing a movie together next week, making plans, I feel dizzy with relief. She wants me. She wants to see me. I want to believe it—so much that the wanting itself feels dangerous, like standing at a window ledge and leaning out too far. I catch myself, just for a second. *You’re doing it again. You’re looping. She’s here. She’s kind.* But the thought is slippery, and already my mind is pulling away, drafting new dialogues: the fight that hasn’t happened, the rejection that hasn’t come, the pain I imagine so I can be ready for it. She laughs again, squeezes my hand. I cling to the warmth, but underneath, I’m already rehearsing how to survive when it’s gone.

Model Output:
The torch’s wavering flame carved violent silhouettes on the cracked stone of the temple’s nave. The air, thick with sweat and anticipation, pulsed with the low hum of whispered wagers. At the hall’s center, two figures faced each other—barefoot, bare-handed, their bodies taut as bowstrings. On the west side, the Jigen-ryū fighter, Sato Kenji, stood rooted in a wide, forward stance—a living wedge, all focus and offense. His right hand gripped an invisible sword, knuckles blanching, while his left hovered near his hip, ready to snap forward. The white of his gi shimmered gold in the torchlight, his eyes narrow, jaw clenched. Around him, his cadre of samurai descendants watched in near silence, pride and expectation set in stone. Opposite, Lin Wei of Piguaquan bounced on the balls of his feet, circling with loose, rolling steps. His faded blue tunic fluttered with each shift, and his hands traced slow, serpentine arcs in the air. His supporters—dockworkers, laborers, street toughs—crowded just beyond the broken altar, their jeers and encouragements echoing off the damp, ruined walls. Kenji’s foot shifted. A hush fell. Then, with the crack of a whip, he launched forward—a blur of white and muscle, right arm carving a diagonal path, a signature kiri-oroshi strike meant to cleave through bone and resolve alike. Wei slipped left, body folding at the waist, the strike slicing through empty air. He pivoted on his heel, left arm lashing out in a low, circular chop toward Kenji’s exposed ribs. Kenji twisted, intercepting with a sharp downward block, the slap of flesh on flesh echoing, both men recoiling a half step. They circled again, the torch painting their shadows into monstrous caricatures on the stone. Kenji advanced with calculated aggression—each step a stamp of intent, each feint a test of Wei’s guard. He lunged, left hand snapping for Wei’s collar while his right fist arced in a brutal hammer strike aimed at the temple. Wei ducked, spine coiling, and spun counterclockwise. His right arm whipped up, open palm deflecting Kenji’s fist. In the same motion, his left elbow struck inward—sharp, fast—grazing Kenji’s jaw. The Jigen-ryū man staggered, more surprised than hurt, and retreated two paces, resetting his stance. The crowd roared, Lin’s supporters pounding their fists on stone, Kenji’s allies stiffening in collective outrage. Kenji’s lips curled. He darted in, feinting high, then dropping suddenly, sweeping Wei’s legs with a low, scything kick. Wei leaped, twisting midair, and landed behind Kenji’s extended leg. Before Kenji could retract, Wei spun on the balls of his feet, delivering a whipping backfist toward Kenji’s neck. Kenji anticipated the angle, drawing his shoulder up to absorb the blow. He closed the gap with terrifying speed, driving his knee up toward Wei’s midsection. Wei twisted, letting the knee glance off his hip, then dropped into a crouch. From below, his right palm shot upward—a Piguaquan specialty—aimed squarely at Kenji’s chin. Kenji jerked his head back, the palm strike grazing his jaw. He responded with a brutal, vertical downward strike, both hands clasped as if wielding a sword. Wei rolled to the left, the strike crashing into the temple floor, scattering debris. Both fighters sprang apart, chests heaving in the flickering gloom. Sweat streaked their faces; blood trickled from the corner of Kenji’s mouth. Wei’s left forearm was reddening from the earlier block. Kenji drew himself up, breathing slow and controlled. He advanced again, this time utilizing the signature Jigen-ryū surge—explosive, linear, relentless. He darted in, right hand leading in a piston-like thrust. Wei retreated, swaying just out of reach, then pivoted, using the momentum to deliver a sweeping, horizontal chop aimed at Kenji’s head. Kenji ducked, rolled forward, and came up inside Wei’s guard. A flurry of short, brutal punches hammered into Wei’s right side—ribs, then kidney, then ribs again. Wei absorbed the punishment, twisting away, his feet a blur. He retreated toward the moss-covered column at the edge of the nave. Kenji pressed, cornering him against the stone. Wei, eyes wide but calculating, waited. Kenji feinted left, then lunged right, arm arcing in a diagonal chop. Wei sidestepped, letting Kenji’s momentum carry him forward, then wrapped his right arm around Kenji’s extended limb, yanking him off balance. With a sharp twist, Wei spun behind Kenji, driving his knee into the back of Kenji’s thigh. Kenji buckled, but recovered instantly, rolling his shoulder and elbowing backward. Wei ducked, the elbow grazing his scalp, and released his grip, dancing away into open space. Both fighters now circled near the shattered altar. The torch cast their shadows long and wild across the toppled statues. Blood dripped onto the ancient flagstones. Kenji exhaled, his stance now tighter, more guarded. Wei’s breathing was ragged, but his footwork remained light, probing for openings. Kenji feinted, then surged forward with a sudden, all-out assault—right fist, left palm, right elbow, each strike chaining seamlessly, driving Wei back step by step. Wei parried, dodged, absorbed—then, as Kenji overcommitted on a downward strike, Wei spun inside his guard, arms whipping in a wide arc. His right forearm slammed across Kenji’s face, followed by a rising left palm to the jaw. Kenji staggered, but in the same instant, he delivered a rising knee, catching Wei in the ribs. Both reeled, pain and exhaustion written on sweat-slick faces. The crowd’s roar peaked. Time hung suspended. Kenji, bleeding from nose and cheek, wiped his face with his sleeve. Wei clutched his side, breath coming in shallow bursts. They locked eyes—centuries of hatred and pride burning in that gaze. In the flicker of the dying torch, both charged. Kenji’s linear aggression met Wei’s circular evasion. Kenji’s fist grazed Wei’s temple; Wei’s palm struck Kenji’s throat. They crashed to the floor together, bodies tangled, breath ragged, neither victorious nor defeated. For a heartbeat, only the sound of dripping blood and the crackle of the torch filled the ruined temple. The duel, unresolved, had written its violence into the stones—another chapter in a blood debt yet unpaid.

Model Output:
The studio is a white box, all clean lines and hard angles, mirrors running end to end so I can’t escape my own reflection—or the twenty others in formation with me. My sneakers squeak on polished Marley as we mark the opening eight-count again, shoulders squared, feet lined up on invisible tape, everyone set for the drop. I’m in the second row, dead center, the only one not wearing the academy’s pristine logo sweats. My thrifted hoodie sags, the only splash of color in a grid of monochrome uniforms. A digital clock glows on the wall, red numbers marching down from 00:42:16. Every time I check, it’s moved slower than I remember. Instructor Min stalks the front, hands clasped behind his back, eyes slicing through the rows. “Positions! Again!” His Korean is crisp, but he’s already switched to English for my benefit. I wish he wouldn’t. We start. The music blares—some unreleased K-pop track, all synth stabs and mechanical snares. On the first beat, we snap from neutral into a sharp right lunge, arms slicing up at 45 degrees. My body wants to let the movement roll through my spine, but here, there’s no room for bounce or swag. The choreography is sharp, every limb on rails. I force my right arm up, elbow locked, palm flat to the mirror. Out of my peripheral, I see the line: twenty arms identical, except mine wavers, wrist cocked at a street-dancer’s angle. “Again!” Min shouts. “You’re dancing with your bones, not your muscles. No flavor. Precision!” I clamp my jaw. Where I’m from, flavor is everything. Back home, on cracked concrete, we ride the beat, let it tickle our joints and pop our chests. Here, the rhythm is a cage. We count in eights, every move chained to the next. Second eight-count: we pivot left, legs together, bodies snapping upright. The rest of the line clicks into place, each torso squared, feet together. My left foot drags, used to a looser, grounded step—muscle memory from years of breaking and freestyling. Min’s eyes catch the lag. “Again!” I swallow hard, sweat slick on my neck. The backs of my knees ache from the unnatural stance—weight balanced on the balls of my feet, knees slightly bent, core engaged. I’m used to sinking deep, letting gravity pull me down for a glide or a wave. Here, it’s all about containment. Even the shoulder rolls are microscopic; street style would exaggerate them, milk the groove. In this routine, you barely shift your ribcage, just a suggestion of movement. The next section is a tutting sequence. Hands snap up at chest height, fingers splayed, wrists stacked at ninety degrees. I mess up the angles—years of flexing and rolling my wrists into figure-eights have made my joints too loose, too expressive. Here, they want right angles, geometric shapes, nothing extra. “Again!” My thighs burn from the repeated resets. The mirrors reflect my frustration: my head bobs a half-beat ahead, still chasing the snare instead of the metronome click piped into the studio speakers. The others move in perfect sync, every heartbeat a copy-paste. My feet itch to break the line, to throw in a slide or a pop, but every deviation is a mistake. Min steps behind me. I feel his presence before I see him—a shadow at my back, close enough to smell the peppermint on his breath. “Show me the move,” he says. I go through the tutting phrase, slow and deliberate: right forearm up, left forearm crosses, wrists flick to ninety, fingers snap. I try to lock each shape, but my hands tremble, used to flowing transitions, not sharp stops. “Again. Smaller. No dance. Just mechanics.” He presses his hands over mine, guiding my wrists into place. His grip is strong, insistent. “You must erase what you know,” he says, voice low. “Your body remembers chaos. Here, we want order.” I look up, see my eyes reflected in the glass: wide, uncertain. The clock reads 00:21:09. We break for water. The others cluster by the door, chattering in rapid Korean, laughing about something I can’t catch. I lean against the barre, chest heaving. My hoodie is soaked through. I glance at my hands—fingers twitching, hungry for a wave, a ripple, any chance to reclaim my groove. Min’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Back to places! From the top!” We reset. My spot is marked with tape: second row, middle, four feet from the mirror, two from the dancer to my left—a girl with razor-straight bangs, her gaze fixed dead ahead. The music starts again. I count the beats, force my shoulders into the opening pose. This time, something cracks. As we hit the third eight-count—a diagonal step back, arms slashing down in a hard V—I feel my chest tighten. My hips want to swivel, but the choreography demands stillness. My feet want to slide, but the timing is brutal: one-and-two, no room for flair. I could do it. I could lock down, erase the bounce, become another machine in Min’s factory. But as the bridge hits, as the routine demands a synchronized body roll—barely a twitch, just a soft wave through the chest—I let my instincts take over. My roll is deeper, more fluid, shoulder dropping into the groove for a split second. The row stutters. The girl to my left glances at me, eyes wide. Min’s voice is a whip: “Stop!” The music cuts. Everyone freezes. I can hear my own heartbeat. He strides over. “You think you’re special?” he says, eyes drilling into mine. “You want to stand out?” I swallow. My legs are trembling—part exhaustion, part rage. “I don’t know how to be anyone else,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. He stares at me. For a moment, I think he’s going to throw me out. Instead, he nods, just once. “Again. But this time—you find the line. Between you and the group. Don’t break formation. Bend it.” The clock reads 00:06:58. I take my mark, pulse pounding. This time, as the music starts, I let the choreography guide me—but I let a little bounce ride under the surface, a touch of groove in the mechanical snap. I don’t break formation. But I bend it, just enough. And for a moment, in the mirror, I see it: the line, the group, the machine. And me—still me, but sharper, fighting not to disappear.

Model Output:
The Court of the Dreaming sits in a space that neither glows nor dims, its vaulted, ribbed ceiling vanishing into a haze of mist and half-remembered lullabies. Columns wind upward like the trunks of trees that have forgotten their roots, and the gallery is crowded with the usual suspects: a murder of crows in ill-fitting wigs; a jury of somnambulists, heads lolling; and, in the shadows, a trio of minor nightmares bickering over a popcorn kernel. At the bench sits Dream, pale and sharp-eyed, his robes suggesting both midnight and the memory of starlight. His fingers drum, just audibly, against the arm of his throne, creating a rhythm that’s almost—almost—comforting. The mood is not improved by the defendant’s intermittent cackling. Before him, the plaintive: First Love, a blushing figure in a cardigan two sizes too large, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers that, if one looked closely, murmured encouragements in voices of adolescent hope. On the other side: Mora, the nightmare. She hunches forward with the languor of someone who’s recently dined well, her eyes glittering, her lips oddly red. Shadows cling to her like perfume. Every few moments, she emits a giggle that ricochets through the rafters, unsettling the crows and causing the faintest twitch at the corner of Dream’s mouth. Dream clears his throat. It is the sort of sound that could end an empire or, in this case, silence a courtroom. “Let us begin. The case of Max, recurring dreamer, age twelve, versus Mora, eater of breath, invader of dreams. First Love, you may present your grievance.” First Love steps forward, cheeks aflame, voice trembling like a first confession. “Your Lordship, I—I have carefully nurtured young Max’s recurring dream these past six months. It is a work of great delicacy—a field of wildflowers, a gentle summer dusk, and the sweet ache of almost, but not quite, touching lips. My intention: to foster the subtle confusion and exquisite hope of first affection. The, um, muddled almost-kiss is essential. It is, if I may say, practically curriculum.” He glances at the gallery for support, but the crows only preen. “Recently, said dream has been—” he fumbles for a word, “—hijacked, perverted, and rendered…nightmarish. Instead of innocence, there is terror. Instead of soft longing, there is—” he shudders, “—breathlessness of a very different sort.” Dream fixes Mora with a gaze that could put the moon out. “Mora. Your defense?” Mora leans forward, her hair sliding like oil over her shoulders. “A girl’s gotta eat too, you know?” she drawls, her accent thick with the promise of distant thunder. “I saw a tasty morsel—such lovely lungs, so much potential for exquisite panic. And, if I may, I left the confusion. I only deepened it.” She grins, sharp-toothed. “Besides, what is first love if not a little terrifying?” A ripple of laughter—nervous, involuntary—passes through the gallery. One of the crows coughs. First Love, scandalized, tightens his grip on the flowers. “He awoke bathed in sweat! He has begun to fear the field. He flinched when his crush touched his arm in waking life. He is now writing poetry about the futility of existence. Bad poetry.” Mora shrugs, unconcerned. “Artistic growth. You’re welcome.” Dream sighs, the sound like the wind through the bones of ancient trees. “Let us consult the evidence.” A shimmering tableau appears in the air. There is Max, lying in wildflowers with the girl, face flushed, her hair haloed in light. They lean in; the world swims. Then: the girl’s eyes blacken, her smile widens, she straddles his chest, and suddenly, Max gasps, paralyzed, as Mora’s shadowy form feeds upon his dreams. The gallery murmurs in appreciation. The crows clap, a sound like wet branches snapping. First Love points accusingly. “This is not formative! This is… de-formative!” Mora licks her lips, sighing contentedly. “I gave him a memory he’ll never forget. He’ll never trust a summer dusk again. That’s formative, darling.” Dream pinches the bridge of his nose, an entirely mortal gesture. “This court is not in the business of adjudicating taste. The question is one of ownership. Does the recurring dream belong to its original architect—” he nods at First Love, “—or is it fair game for predation?” A somnambulist juror snores. Another jerks awake, muttering, “Objection, relevance,” before slumping again. Dream’s eyes flicker with a mischief he normally suppresses. He leans forward, voice silken. “Mora, if I were to rule in your favor, would you content yourself with this one meal, or would you make a habit of gorging on young love’s labor?” Mora grins. “Who could ever be satisfied with just one taste?” First Love looks on the verge of tears. “Please, Lord Dream. There are so few places left for innocence.” Dream considers. The silence stretches, wraps itself around the room like a winding sheet. Finally, he speaks. “I propose a compromise.” His smile is thin as a crescent moon. “The dream shall be divided. On alternate nights, Max will experience First Love’s meadow, complete with confusion and hope. On the other nights, Mora may visit, but—” he raises a finger, “—she must confine herself to the role of an unsettlingly attractive classmate, no chest-sitting, no breath-feeding, only the usual adolescent torments: ambiguous glances, cryptic text messages, and the occasional dream embarrassment.” Mora scowls. “No feeding?” Dream’s smile never wavers. “You may feed, but only on the ambient anxiety of adolescence, not the breath. There is, I assure you, an inexhaustible supply.” The gallery nods, the crows mutter, “Hear, hear.” First Love sags with relief, clutching his flowers to his chest. Dream bangs his gavel, which sounds suspiciously like a heartbeat. “So ruled. Court adjourned.” As Mora slinks out, she cackles, softer now, “See you in algebra, Max.” First Love bows, blushing furiously, and the crows rise in a raucous flurry, already debating the next case: the matter of the endlessly falling elevator and its disputed architect. Dream remains, alone on his throne, the faintest smile playing across his lips, savoring the knowledge that for Max—and perhaps for all dreamers—the line between first love and first terror will remain deliciously unclear.

Model Output:
A crimson harvest moon casts ominous shadows on the deserted village streets. The thatched roofs are jagged silhouettes, their eaves bleeding black against the sky. Fog curls between empty houses, muffling footsteps and swallowing sound. Windows gape like broken mouths. Not even the rats dare to scuttle. Tonight, the world holds its breath. Alucard materializes at the crossroads, his boots striking cobblestone with deliberate slowness. The wide-brimmed hat shadows his grin, the red coat trailing like fresh blood. He sniffs the air—sweet, sharp, alive with the metallic promise of magic. Not the feeble superstitions of peasants; this scent is precise, intoxicating, dangerous. Not prey. Not human. A worthy adversary? He waits, patient as the grave. Yennefer steps from the mist, heels silent on the stones. Midnight hair tumbles over a raven-black cloak. Her violet eyes glint with challenge. Lilac and gooseberries cut through the night, impossibly vivid, as if daring the darkness to swallow them. She surveys the vampire with a cool, appraising gaze—unafraid, but cautious. Her fingers twitch with the memory of fire. They circle, a careful waltz. Alucard tips his hat, a parody of old-world courtesy. “What brings a sorceress of your caliber to this decaying corner of civilization, madam? Sight-seeing? Or something more... predatory?” Yennefer’s lips curl in a sardonic smile. “I could ask the same, vampire. But I suspect your tastes run less to sightseeing and more to slaughter.” Her eyes flick over his crimson coat, the silver glint of his guns. “You reek of death.” He laughs, low and resonant, fangs glimmering. “Death, yes. But not for you. Not yet.” He lets his form flicker, a shadow melting into mist, then solidifies. “You’re not afraid.” “Should I be?” Her voice is silk, edged with steel. “You’re not the first monster I’ve met. Though you dress with more flair than most.” “Flattery? Or a challenge?” Alucard steps closer, boots splashing in a puddle black as ink. “Most witches run, or beg, or try their feeble little hexes. You, on the other hand, stand firm.” He leans in, orange lenses reflecting her face. “Why?” Yennefer doesn’t flinch. “Because you’re not the first immortal with delusions of grandeur I’ve encountered. And because I came here to hunt something worse than you.” She lets a surge of chaos ripple through her hand—violet sparks dancing between her fingers. His grin widens. “Delightful. Most creatures of magic taste of desperation and fear. You, though... you’re seasoned with ambition and rage. Tell me, witch, what do you truly desire?” She tilts her chin, meeting his gaze without blinking. “Power. Control. Freedom.” A pause, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, “And answers.” Alucard’s eyes narrow, amusement flickering to curiosity. “Answers, yes. The questions of the damned are always the sharpest.” He circles her, boots scraping, coat fanning out like a banner of war. “You wish to change your fate. I’ve seen that hunger before. It’s what makes a monster, you know. The refusal to accept what is.” She laughs, brittle as breaking glass. “You mistake me for someone who loathes what she is. I shaped myself from nothing. I’d rather die than be at the mercy of fate or men.” “And yet here you are, alone, hunting in the shadow of the blood moon.” He lifts one massive handgun, not aiming, only showing. “Perhaps you seek a worthy adversary as well?” Magic crackles—a shield, invisible but palpable, thrumming in the air between them. “Maybe I do,” she says, her voice a dare. “But you’re not the only one with teeth, vampire.” A sudden gust scatters the fog, revealing corpses slumped in doorways, throats torn and bloodless. Alucard watches her for a reaction. Yennefer’s face remains impassive, but her eyes flicker with something—contempt, perhaps, or calculation. “Your handiwork?” she asks. He shrugs. “A midnight snack. The village was already dead, they just hadn’t realized it. I merely hastened the inevitable.” She shakes her head, mouth twisting. “You’re a brute, then. All that power, and you waste it on peasants.” He laughs, delighted. “I consume what’s offered. But you... you’re something rare. Something exquisite.” He steps forward, and the world seems to warp around him, shadows stretching, the air thickening with his presence. “Fight me, witch. Show me you’re more than a parlor trick.” She smiles—a flash of white, wicked and wild. “Careful what you wish for.” She gestures, and the cobblestones erupt in a ring of azure flame, cutting them off from the world. Wind howls. Alucard’s coat billows like wings. He raises his gun, and she flicks her wrist; the bullet melts to mercury mid-flight, splattering harmlessly. Their power collides—bullets versus magic, laughter versus scorn. Alucard shifts, dissolving into bats, only to be ensnared by ethereal chains. Yennefer’s voice is a whip: “You’re not the only one who can play with shadows.” He bursts free, grinning, the chains shattering. “Excellent.” He bows, mocking. “You’re full of surprises, Lady Vengerberg.” She narrows her eyes. “And you’re full of arrogance, Count. Let’s see which runs deeper.” They clash and recoil, neither yielding. Heat and darkness swirl, the village trembling with their might. For one heartbeat, they are evenly matched—a monster and a witch, each seeking the chink in the other’s armor. Alucard bares his fangs, eyes gleaming with hunger—respect, perhaps. “You could be magnificent, if you let yourself be monstrous.” Yennefer’s smile is all teeth. “And you could be human, if you remembered how.” The blood moon bathes them both, savage and beautiful, as they circle—predator and sorceress, neither willing to show weakness, neither willing to yield. Somewhere, the dawn waits. But tonight, the hunt goes on.

Model Output:
A dim overhead light flickers in the prison corridor at irregular intervals, painting stripes of shadow across cracked concrete and rusted bars. The air is thick with the metallic tang of old blood and disinfectant. Jolyne Cujoh sits on the edge of her cot, legs bouncing, fingers absently twining a length of string between her hands. Her green eyes dart to the door as it slides open with a heavy groan. She expects another guard, maybe one of Pucci’s lackeys. What she gets is someone altogether stranger: a woman in a crisp suit, auburn hair braided neatly, her yellow eyes serene and ringed like a predator’s. She walks in without hesitation, her steps perfectly measured, gaze never leaving Jolyne. Jolyne narrows her eyes. “You lost? This is solitary, not the VIP lounge.” The woman smiles, soft and sweet as sugar left out for flies. “I’m not lost. I asked to see you, Jolyne Cujoh.” Jolyne stands, rolling her neck with a click. “Yeah? Well, I’m not in the mood for interviews. Unless you’re here to get me out, beat it.” The woman tilts her head, regarding Jolyne as if she’s an interesting insect under glass. “I’m Makima. I work for a government organization you wouldn’t know.” She glances at the crumbling walls. “You seem... resourceful. I admire that.” Jolyne’s hands tense. The string between her fingers shivers and vanishes, drawn back into her palm. “You got a real way of talking down to people, Makima.” She spits the name out, testing it. Makima’s smile doesn’t waver. “Not at all. I’m only interested in your abilities. I’ve heard you can turn yourself into string. That’s very unique, even among the people I’ve met.” Jolyne’s heart pounds. She thinks of Stand battles, of the way enemies probe for weaknesses with honeyed words. “You’ve got a weird hobby if you’re collecting stories like that.” Makima steps closer, hands folded neatly. The flickering light catches her eyes, making them glow. “You must be lonely here. Dogs don’t do well in cages unless their owner visits them.” Jolyne bristles. “I’m not anybody’s dog. And if you’re here to play mind games, you picked the wrong bitch, lady.” Makima’s smile grows, the edges curling in something almost wolfish. “You’re very loyal, aren’t you? To your father, to your friends. You’d do anything for them.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “But loyalty makes you predictable. I prefer unpredictable toys.” Jolyne’s fists clench. Stone Free’s threads coil invisibly around her arms, ready to snap. “You keep talking about toys and pets. You got a leash for everybody, or just the ones who talk back?” Makima sighs, almost theatrically, as if disappointed. “I’d hoped you’d be more cooperative. But that’s fine. Some people need to be broken first.” Jolyne’s lips curl in a snarl. “If you think you can break me, you’re dreaming. If there’s no Mickey, this shit ain’t Disney!” The cell vibrates. Jolyne’s Stand unravels from her body, threads whistling through the air toward Makima. In an instant, Makima’s expression softens further, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Kneel.” Jolyne’s knees buckle. She grits her teeth, fighting the compulsion. Stone Free’s threads waver, caught mid-lash, her vision swimming with static. Makima’s power presses down—something ancient, absolute. Jolyne feels her will being twisted, bent like hot wire. But she’s her father’s daughter. She *refuses* to bow. With a guttural yell, she digs her nails into her palm, drawing blood. The pain snaps her focus. Stone Free’s strings lash out, binding the cell bars, yanking them out with a shriek of tortured metal. Makima sidesteps, unhurried. Her eyes glitter. “You’re different,” Makima says, watching Jolyne struggle to stand. “Your will is strong. But everyone breaks eventually.” “Not me,” Jolyne spits, sweat beading her brow. “You think you can control me? Go ahead and try! I’ve survived Stand users, assassins, and freaks who make you look like a puppy!” Makima’s fingers move in a subtle gesture. The prison’s atmosphere thickens, screams echoing from distant cells. Jolyne’s mind reels as phantom hands clutch at her consciousness, trying to drag her down. She staggers, but Stone Free lashes out, slicing through the invisible pressure. Makima’s voice is calm, almost bored. “You’re not used to enemies who don’t play by Stand rules. I don’t need to kill you, Jolyne. I just need you to obey.” Jolyne grins, wild and defiant. “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t leash someone who’s already broken out!” Stone Free’s threads wrap around Makima’s arm, pulling tight. For a heartbeat, Makima’s expression wavers. Then, impossibly, she laughs—a soft, chilling sound. “You’re fascinating. I see why people are drawn to you. But you can’t win. Not against me.” A sudden, crushing force seizes Jolyne’s heart. She gasps, dropping to one knee, vision swimming. Makima crouches, meeting her gaze. “You’re strong. But in the end, everyone serves someone. Even you.” Jolyne’s string dissolves. Her fists tremble, sweat and blood mixing on the floor. But her eyes burn with fury. Makima rises, smoothing her suit. “I’ll be back. When you’re ready to listen, call for me. I always come when called.” The cell door slides open. Makima pauses on the threshold. “You’re not the first to resist. But you will be the last.” The door slams shut. The flickering light steadies. Jolyne collapses back against the wall, chest heaving. Her fingers itch for battle, for escape, for *revenge*. She’s fought men who could stop time, erase memory, twist fate itself. But Makima is something else—a devil in human skin, all smiles and invisible chains. Jolyne wipes her mouth, grins through the pain. “You want a dog, Makima? Better bring a bigger collar.” Her string reforms, glimmering in the half-light. Because in this prison, the only leash that matters is the one she’ll wrap around Makima’s neck.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-XXXX **Object Class:** Euclid **Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-XXXX is currently associated with Researcher Abigail Frye (Clearance Level 3), who is to be monitored at all times via remote observation and daily psychological evaluation. All handwritten notes attributed to SCP-XXXX are to be immediately confiscated and analyzed by Foundation memetics and temporal studies teams. Researcher Frye is not to be assigned to any SCP object known or suspected to exhibit time-manipulation or cognitohazardous properties until further notice. Investigation into the potential involvement of SCP-████, SCP-███, and SCP-████ is ongoing. No other personnel have reported similar phenomena. --- **Researcher Log – Abigail Frye** **Entry 1:** I started finding the notes three weeks ago. At first, it was just a slip of memo paper tucked under my keyboard. I thought it was a leftover from my last experiment log—until I recognized my own handwriting. The message was brief: > **Abby – Check the south containment doors at 02:17. Don’t ignore this. –AF** Odd, but not impossible. Maybe I forgot I wrote it. Maybe I was tired. I checked the doors at 2:17 AM anyway. Everything was normal. The next morning, I found another note. Same paper, same handwriting. > **Don’t trust the readings from Lab 7. Someone’s changed the calibration.** Lab 7 had been closed for maintenance all week. I asked around; nobody had checked it out since the decon team left. I started to feel uneasy. --- **Entry 2:** I began locking my memo pads in my desk at night. I set up a small camera in my office to watch my workspace. The next note was waiting for me on my pillow at home. > **Abby – You’re not safe. Don’t sleep here tonight. Please.** My handwriting again. My stomach twisted. I stayed at a hotel. Nothing happened. The next day, I reported the incident to Dr. Kessler, my supervisor. He took the memo, frowning, and said he’d pass it to security. I started wondering: Am I sleepwalking? Dissociating from stress? Or is this something else? --- **Entry 3:** Security swept my office and home for surveillance devices or anomalous objects. Nothing. The memetics team tested the notes for infohazards. Clean. Temporal analysis showed no abnormal energy readings. I was starting to feel paranoid, but the notes kept coming—sometimes twice a day. > **You’re not paranoid enough. It’s already started. The breach is real. Look at the date. Don’t trust Kessler. –AF** I checked the date: 21/04/2024. Today. There had been no breach. I confronted Dr. Kessler about the note, but he just looked at me, concerned. He told me to take a few days’ rest. I refused. --- **Entry 4:** I began to doubt my own mind. The handwriting was always undeniably mine—down to the way I loop my “y’s.” I tried to change the way I wrote, deliberately altering my script, but the next note matched my old style perfectly. The Foundation assigned Dr. Menen, a psychologist, to evaluate me. She asked if I’d experienced similar symptoms before—blackouts, hallucinations, memory lapses. I said no, but even as I spoke, I wondered if I could trust my own answers. --- **Entry 5:** The notes became frantic. > **You’re not listening! The breach is tomorrow. It’s not Kessler, it’s Menen. She’s not who she says she is. I’m running out of time. You have to stop her.** I tried to confront Dr. Menen, but she was calm, professional. She suggested we review the security footage from my office. We watched hours of video—nothing. No one entered, not even me, during the times the notes appeared. --- **Entry 6:** Foundation protocol required that I be tested for potential cognitohazard exposure. Standard scans, mnestic therapy. No anomalies detected. The memetics team began to suspect an entity was targeting me. They moved me to a new site, under observation. I was not allowed to bring any personal items. All memo paper was cataloged and locked away. The first night, there was a note on my bathroom mirror, written in steam: > **You’re not safe anywhere. They’re watching. They want you to doubt. Please, Abby, don’t let them win.** --- **Entry 7:** I started to lose track of what was real. One note read: > **The breach already happened. You died. This is the loop. Try again.** I found myself checking the date, my badge, even my own reflection. Was this a temporal anomaly? A psychic assault? The Foundation teams were split: some argued for a new SCP designation, others for more psychiatric intervention. My dreams became crowded with voices—my own, echoing warnings I could not remember giving. --- **Entry 8:** I locked myself in the observation room, refusing to sleep. The next note was on the inside of my locked notebook: > **You’re getting close. Don’t trust the readings. Don’t trust this.** What was “this”? The situation? The Foundation? Myself? --- **Entry 9:** The memetics team theorized the notes might be a method of psychological manipulation by SCP-███, which had previously demonstrated limited reality-bending capabilities. But I had never interacted with SCP-███. I began to consider another possibility: what if the notes were real? What if I was the only warning system available to myself? --- **Entry 10:** The notes became more fragmented, sometimes contradicting each other. > **They’re lying to you. The breach is Kessler.** > **No, it’s Menen. Don’t listen to her.** > **You’re not at Site-19, you’re at Site-77.** > **You’re not even Abigail Frye.** I started to cry, unable to reconcile the contradictions. My own handwriting, telling me not to trust my own mind. --- **Entry 11:** The Foundation brought in a temporal specialist, Dr. Nguyen. He suggested a controlled experiment: I would write a note to my “future self,” lock it away, and see if it changed. I wrote: > **Abby – If you find this, it’s real. Trust yourself.** We sealed it in a Foundation safe, accessible only by biometric lock. The next morning, there was a new note inside the safe: > **You can’t win. It always ends the same way.** --- **Entry 12:** I stopped trusting my own perception. Every time I found a note, the world seemed less stable. The Foundation increased my observation, debating whether to classify me as SCP-XXXX or as a victim of its effects. --- **Final Entry:** I don’t know if there ever was a breach. I don’t know if I’m warning myself, or if something is using my own mind against me. Every note is a fragment of myself, fluttering in and out of reality. If anyone reads this: Don’t trust the notes. Don’t trust your own handwriting. Don’t trust me. --- **Addendum:** As of [REDACTED], Researcher Frye remains under Foundation quarantine. Investigation continues. No further notes have been reported—yet.

Model Output:
**Item #:** SCP-7445 **Object Class:** Keter --- **Special Containment Procedures:** All known SCP-7445 instances are to be sealed under Foundation jurisdiction. Task Force Lambda-19 (“Archivists”) is assigned to monitor global reports of unmarked doors appearing in abandoned structures and to secure new SCP-7445 manifestations. No exploration of SCP-7445 is permitted without O5 approval; all prior access logs are to be reviewed for unauthorized entries. Personnel encountering entities within SCP-7445 are ordered to avoid engagement and immediately withdraw. All documents or artifacts retrieved from SCP-7445 are to be catalogued and stored in Site-19’s Anomalous Archives. --- **Description:** SCP-7445 refers to a phenomenon wherein identical, unmarked wooden doors spontaneously manifest in abandoned buildings worldwide. Each instance is physically unremarkable, save for a pattern of deep, identical scratches encircling the doorknob (see Addendum 7445-1). When opened, the door leads to a sprawling, interior space inconsistent with the building's external geometry — an impossibly vast archive containing millions of documents, artifacts, and shelving units, extending beyond observable limits. These archives are constructed in a style combining elements from multiple architectural periods, including classical, brutalist, and unknown motifs. The interior is lit by an indeterminate, sourceless glow, and the temperature remains at a constant 21°C. Documents within the archive (designated SCP-7445-A) reference a prior worldwide civilization (“The Predecessor Order”) destroyed by a containment failure of unspecified nature (“The Cataclysmic Breach”). Notably, a significant portion of records make mention of a containment organization analogous to the modern SCP Foundation but referred to as “The Custodial Authority” or, in some cases, “Overseers’ Circle.” Many personnel files correspond to current Foundation staff, including O5 members, but are dated centuries before their known birthdates. Sections of the archive are frequently found in a state of organized removal by humanoid entities in yellow hazmat suits (designated SCP-7445-B). These entities will disengage and flee deeper into the archive if approached, leaving behind trolleys laden with documents and anomalous artifacts. Recovered logs reveal evidence that members of the current O5 Council have visited or accessed SCP-7445 without authorization. --- **Addendum 7445-1: Physical Description of Entryways** All doors identified as SCP-7445 exhibit concentric, spiral scratches around the doorknob area, consistent with tool marks but with no discernible implement responsible. These scratches are present on both sides of the door, regardless of the original door’s material or prior markings. --- **Exploration Log 7445-07** **Date:** 2024-04-03 **Exploration Team:** MTF Lambda-19 (“Archivists”) **Lead:** Dr. Ilana Kursky **[BEGIN LOG]** **Team enters through SCP-7445 instance in abandoned textile mill, Manchester, UK.** **Kursky:** (activates bodycam) All right, recorders on. We’re inside. **Archive Interior:** Team emerges into a marble-floored corridor lined with bookcases rising at least ten meters. Faint echoes of paper shuffling and distant mechanical whirring are audible. **Agent Farrow:** No signs of decay. Lighting’s steady. I’m seeing Latin… French… and something else on those file labels. **Kursky:** Copy. Prioritize anything referencing “The Breach” or Foundation analogues. **Team proceeds 200 meters. Shelving abruptly transitions to a steel-and-glass motif. Piles of boxed files are stacked haphazardly.** **Agent Farrow:** Got movement — far end, left. **Camera captures three humanoid figures (SCP-7445-B), approximately 1.8 meters tall, wearing yellow hazmat suits and opaque faceplates. Each is wheeling a trolley piled with folders and metallic cylinders.** **Dr. Kursky:** (whispering) Don’t engage. Observe only. **Entities glance at team, then rapidly retreat with trolleys into a side passage. One drops a folder labeled “Custodial Authority: O5-9—Personnel Review, 1317 CE.”** **Agent Farrow:** Did you see the badge on the back? That was our current Foundation insignia, but… reversed. **Kursky:** Secure that folder. Let’s follow at a safe distance. **Team advances into side passage. Corridor narrows; shelving here holds rusted containment implements and rows of faded personnel files.** **Agent Farrow:** We’ve got something. Looks like a visitor’s log, pinned to the wall. **[Document Recovered: SCP-7445-A-13]** > **Custodial Authority – Overseers’ Circle** > **Visitor Entry Log, Archive Terminal Delta-7** > > 1. **O5-2** (ID: ████) — 2022-08-12 > 2. **O5-7** (ID: ████) — 2023-01-23 > 3. **O5-3** (ID: ████) — 2024-02-19 > > *Note: Unauthorized entries. Advise immediate censure.* **Dr. Kursky:** That’s three current O5s, all recent. None logged these missions with us. **Agent Farrow:** There’s a secondary stamp here… “Repeat Offender: O5-2.” This is centuries old. **Kursky:** Pull any logs with matching names or designations. Let’s keep moving. **Team advances. A large mural is visible, depicting a city in ruins, overlaid with the phrase (translated from Latin): “The Breach Was Not Contained.”** **Agent Farrow:** (quietly) This is getting to me. **Kursky:** We’re pulling out in ten. Grab what you can. **Far end of corridor: sounds of rapid shelving movement. Camera glimpses SCP-7445-B entities hurrying away with a crate full of charred documents. One turns, looks directly into the lens, then disappears around a corner.** **[END LOG]** --- **Recovered Document Excerpts (SCP-7445-A):** > *Excerpt 1: “The Custodial Authority failed in its final mandate. The containment breach of artifact [REDACTED] led to the dissolution of all order. Survivors recorded what they could in the Infinite Archive, for future inheritors.”* > > *Excerpt 2: (Personnel file, “Overseer-7, Designate: [REDACTED]”) > “Subject displays high resilience to mnestic degradation. Reinstated following exile, 1317 CE. Note: To be barred from Archive except under Council supervision.”* > > *Excerpt 3: “If you are reading this, you are the inheritors. Do not repeat our errors. The Archive erodes; the entities within are not our allies. Beware the doors.”* > > *Excerpt 4: (Handwritten annotation in margin) > “O5-2, you returned. Why? The cycle begins anew.”* --- **Note:** Following Exploration 7445-07, all active O5 Council members have denied knowledge of SCP-7445 exploration. Investigation pending. SCP-7445 remains uncontained, with new doors manifesting at an increasing rate. **END FILE**

Model Output:
**Chapter Five: Streetwalking** The city of Clytemnestra rose from the plateau in stacked terraces, white stone and blue-glass roofs, shadows lengthening in the thin light of Tau Ceti. Between the domes and arches wound the old roads, older than the Union’s presence, older perhaps than the Ministry itself. Envoy Ione Asher’s diplomatic badge gleamed uselessly at their collar as they walked, hood drawn up against the wind. The official car waited at the plaza, but no one followed. Protocol said: Never walk alone. Protocol said: The colony is unstable, volatile, unpredictable. Protocol, as Ione found with increasing clarity, said little about the world as it was. Beneath the central archway, a market unraveled—a living thing, louder and more complex than the reports suggested. The people here were not the neat, labeled categories from the briefing files. Skin ran an iridescent spectrum, from the deep blue-black of the plateau-born to the sun-flecked gold of the lowlanders, some with the transparent eyelids adapted for Tau’s glare, a few with the vestigial gill-slits of the marshers. Children darted between stalls, some with webbed fingers, others with the elongated limbs of high-gravity birth. Ione lingered at a fruit vendor’s stall, watching the deft movements of a woman—her fingers fused at the second knuckle, peeling the skin from a fruit whose name Ione did not know. The woman watched Ione in turn, a wariness in her gaze. “Offworlder?” she asked, heavy accent wrapping itself around the word. Ione nodded. “I’m here to help.” The woman laughed, not unkindly. “Help what? You help the Ministers, maybe. You help the old families. Not us.” Ione found no answer. Instead, they watched as a child, limbs too long for her torso, reached for the fruit and was gently, automatically, handed a slice. The market thrummed with interdependence, the kind of uneasily balanced peace that officialdom rarely noticed. Stone walls encircled the market. Each block was carved with glyphs—stylized animals, spirals, a figure with a torch. Old Earth myths, Ione realized. The torchbearer: Prometheus. Here, a snake swallowing its own tail. There, three sisters weaving thread—Fate, perhaps, or memory. The colony had not forgotten where it came from. It had only changed shape, as all living things do. Ione worked their way through the market, speaking little, listening much. The briefings had spoken of tension, of unrest, but not of laughter, not of the children’s games, not of the way a sudden song could ripple through a dozen voices at once. No hint, either, of the iron undercurrent in the way people watched the uniformed guards at the avenue’s end, how conversations stilled as the badges passed. By the time the sun dipped behind the older quarter’s domes, Ione’s head was full of contradictions: the Minister’s assurances, the market’s reality, the glyphs telling stories no one in the Union seemed to hear. *** The reprimand came as soon as the door to their quarters hissed shut. “You are not authorized to leave official protection, Envoy Asher.” The voice in the comm was Command—General Saito, clipped and metallic. “We cannot guarantee your safety if you disregard procedure. You will meet with Minister Corval at 0700. Do not deviate further from protocol.” The line clicked off. Ione sat for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle. They washed the dust from their hands and prepared. *** Minister Corval’s office occupied the highest dome in the old quarter—a space of cold marble and cool, filtered air. The Minister was waiting behind a desk of black stone, his suit impeccably tailored, his smile a blade. “Envoy Asher. I can’t say I’m surprised to see you in person. Offworlders do seem to favor directness, even when it’s unwise.” Ione bowed slightly. “Minister. I wanted to discuss the situation outside the official briefings. The markets, for instance—” Corval’s hand flicked. “The markets are not your concern. You are here to facilitate the Union’s agenda, not to critique local custom.” Ione met his gaze. “With respect, Minister, local custom is the situation. The briefings do not account for the diversity I observed. Your reports suggest the colony is unified, but the reality is—more complicated.” Corval’s smile widened. “Complication is the mother of politics, Envoy. The Union likes things simple. We manage complexity for you.” He gestured to the carved wall behind him, where the torchbearer looked down with hollow stone eyes. “Tell me, Asher. Do you know who that is?” “Prometheus,” Ione said. “From Earth’s old myths. He brought fire to humanity.” “Indeed. And was punished for it, by those who claimed to know better.” Corval’s eyes glinted. “You see, we remember our origins here. We remember what it means to be altered by necessity—and by those who hold power. Does that make us less than human, in your Union’s eyes? Or simply inconvenient?” Ione did not flinch. “You are human. Different, yes, but shaped by your world. The Union’s role is not to dictate how that happens.” Corval’s laughter was soft, genuine. “An idealist, then. Dangerous. Let me be clear. The Union’s presence here is tolerated, not welcomed. Your protocols are a thin skin over old wounds. Step too far, and you’ll find the bone beneath.” Ione leaned forward, voice steady. “If you want partnership, Minister, you’ll get more from honesty than from performance. The people in the market—your people—are already living the future the Union claims to want. Adapted, diverse, working together. But they do not trust you. Or me.” Corval’s gaze sharpened. For a moment, the practiced mask slipped. “And do you trust them, Envoy? Or do you walk our streets so you can write a better report? What do you really want here?” “Understanding,” Ione answered. “And perhaps the chance for something more genuine than what protocol allows.” Silence pooled between them, thick as the marble underfoot. Corval’s voice, when it came, was quieter. “You’re either very brave, or very naïve, Asher. We’ll see which the colony prefers.” He stood, offering his hand. Ione took it. The Minister’s grip was warm and dry. The carved glyphs watched, silent, as old Earth and new humanity measured each other, and found the gap—if not yet a bridge, then at least a place to begin.

Model Output:
**Chapter 7: Polymerase Chain Reaction** The lab was a greenhouse once. Now it looked like a cross between a scrapyard and a fever dream: battered shelving sagged under the weight of glass jars filled with cloudy agar, the floor was a tangle of extension cords and scavenged wires, and a jury-rigged solar panel array outside flickered with uncertain voltage. The hum from the inverter was the only steady sound, a low-throated warning that power could vanish at any moment. Vera hunched over her workbench, hands steady despite the tremor in her left leg. She’d been up for two days straight, subsisting on caffeine powder and the occasional shot of home-synthesized erythropoietin. The latter left her skin splotchy and her vision occasionally doubled, but it kept the exhaustion at bay. She needed every edge she could get. The polymerase chain reaction machine—a battered thermal cycler, its casing scavenged from an old dishwasher—clattered and whined through another amplification cycle. Vera watched the readout, a repurposed e-ink tablet duct-taped to the side. The numbers crawled up, a slow, halting progress as the solar panels outside struggled to keep up with the load. She glanced over her shoulder. Through the cracked polycarbonate panes, the settlement sprawled in the orange dusk, ringed by the crumbling shells of corporate ag-factories. Nothing grew in those fields now but weeds and the occasional stubborn volunteer potato. The engineered crops that had fed the world were gone, their DNA programmed to die after one harvest, their seeds sterile by design—a last, poisonous trick from the old biotech giants. Vera’s hands shook harder as she picked up the micro-pipette. The genetic material she’d salvaged from a collapsed distribution center was already degrading; the corporate watermark sequences were unraveling, base pairs splintering like rotten rope. She’d need luck and skill to splice viable seed stock for the settlement’s next season. Without it, there’d be nothing but hunger. A knock at the door. Three sharp raps: the black market signal. She wiped sweat from her brow, smearing a streak of iodine across her temple. “Come in,” she called, voice hoarse. The door slid open. A man in a patched-up hazmat suit stepped inside, his visor fogged from nervous breath. He carried a cooler box chained to his wrist. “Is it ready?” he asked, eyes flicking to the humming thermal cycler. “Almost. Sit.” Vera gestured to a plastic crate by the workbench. “Don’t touch anything. Especially not that.” She nodded to the incubator, its temperature regulation jury-rigged with a hacked sous-vide controller and a nest of heating coils. He sat, glancing around at the chaos. “Looks…different than the last place.” “They shut down my last place.” Vera’s smile was thin. “This one’s off the radar, for now.” He set the cooler on the bench. “It’s all there. Antivirals, three ampoules, and the insulin.” His voice dropped. “You said you could make the maize last more than one season.” “Maybe. If the DNA holds.” She pulled a battered gene gun from the shelf, its barrel wrapped in electrical tape. “What’s your settlement’s soil like?” “Alkali. Not much rain. The old strains died out four years ago.” She nodded. “I’ll need to splice in some desiccation resistance. The template’s corporate—so the code wants to break itself after one cycle. I can patch it, but it’ll be messy. Might throw out some surprises.” “Surprises?” “Last batch I did, the tomatoes glowed in the dark.” She shrugged, as if to say: it’s a living. He hesitated. “We’ll take what we can get.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “People are starving.” Vera turned back to the work. She loaded the degraded DNA into the gene gun, her movements precise despite the ache in her fingers. Years of handling untested self-meds had left her with skin like parchment, but it’d also given her an iron stomach and a resistance to most engineered plagues. Sometimes, the side effects were useful—her night vision was better than it had ever been, a side effect of a misfired experiment with carotenoid expression. But there were costs, too: joint pain, tremors, an unpredictable heartbeat. She pressed the gene gun to a tray of maize seedlings. A hiss, a faint shudder, and the deed was done. She transferred the tray to the incubator, adjusting the temperature with a twist of the hacked controller. The seedlings would need forty-eight hours to stabilize—if they took at all. “Now we wait,” she said, sinking heavily onto a stool. The man set down a battered pack. “Payment, as agreed. Plus something extra.” He slid a small vial across the bench. “My wife. She’s got the shakes. The last batch of corporate meds ran out.” Vera picked up the vial, squinting at the cloudy liquid. “This is homebrew?” He nodded. “The recipe got out, but it’s not perfect. Some people get fevers.” She tucked the vial into her jacket. “I’ll run it through the analyzer. Might be able to clean it up.” She hesitated, then added, “You know these patched crops—they might not look like anything you remember. Taste might be off. They might even change you.” He smiled grimly. “Change is better than starving.” The lights flickered again, the solar panel outside whining as a cloud passed over the dying sun. Vera checked the cycler—another cycle complete. She’d have to run the PCR again, maybe twice, maybe more, to be sure the patched DNA held. She glanced at the man. “You know, in the old days, this would have been a billion-dollar contract.” He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “In the old days, we didn’t have to beg for seed.” Vera looked out at the darkening sky, her heart skipping a beat. The world had ended with a whimper, not a bang—just a slow, calculated rot. But as long as there were hands to splice genes and people willing to risk the harvest, there was hope. Even if the hope flickered, like the voltage, unstable but alive. She turned back to the bench, ready for the next cycle.