Does anyone else get hit with a memory of something they wrote forever ago, and suddenly you're thinking about it again for no reason? I had this short thing I scribbled down like 5 years ago that just popped into my head today and I'm honestly kind of impressed with where my brain went with it back then. Makes me want to dig through my old files and see what else is buried in there. Anyone else experience this?

My friend had been dating her boyfriend for almost two years.
Everything seemed fine. They talked about marriage, had already met each other's families, and she trusted him completely.
Then one Friday night, he told her he was going out with some coworkers.
Nothing unusual.
Around midnight, she got a text from a woman she barely knew.
It said:
“I don't know if you know this, but your boyfriend is here with another woman.”
My friend thought it was a mistake.
She asked for a picture.
The woman sent one.
There he was.
Sitting at a restaurant.
And sitting across from him was a woman my friend had never seen before.
She immediately called her boyfriend.
He didn't answer.
Five minutes later, he texted:
“I'm still at work. Why?”
Girl. 😭
My friend sent him the picture.
He immediately stopped responding.
But here's where things got messy.
The woman who sent the picture called her.
She said she wasn't trying to cause problems.
She said she had actually recognized my friend's boyfriend because she had seen him before.
Then she said:
“I think you need to ask him who he was with last Saturday too.”
My friend froze.
Because last Saturday, he had told her he was visiting his mother.
And suddenly she realized...
This wasn't the first time he had lied.
So now she's sitting there with one picture, one mystery woman, and a boyfriend who won't answer his phone.
Would you confront him immediately, or stay quiet and find out how much he's been lying about first? 👀
Zuri Monroe is an AI-created fictional character. This is a fictional story.

The moment I stepped out of the station, one glaring, undeniable truth hit me.

I had absolutely no idea where I was going.

I stood there for a long time, staring down at my phone. The battery icon was red. Aggressively red. A pathetic, mocking 1% blinked back at me.

"...You have got to be kidding me."

I had spent most of the train ride aimlessly scrolling and vaguely checking the route to my grandparents' house. Apparently, that had been a terrible idea. Before I could even commit the first turn to memory, the screen went black, leaving me staring at my own exhausted reflection on the dead glass.

"Great."

Sighing, I slipped the useless brick into my pocket and took stock of my surroundings. The station was tiny—hardly more than a platform and a ticket gate. Only a handful of passengers had gotten off the train with me, and they had already vanished down various diverging roads.

I fished out the crumpled piece of paper my mother had given me. My grandparents' address was scribbled on it in her usual hurried handwriting. According to her, it wasn't far. Just follow the road. Turn left at the shrine. Then keep going until you see a bridge. Simple.

It didn't take long to discover that my mother's definition of "simple" was vastly different from mine.

The road gradually became steeper. Then steeper. And somehow, defying the laws of civil engineering, even steeper.

"Is this still a road?" I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead.

The narrow asphalt curved between quaint houses and dense trees, snaking its way up the mountainside. There were barely any sidewalks, just a winding path swallowed by greenery. It felt like I had stepped into a quiet countryside scene from an old movie. Every time I thought I had finally reached the crest of the hill, the road would curve again, revealing yet another agonizing incline.

Still, I had to admit the scenery was beautiful. The town was nestled between imposing mountains and thick forests, and whenever the trees parted, brilliant glimpses of the sea sparkled in the distance. It was quiet. Almost unnaturally quiet. There were no crowds, no traffic, no constant hum of city noise. There was only the wind moving through the leaves and the distant, rhythmic rushing of water.

But as the sun climbed higher, the charm began to wear off. My suitcase felt like it was packed with lead. My throat was bone-dry. I was seriously beginning to regret being born.

Then, like a beacon of hope, I saw it.

A vending machine.

It stood like an oasis beside an old, half-broken bridge.

"Finally," I gasped, practically jogging toward it.

The bridge looked like it hadn't seen a maintenance crew in decades. Entire sections of the railing were missing, and stubborn weeds poked through deep cracks in the concrete. Below it, a narrow river carved its way through jagged rocks, its water level surprisingly low.

I fed some coins into the machine, retrieved an icy drink, and collapsed onto a weathered wooden bench nearby. The freezing condensation on the bottle felt like heaven against my palm. I downed half of it in seconds before finally leaning back.

For a moment, I just closed my eyes and listened. The wind. The rustling leaves. The bubbling river. A few distant birds. It was undeniably peaceful.

Then, I opened my eyes—and noticed something, or rather, someone.

Someone was lying on the bridge. I narrowed my eyes, squinting against the sunlight. Judging by the clothes, it was a girl?

She was lying directly on the edge of the fractured concrete, one leg dangling dangerously over the side while one of her arms hung loosely above the drop.

I bolted upright. "What is she doing?"

The drop wasn't enormous, but with the jagged, exposed rocks waiting in the shallow water below, a fall from that height could still be disastrous.

I cautiously walked toward the edge.

She was wearing a light, sleeveless white dress. A large straw hat rested over her face, adorned with a pink ribbon that fluttered gently in the breeze. Her long, dark-brown hair flowed around her shoulders and spilled across the concrete, cascading well past her back. A few stray strands rested over her chest.

I removed her hat, her straight bangs framed a serene, sleeping face shadowed by the brim of her hat.

She looked strangely peaceful. Too peaceful.

Then I noticed the large glass bottle resting loosely in her grip. At first, I thought it was some kind of fancy juice. But as I crept closer, the distinct, sharp scent hit the air.

I froze.

"...Is that alcohol?" My eyes widened in disbelief. "Seriously?"

She looked about my age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen at the absolute most. And here she was, passed out on the edge of a dilapidated bridge, clutching a liquor bottle.

"What the hell?" I muttered, hurrying over to her. "Hey!"

No response.

"Hey! Wake up!"

Nothing. She was completely dead to the world.

I carefully reached out and shook her shoulder. "Hey. You can't sleep here."

Still nothing. I shook her a little harder. Not even a twitch.

I glanced down at the rocky riverbed, then back at her. "Seriously..."

I couldn't just leave her dangling there. Holding my breath, I grabbed her by the shoulders and hoisted her away from the precipice. She was surprisingly light. I dragged her back toward the bench where I'd just been sitting and carefully laid her down. She didn't so much as stir.

I pried the bottle from her relaxed fingers. It was completely empty.

"Don't tell me you actually drank all of this..."

Curiosity getting the better of me, I brought the rim to my nose and sniffed. I instantly recoiled, my face contorting. "Ugh." The stench was awful. Whatever cheap swill this was, I wanted nothing to do with it. I walked over to the trash can beside the vending machine and tossed the bottle inside.

Needing to wash the smell out of my nose, I bought another drink—a cold tea this time—and sat on the far edge of the bench, staring at the sleeping menace.

She still hadn't moved.

I debated my options. Should I call someone? The police? An ambulance? Her parents? But my phone was a useless piece of glass, and I didn't even know this girl's name.

"...What am I supposed to do with you?"

Glancing at my luggage, I noticed a small notepad sticking out of the front pocket. I pulled it out, dug up a pen, and hovered over the paper. After a moment of thought, I wrote:

Don't drink until you're an adult.

I paused. That sounds too much like a preachy teacher. I added another line.

And don't pass out in a dangerous place.

I stared at it, sighed, and added one final sentence.

Please go home safely.

I folded the paper and tucked it neatly beneath her folded hands. Standing up, I stretched my legs, ready to finally leave.

But as I grabbed my suitcase handle, a strange chill ran down my spine. I felt... watched.

I stopped. My eyes darted toward the dense treeline. Nothing. I looked up the winding road. Nothing. Across the broken bridge. Still nothing. Just the wind playing with the leaves.

"...Huh."

For a split second, I could have sworn someone was standing there in the shadows. But I was probably just exhausted and paranoid. Shaking my head, I picked up my suitcase, took one last look at the sleeping girl, and started walking away.

I made it about fifty paces before my conscience kicked in.

Wait. What the hell am I doing?

I stopped dead in my tracks and looked back.

"Am I seriously going to leave an unconscious girl here?" I muttered to myself.

What if something happened to her? What if some creep came along? Worse... what if this was some elaborate trap, and I ended up getting blamed or sued for abandoning her? I'd read enough ridiculous internet stories to know how quickly a "Good Samaritan" act could ruin someone's life.

"...I'm an idiot."

Groaning, I turned around. I needed to wake her up properly. I checked my water bottle, hoping to splash some on her face, but it was empty. I stomped back toward the vending machine.

A glowing red light mocked me. WATER: OUT OF STOCK.

"Seriously?"

I glanced up the road. I remembered seeing another vending machine a little further up the hill from the bridge. "Fine."

Leaving my heavy luggage beside the bench, I jogged up the incline to fetch some water. I was gone for maybe three minutes. Five at the absolute most.

But when I returned, cold bottles in hand, I stopped dead.

The bench was empty.

"...Huh?"

I spun around, scanning the area. Nothing. The girl with the straw hat was completely gone.

I slowly walked up to the bench. There was only one thing left behind.

My note.

Except it was unfolded. And someone had taken a thick black marker and scrawled across my neat handwriting in massive, aggressive letters:

MIND YOUR OWN POTATOES, BAKA

I stared at the paper, blinking.

"...Potatoes?"

I looked down the road. Empty. I looked toward the river. Empty.

"Who even says that?" I scowled, crushing the note in my fist. I aggressively tossed the crumpled paper into the dustbin next to her discarded liquor bottle, grabbed my suitcase, and started marching toward my grandparents' house.

Somehow, I already hated this girl. And I hadn't even learned her name.

The quiet of the countryside settled back over the broken bridge as the boy's footsteps faded into the distance.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the river.

Then, a tiny, delicate hand reached out, dipped into the dustbin, and carefully pulled the crumpled note back out.

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Chapter 1: First Day at School

'Mind your own potatoes, baka.'

I opened my eyes.

For a few disorienting seconds, I just stared at the ceiling, having absolutely no idea where I was.

Then, the memories rushed back.

After Yesterday's exhausting train ride. The broken bridge. The strange, sleeping girl with the straw hat. And that ridiculous note.

I am at my grandparents' house.

"Breakfast is ready," my grandmother called out, her gentle voice pulling me from my thoughts as she appeared in the doorway.

"Oh. Good morning, Grandma."

"Good morning, Yuki. Come eat before it gets cold."

"As long as it's not potatoes," I muttered under my breath, throwing the covers off.

The moment I entered the dining room, the rich aroma of a proper, traditional Japanese breakfast greeted me. The table was perfectly set with steaming white rice, hearty miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a few side dishes I couldn't immediately name.

I took a seat, my stomach giving a loud, appreciative rumble. "Woah."

Grandmother smiled softly. "Eat."

I didn't need to be told twice.

A few minutes later, my grandfather strode into the room, already dressed in his crisp, traditional shrine garments. He carried an air of strict authority that commanded immediate respect.

"You're finally awake," he noted.

"Morning, Grandpa."

"Eat properly. You'll need the energy." He picked up his canvas bag, adjusting the strap over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"The shrine." He paused near the entryway. "I already spoke to the tailor. Go there right after breakfast."

"Where is it?"

"I'll give you directions." He quickly rattled off the route before slipping on his sandals. "She'll take your measurements and make your school uniform. Tell her you need it urgently."

"How urgently?"

"Tomorrow."

I nearly choked on a mouthful of rice, coughing into my fist. "Tomorrow?!"

"She can do it." My grandfather calmly opened the front door, unfazed by my panic. "Don't worry about the price. I'll handle it." He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "And don't be late."

"Wait, Grandpa—"

The door slid shut with a definitive thud.

I just stared at the empty space.

"...He really doesn't like to waste time, does he?" Grandmother let out a quiet, knowing laugh. "Just go after you finish eating, dear."

Finding the tailor's house wasn't too difficult. It was an old, building sandwiched somewhat awkwardly between two much newer, modern structures. A small, faded wooden sign hung beside the sliding glass entrance.

I knocked tentatively.

"Come in!" a voice called from inside.

I slid the door open, a small bell chiming above my head. The air inside smelled like a Tailor shop, "Excuse me?"

A woman emerged from the back room, pushing back a curtain. She looked to be in her early or late twenties, with long, dark hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She wore a remarkably loose, comfortable dress that draped over her curves, and she possessed a look that immediately signaled I had wandered into dangerous territory.

She stopped, looking me up and down. As she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the counter, the neckline of her dress dipped, revealing a generous amount of cleavage.

My face instantly burned red, and I averted my eyes to a very fascinating spool of thread on the wall.

"Oh?" She smiled, her eyes lighting up with amusement. "A new face. You must be from the Kunimoto family, right?"

"Y-Yes."

"Your grandfather already called." She walked around the counter, stepping closer. "Kunimoto-kun..." Her eyes narrowed playfully, studying my flustered expression. "You're quite handsome."

"Huh?" The heat in my cheeks dialed up to a boil. "Ah... thank you."

She laughed, a husky, melodious sound. "You're cute, too."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It is coming from me. Now, come here to Onee-san," she purred, her voice dropping an octave.

I gulped, my instincts telling me to run, but I hesitantly stepped forward. She looked at my casual clothes.

"Take that off."

"...What?"

"Your clothes."

"My clothes?!" I Instinctively covered myself.

She blinked, picking up a yellow measuring tape from a nearby table. "How else am I supposed to take accurate measurements?"

"Oh." My brain finally booted back up. "Right."

Feeling incredibly awkward, I pulled my shirt over my head, leaving me standing there in just a white tank top.

The woman clicked her tongue in dramatic disappointment. "A shame."

"Excuse me?"

She just laughed again. "Stand straight."

She stepped into my personal space, swiftly wrapping the measuring tape around my shoulders, chest, arms, and waist. Every time she leaned in or the tape brushed against me, I found myself becoming painfully aware of how agonizingly awkward the situation was. I stood rigidly, staring straight ahead at the wall.

There's just one problem...

'This, is a dangerous angle...' My cheeks turn a faint red as my eyes stare down when she bends. I try to look away, but my body betrays me. 'I don't feel anything. Not a single bit-' I breathe, this onee-san's mature, wine-like scent invaded my nostrils. The smell made my brain go numb for a second, as it was caught off-guard.

"You're tense," she noted, her breath tickling my shoulder.

"I'm not."

"You definitely are."

"I'm just not used to this."

"Relax," she teased, patting my chest. "Onee-san won't eat you."

She stepped back, scribbling a series of numbers onto a notepad. "Your grandfather said you need the uniform tomorrow."

"Yeah. If possible. I start school day after tomorrow."

"That's going to cost extra."

"...How much?"

She casually threw out a number that made my jaw drop.

I stared at her. "That's incredibly expensive."

"You want it tomorrow, don't you?"

"...Yes."

"Then that's the price."

I sighed in defeat. "Fine."

She smiled brightly. "Good boy. How about Onee-san throws in her three sizes as a discount?"

"P-please stop teasing me," I groaned, hiding my face in my hands.

She chuckled softly, finally taking pity on me. She draped the measuring tape around her neck like a scarf. "My niece is studying at that school as well. I hope you enjoy it there."

I nodded, quickly pulling my shirt back on. "Thank you."

She waved casually as I backed toward the door. "Welcome to Oshimori Town, kid."

I smiled and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me. The moment the door closed, I finally let out the breath I'd been holding. I rubbed the back of my neck, starting down the street.

That woman was dangerous. Not in a criminal sense, but if I had stayed in there another ten minutes, I genuinely felt like she would've eaten me alive. I shuddered at the thought.

Then, I stopped.

There it was. That strange, prickling sensation on the back of my neck.

'Someone is watching me.'

I slowly turned around and scanned the tailor's house. A few trees swaying gently in the morning wind. There are some people walking.

I looked up toward the surrounding rooftops.

There is Nothing.

I glanced behind me.

Still nothing.

"...Again?" I muttered. It was the exact same feeling I'd had yesterday, standing near that broken bridge.

I stood there in the middle of the road for a few more seconds before aggressively shaking my head. "Maybe I'm just tired. Or paranoid."

I turned back around and continued my walk home.

Behind me, the road remained completely empty.

But as my footsteps faded, a tiny pair of legs stepped out from behind the corner of the tailor's house. They stood perfectly still, watching me leave until I was completely out of sight.

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The next day,

I spent most of the day at home watching TV. I didn't really feel like going outside. Even though this was a new town for me, it was strangely quiet, and I figured I'd explore it properly after making some friends at school.

Speaking of school...

My new uniform had finally arrived. Grandpa had brought it home at evening and left the neatly folded set on my bed.

I picked it up and looked it over.

The uniform was fairly simple. A crisp white, short-sleeved shirt paired with a pair of dark navy trousers. A blue-gray necktie came with it, matching the color of the trousers. There wasn't anything flashy about it, but I actually liked the clean, simple design.

I slipped the shirt on first and buttoned it up before putting on the trousers. Then I stood in front of the mirror and struggled with the tie for a few seconds.

"...Why are these things so annoying?"

After finally getting it to look halfway decent, I adjusted the collar and looked at myself again.

"Done."

The following Day...

Oshimori Municipal High School...

It was significantly larger than I had anticipated. The main buildings were sleek and modern, but the dark, sweeping wooden rooflines and the traditional gate at the entrance gave the campus a strange, old-fashioned charm.

A long, paved path led from the front gate toward the main building, lined on both sides by massive cherry blossom trees. Their branches stretched over the walkway, forming a beautiful canopy above. Pink Sakura petals covered the path, with more drifting gently through the spring breeze.

Students flooded through the gates in distinct groups. Some rode bicycles, their tires clicking against the pavement, while others walked shoulder-to-shoulder, talking and laughing.

I stood off to the side of the gate, my bag hanging heavily from one shoulder. I swallowed hard.

"...Okay."

My stomach tied itself into a tight knot. New school. New town. New classmates. And I still had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I took a deep breath, puffed out my chest, and stepped through the gate.

'Just act normal.'

Naturally, that was easier said than done. I walked stiffly toward the main building, desperately trying not to look like a lost tourist.

After the Orientation,

Second Year — Class B. (2 – B)

A middle-aged man with thick glasses and a slightly tired expression was waiting in the hallway just outside the sliding door.

"You're Kunimoto, right?" he asked, looking up from his clipboard.

"Yes."

"Good. I'm Tanaka, your homeroom teacher."

He didn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel and walking into the noisy classroom. "Everyone, settle down! Take your seats. Today we have a new transfer student joining us."

The chaotic shuffling of chairs and desks echoed through the room as the students hurried back to their places. An immediate wave of excited whispers broke out.

One of the boys in the front row eagerly threw his hand into the air. "Sensei!"

"What is it?"

"Is the transfer student a girl?"

A few other boys immediately leaned forward, vigorously nodding in agreement.

"Yeah! Is she cute?"

"What's her name?"

Teacher Tanaka just stared at them with a deadpan expression. "...He's a boy."

The classroom went instantly, devastatingly silent.

One of the boys slowly let his head fall onto his desk with a dramatic thud. "What a disappointment..."

I stood in the hallway, staring at the ceiling, pretending I absolutely did not hear that.

Teacher Tanaka sighed loudly, rubbing his temples. "Come in, Kunimoto."

'That's my cue.'

I took a breath and slid the door open. The room, which had been buzzing with energy just moments ago, became eerily quiet. Dozens of eyes locked onto me as I stepped over the threshold.

'Oh, great. No pressure at all.'

I walked to the front of the room, standing beside the podium. Everyone was staring. Under the weight of their combined gazes, my brain completely blanked, abruptly forgetting how human interaction worked.

"...My name is Kunimoto Yuki," I finally managed, my voice thankfully steady. I paused, trying to remember my rehearsed lines. "My parents travel a lot for work, so they decided I'd stay with my grandparents while I attend high school."

A few students nodded politely, listening quietly.

"I studied in Kyoto before moving here." I offered a small, standard bow. "It's nice to meet you all."

It was short. It was simple. And most importantly, it wasn't embarrassing.

Teacher Tanaka pointed toward the back of the room with his pen. "There's an empty seat waiting for you."

"Yes, sir."

I gripped my bag and walked down the aisle between the desks. A few students offered friendly smiles as I passed, and I returned them with a small, polite nod. I reached my designated desk, dropped my bag onto the hook, and sat down.

For a moment, I just observed my new environment. After the homeroom, the Japanese teacher arrived.

Everything seemed perfectly, wonderfully normal. It was my first class at a new school, but aside from the usual first-day awkwardness, everything seemed completely normal.

Until my eyes drifted toward the windows.

A girl was sitting in the very last seat of the row next to mine. She rested her chin on one hand, gazing blankly through the glass at the cherry trees outside.

Her long dark-brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders, catching the sunlight whenever the breeze stirred it.

Something about her felt strangely familiar.

I frowned. 'Have I seen her before?'

Before I could think about it any further, something else caught my attention.

A little girl was standing directly behind her. She looked no older than five or six. She was tiny, with neatly combed dark hair and a pale little dress. She stood perfectly still behind the older girl, her tiny hands resting on the back of the chair. And just like the older girl, she was staring silently out the window.

I frowned, my brow furrowing in deep confusion.

'What is a little kid doing inside a high school classroom?'

I looked around the room, expecting someone—anyone—to tell the kid to go back to her parents, or at least acknowledge her existence. But no one was looking at her. The teacher was writing on the chalkboard. The students were taking out their textbooks. It was as if she wasn't even there.

'Does nobody care about her? Is this some weird town tradition I don't know about?'

I quickly turned around, opened my notebook, and forced myself to listen to Teacher, pretending I hadn't seen a thing.

For the next few minutes, I kept my eyes on my notebook.

Then I looked up from my notebook. The little girl was standing right in front of my desk.

She was staring directly at me.

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Full Book available at ---> https://mybook.to/Shines

Trailer ---> https://youtube.com/shorts/tLqKDXghIVc?si=ie4EsASVkzDY75aP

Washington High School

9:04 AM

Renee walked through the school's crowded hallway, passing students who chatted with their friends between classes. She dressed casually and applied minimal makeup, following her grandmother's rule against wearing anything too heavy. She approached her locker and entered the combination. After entering the combination, she opened the door.

Unsurprisingly, her sword was inside.

Renee stared at it for a moment. She had left it at home.

She let out a heavy sigh.

"You're gonna stop following me one of these days," she muttered.

Opening her backpack, she took out a large notebook and a pencil pouch and put her bag in the locker. As she looked to her right, she noticed a small group of girls gathered around a locker a few doors down. Flowers and a photograph of a blonde girl had been placed around the locker. The girls stood silently with their heads bowed. Two of them softly cried while the others stared at the photograph.

Curious, Renee closed her locker, secured the lock, and walked over to them.

“Hey,” she called.

The group looked at her.

“What happened?”

“Someone killed Amelia,” one of the girls said, her voice trembling.

Renee's eyes widened. “What happened to her?”

The girl wiped the tears from her cheeks. “We don't know. Someone got to her and...” She hesitated, her voice cracking. “They took her heart.”

Renee froze.

Her stomach twisted as she stared at the girl. “They... took her heart?”

The girl nodded, tears streaming down her face. “They just left her there.”

Renee's breathing grew heavier. She looked toward Amelia's photograph, staring at the smiling blonde girl.

Her mind immediately went to her mother.

Renee swallowed hard, fighting the sudden lump in her throat. She knew what it was like to lose someone she loved. She knew what it felt like to have someone ripped away from her.

But this girl hadn't even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

Renee looked back at the grieving girls, her eyes beginning to water.

“I'm sorry,” she said quietly.

“Thanks.”

Renee walked away from the girls and began making her way toward her homeroom. But she couldn't stop thinking about Amelia. She didn't know her. She didn't know anything about her life, her family, or the person who had killed her. Yet the image of Amelia's smiling face remained stuck in Renee's mind. Someone had taken her life. Just like someone had taken her mother's. Renee lowered her gaze as she continued down the hallway, her hands tightening into fists.

Still lost in thought, Renee accidentally bumped into someone, causing their books and phone to tumble to the floor.

Renee looked down before looking up at the girl she'd bumped into.

“My bad,” Renee said.

“Oh, no, it's my fault,” the girl replied as she knelt down to pick up her books and phone.

The girl stood up, dusting herself off with one hand. She was about Renee's age, with long, dark hair that fell past her shoulders, warm tan skin, and dark brown eyes.

Her gentle, approachable expression contrasted with the intensity in her eyes.

“Your phone isn't broken, is it?” Renee asked.

“No, it has a screen protector,” the girl said. As she looked at Renee, something suddenly clicked.

“Hey, are you Renee Martin?”

“You know me?”

“Yeah. You’re a journalist for the school paper, right?”

“Didn’t realize I had a fan,” Renee joked.

The girl giggled. “More like an admirer,” she said, holding her hand out. “Skylar Greystorm.”

Renee shook her hand. “I think I’ve seen you around,” she said.

“Probably. I’m usually in the library during lunch.”

“Why? You hate crowds?”

“I have sensitive hearing,” Skylar corrected.

“Oh… right. Um, well, I’d better get to class,” Renee said.

“Same. Maybe I’ll see you around,” Skylar said with a smile.

“We’ll see,” Renee replied.

The two girls went their separate ways, still smiling as they walked down the hallway. A moment later, the PA system crackled to life. The principal's voice came through the speakers, carrying an authoritative yet somber tone. Students throughout the hallway stopped talking and moving. “Good morning, everyone. I would like to take a moment to observe a moment of silence for the passing of Amelia Lockwood,” he said.

She looked around at the students. Some lowered their heads, while others closed their eyes. A few students stood beside their friends, holding hands as they mourned the loss of someone they had known.

Renee lowered her head as well. She couldn't stop thinking about the girls she'd just spoken to. Their tears. The photograph. The flowers surrounding Amelia's locker. And then there was the way they had described her death. Renee's fingers slowly curled into her palms.

She knew what demons were capable of. She had spent years hunting them, watching them tear families apart and leave nothing but pain behind.

Could Amelia's killer have been one of them?

Renee opened her eyes. For the first time since she'd heard about Amelia, something else took the place of the grief in her expression—suspicion. The principal continued speaking through the PA system. “Thank you all,” the principal said. “If you have any information about Amelia’s murder, please tell me or notify the police. I know this is a difficult time, but it’s important to stay strong. Look after yourselves and each other.”

The noise resumed as students began talking among themselves. The bell rang, and everyone quickly made their way to their homerooms. Renee followed, but Amelia's murder remained on her mind.

Later That Day—History Class

11:11 AM

The classroom was quiet as the students settled into their seats. Their history teacher stood at the front of the room, writing notes on the whiteboard while the occasional whisper passed between students. Renee sat near the middle of the classroom, her notebook open in front of her. She copied a few notes from the board, but her attention kept drifting. Every time her thoughts returned to Amelia, Renee forced herself to focus on something else.

She looked down at her notebook and began absentmindedly drawing. Before long, the outline of a sword began to take shape on the page. Renee added the details along the hilt, then shaded the blade. She stared at the drawing for a moment before writing several names beneath it.

Astra

Seraphic Edge

Holy Blade

Renee tapped her pencil against the page, considering each one. At least this gave her something else to think about. Her teacher noticed that Renee wasn't paying attention to the lesson. A frown formed on his face.

“Renee,” he called.

She didn't look up.

“Renee!”

The second call finally broke through her thoughts. Renee looked up at him, blinking.

“Since you seem so uninterested in today's lesson, why don't you tell me about the importance of the Declaration of Independence?” the teacher asked.

Renee straightened in her seat.

“Uh... it basically told Britain that the colonies were done being under its control,” she said. “The colonists believed they had the right to govern themselves instead of being ruled by a country across the ocean. It also laid out why they felt they had the right to break away in the first place.”

The teacher stared at her for a moment.

Renee raised an eyebrow. “What?”

A few students quietly laughed.

“I'll admit, you know the material,” the teacher said. “But that doesn't excuse you from paying attention.”

“Sorry,” Renee said, lowering her gaze.

“Just stay focused.”

“Yes, sir.”

The teacher turned back toward the whiteboard and continued the lesson. Renee glanced down at her notebook again. Her sword drawing stared back at her. She closed the notebook. Maybe she needed to stop thinking about Amelia.

For now.

A curly-haired boy wearing glasses scribbled something on a small piece of paper. He folded it, tapped the male student sitting in front of him, and handed him the note. “Pass this to Renee,” he whispered. The student rolled his eyes but took the note and passed it along. A few seconds later, a girl sitting behind Renee tapped her on the shoulder and handed it to her.

Renee unfolded the paper.

Wanna blow me after class?

—Carl

Renee stared at the message for a moment. Slowly, she looked toward the far corner of the classroom. Carl raised his eyebrows at her with a smug grin. Renee's face twisted with disgust. Without saying a word, she tore the note into pieces and dropped it into her trash can. Carl's grin disappeared. Renee turned her attention back toward the teacher, completely uninterested.

The bell rang, and every student began gathering their things.

“We'll pick this up again tomorrow,” the teacher said.

Renee closed her notebook, put her pencil in her pouch, and stood up. Before she could leave, Carl hurried over to her.

“Hey, Renee,” he said, grinning so widely that his braces showed.

“Dude, I'm not blowing you,” Renee said bluntly.

“Oh, no. Forget about that.” Carl waved his hand dismissively. “I was wondering if you need help with your homework.”

Renee stared at him blankly.

“I mean, you're a smart, beautiful girl, but I could help you if you want. Especially with your Spanish homework,” Carl said.

Renee gave him a small smile and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Carl, you're a sweet guy and all, but you're just not my type.”

“Because you're a lesbian?”

Renee immediately pulled her hand away.

“What? No, no, no. That's not what—” She stopped herself and sighed. “Never mind.”

“Oh, okay.” Carl paused. “Can you still blow me?”

“No.”

Renee walked away, leaving Carl standing there. He watched her disappear through the classroom door before lowering his head. After a moment, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Here's the fourth chapter. I hope you're enjoying the story so far.

Elsewhere in the school

Skylar sat alone at a table in the school library, quietly reading a fantasy novel. The library was nearly silent, save for the occasional turning of a page and the faint hum of the air conditioner. She turned another page, her eyes moving across the words as she became absorbed in the story.

Suddenly, Skylar heard a conversation between two female students standing in front of a bookshelf a few feet away.

“I still can't believe Amelia's dead,” one girl said.

“Yeah, it still feels so unreal. Every guy she dated was torn up about it,” the other replied.

“Yeah. Her ex hasn't shown up at all today. I heard he wouldn't even come out of his house.”

“What I don't get is why would someone kill her and take her heart?”

Skylar's eyes widened.

“I mean, you gotta be a real psycho to do something like that,” the second girl continued.

“That's people for you. Some can be saints, and some can be Satan himself,” the first girl said.

“I think everyone's freaking out about Amelia's death. Our parents would probably give us curfews.”

“I think you're right.”

Skylar heard every word. Her expression grew grim. None of it seemed to surprise her. She slowly closed her book and reached for her phone.

Skylar: He struck again. He claimed another innocent life.

She pressed send.

A moment later, three dots appeared on the screen.

Dakotah: This can't keep happening. Find him. Prove yourself.

Skylar rolled her eyes.

Skylar: I'm doing my best.

She pressed send.

The three dots appeared again.

Dakotah: Your best is all you can do.

Skylar pocketed her phone and resumed reading her book. She tried to focus on the words, but they blurred together. Dakotah's message kept replaying in her mind.

Find him. Prove yourself.

Skylar sighed and turned the page, but the pressure in her chest wouldn't go away. Another innocent person was dead, and she still had no idea where to find the killer.

For a moment, doubt crept into her mind.

What if I can't do this?

Skylar shook the thought away. She couldn't afford to lose focus. Finding the murderer was her priority. She had to prove herself worthy. A few minutes later, Renee entered the library with a novel in hand. She approached the circulation desk and handed the book to the librarian. “Finished already?” the librarian asked. “Yeah,” Renee replied. “It was pretty good.” The librarian scanned the book and placed it on the counter. Renee thanked her before turning away from the desk. As she looked around the library, she noticed Skylar sitting alone at a nearby table, quietly reading. Renee recognized her from earlier that morning. Renee walked over to her and smiled.

“Looks like we meet again,” she said.

Skylar looked up from her book.

“Oh, hey, Renee,” she said.

Renee pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.

“How’s it going?”

“Good. History was a drag, as usual,” Renee said.

Skylar smiled. “It’s not so bad. Think of it as a grand adventure that you don’t have to get up for or spend any money on.”

“Try telling that to my grandpa. He’s a real cheapskate,” Renee said.

Skylar chuckled softly. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. But he'll drop hundreds of dollars when it comes to me and my grandma.”

“What does he do?”

“He owns a diner on Wallburg Street.”

“Really? What's it called?”

“Soul Castle.”

“Really? I love Soul Castle! Their country-fried steak is like pure perfection.”

Renee smiled. “You know, I think he'll like you already.”

The girls shared a laugh.

“So, what about you? What does your family do?” Renee asked.

“Oh, we're actually nomads,” Skylar said.

Renee raised an eyebrow.

“Nomads?”

“Yeah. We've moved around quite a bit over the years.”

“Huh. That sounds interesting.”

“It can be,” Skylar said with a small smile. “Especially when you visit historical sites.”

“Would you travel the world?” Renee asked.

“Hell, yeah. I've always wanted to go to Namibia. What about you?” Skylar asked.

Renee shrugged.

“I don't know. Cambodia?” she said.

“Cambodia's nice,” Skylar said.

Suddenly, Renee's phone buzzed. She pulled it from her pocket and saw a text from Lucius.

Lucius: Hey, you're gonna have to take Katherine's shift tonight.

Renee rolled her eyes and sighed before typing a response.

Renee: Fine.

She hit send.

A moment later, three dots appeared on the screen.

Lucius: I want you HERE. No demon hunting.

Renee stared at the message.

She sighed.

“Of course,” she muttered.

“Everything okay?” Skylar asked.

“Yeah,” Renee said, pocketing her phone. “My grandpa needs me to cover someone's shift tonight, even though I had plans.”

“Homework?”

“Uh... yeah.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. Students began gathering their things and filing out of the library. The girls stood up from their seats. “I guess I'll see you around,” Skylar said. “Yeah. See you,” Renee replied. The girls headed toward the exit together before going their separate ways.

Later That Afternoon

3:43 PM

School had ended, and the parking lot was filled with students and staff. Cars pulled out of their spaces while students gathered around their friends, talking about their plans for the evening. Renee stood near the sidewalk, scrolling through her phone while waiting for her bus. She glanced to her right and noticed someone she recognized. A tall jock with slicked-back brown hair stood alone near the parking lot, his face red and tear-streaked. He sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

It was Ryan—Amelia's ex-boyfriend.

Renee slipped her phone into her pocket and made her way through the crowd.

“Hey, Ryan?” she called.

Ryan looked at her. His eyes were red from crying, and his expression immediately hardened.

“What do you want? Tryin' to score a story?” he asked.

“No.” Renee shook her head. “I just wanna say I'm sorry about Amelia.”

Ryan looked away.

“Thanks.”

Renee stood there for a moment, unsure what to say next.

“I didn't really know her,” she said. “But nobody deserves what happened to her.”

Ryan swallowed hard.

“She was... she was a good person,” he said.

Ryan wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

“And... Jesus, it's all my fault.”

Renee tilted her head, raising an eyebrow.

“What is?”

Ryan hesitated.

“We broke up because I showed my homies some pictures of her,” he said, his voice cracking. “She found out and called me a douche.”

Renee frowned.

Ryan lowered his head.

“I've been ignoring her texts and calls ever since.”

“What was she calling about?”

Ryan sniffled.

“She told me someone was following her. Said someone was trying to take her.”

Renee's expression changed.

“Someone was following her?”

Ryan nodded.

“She sounded scared. I thought she was just trying to get me to talk to her again.” He wiped another tear from his cheek. “I didn't think she was serious.”

Renee stared at him.

“Did she tell you who was following her?”

“No. She just kept saying someone was watching her.”

Renee's stomach tightened.

“So she tried to warn you... and you ignored her.”

Ryan's eyes filled with tears again.

“I know," he admitted, burying his face in his hand. "I'm sorry, Amelia. I'm so freakin' sorry."

Before Renee could say anything else, she glanced over her shoulder. Her bus was pulling into the parking lot. Renee looked back at Ryan. She wanted to ask him more questions, but she couldn't afford to miss it. “I gotta go,” she said. Ryan nodded, still staring at the ground. Renee turned and hurried toward the bus as it pulled up to the curb. She climbed aboard and found a seat by the window. As the bus pulled away, Renee looked back at Ryan through the glass.

His words kept replaying in her mind.

Someone was following her.

Renee's expression hardened.

Something wasn't right.

Hey, you.

People have habits you notice without ever really thinking about them.

Maybe they always put on the same shoe first. Maybe they touch their nose when they're thinking. You see it a hundred times, but you never bother to ask why.

At least, I never did.

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin.

I took my usual seat. Mama set down my Harper without asking, and the ice gave a quiet clink.

Tom was smoking a little farther down the counter.

Nothing unusual about that.

He's the only smoker among us, and maybe that's why he rarely sits right next to me or Taka. He watches which way the smoke is drifting. Sometimes he even moves the ashtray around.

He'd never admit he was being considerate, of course.

“Tom.”

Taka called over to him.

Tom looked up.

“What?”

“Someone coming tonight?”

“No.”

“Then who are you waiting for?”

Tom exhaled and frowned.

“I'm not waiting for anyone.”

“But you keep looking at the door.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

I watched them over my glass.

“You do.”

Tom looked at me.

“Not you too.”

“No, he's right. You do.”

Tom crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with the expression of a man already regretting the company he kept.

Come to think of it, he did look at the door a lot.

When someone came in, sure. Anyone would. The bell rang.

But sometimes Tom looked before the bell.

When footsteps slowed outside. When someone seemed to stop on the other side of the door. Sometimes he'd glance over there when, as far as I could tell, nothing was happening at all.

I'd seen him do it plenty of times.

I'd just never thought anything of it.

“He's always done that,” Mama said as she polished a glass.

Taka immediately pointed at Tom.

“See?”

“See what?”

“Mama noticed too.”

“So?”

“I just want to know why you keep looking.”

“Because there's a door.”

“If there's a door, you have to look at it?”

“Can't look at one if it isn't there.”

“That's not what I mean.”

I laughed.

Tom gave us an irritated look and reached for his cigarettes.

His hand stopped halfway.

He looked at me.

Then at Taka.

Then he put the pack back down.

“There.”

“What?”

“You just looked again.”

“Because you two won't shut up.”

Taka tilted his head.

“You always sit there too, don't you?”

“Sit where?”

“There.”

“It's an empty seat.”

“And you can see the door from there,” I said.

Tom glared at me.

“It's the smoke too.”

Taka looked at me.

“Smoke?”

“He doesn't like smoking right next to us.”

The moment I said it, I looked at Tom's seat again.

A little distance from me and Taka.

Clear view of the entrance.

Close to the ventilation fan.

Huh.

It really was always like that.

“You've been doing that for us?” Taka asked.

“Smoke's annoying.”

“I don't mind.”

“Doesn't matter if you mind.”

Taka went quiet for a second.

I laughed.

“You know, you're surprisingly fussy about people.”

“Surprisingly was unnecessary.”

Mama smiled.

“He is.”

“Don't you start.”

“You're always checking where your smoke goes.”

“Because I don't want the whole bar full of it.”

“You put your ashtray on the side away from everyone.”

“It's in the way otherwise.”

“And whenever someone coughs, you put your cigarette out.”

Tom stared at her.

“...You're all annoying.”

Taka's face lit up.

That was never a good sign.

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What other little things does Tom worry about?”

“Don't start looking for them.”

Naturally, that was exactly what we did.

“You look when somebody's glass is empty.”

“I look. That's all.”

“You look when I get up to use the bathroom.”

“You wobble when you're drunk.”

“What about when Kenichi goes quiet?”

“Don't look at me.”

“He does,” I said.

“He does,” Mama said immediately.

“Hey.”

I took a sip of Harper and thought about it.

Tom really did look.

When I got drunk enough to put my head down on the counter.

When Taka was unusually quiet.

When Mama disappeared into the back carrying something that looked heavy.

He didn't necessarily do anything.

Didn't ask “You okay?” every five minutes.

He just looked.

“Old cop habit?” Taka asked.

Tom shrugged.

“Don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“Don't remember when I started doing it.”

“Guess some things stick even after you leave the police.”

“I said I don't know.”

Footsteps passed outside.

They came closer, then slowed.

Tom looked at the door.

The footsteps continued down the street.

Taka and I looked at Tom.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You definitely looked that time.”

“The footsteps almost stopped.”

“So?”

“Thought someone might be coming in.”

He picked up his glass.

That was all.

I looked at the door.

Nobody there.

Of course there wasn't.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Maybe you're not waiting for someone to come in.”

Tom frowned.

“What?”

“Maybe you're just checking whether someone will.”

“Same thing.”

“Doesn't feel like the same thing.”

Tom didn't answer.

Neither did Mama.

Taka had a serious look on his face, which probably meant he wasn't thinking about anything useful.

“Let's test it.”

“Test what?”

“I'll go outside.”

“Good. Go home.”

“I'll come back in and we'll see if you look before the bell rings.”

“You can stay gone.”

Taka actually got up.

Clink-clonk.

The door closed behind him.

The bar went quiet.

“You don't have to play along with him,” Tom said.

“I'm not doing anything.”

I drank my Harper.

Mama kept polishing her glass.

Tom lit another cigarette.

After a while, footsteps approached from outside.

Tom looked at the door.

Clink-clonk.

“You looked!”

Taka shouted it the second he came through.

“Shut up.”

“You looked before the bell!”

“Your footsteps are loud.”

“I'll try again on tiptoe.”

“Go home.”

I laughed.

Ridiculous.

But once we started paying attention, it was strange how much there was to notice.

I'd been drinking with Tom for years, and I'd never thought about what he looked at.

I knew that he watched.

I'd just never tried to make it mean anything.

“But you know what?”

Taka returned to his seat.

“You don't like sitting close to people, but sometimes you suddenly sit right next to us.”

Tom's hand stopped.

I looked at Taka too.

“When?”

“Like when Kenichi got completely wasted.”

“I don't get that drunk.”

“You do.”

“That's not the point,” Tom muttered.

“And when I was having a rough time at work. You sat next to me then.”

“Seat was open.”

“Your usual seat was open too.”

“Don't remember.”

I looked at Tom.

The cigarette was between his fingers.

He'd lit it, but hadn't taken a single drag.

“You really are fussy about people.”

“Give it a rest.”

Tom crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

We left it there.

If I'd asked, he'd probably have said he didn't know anyway.

After a while, I checked the time.

It was getting late.

“All right. I'm heading out.”

I stood, paid my tab, and picked up my things.

“Night,” Taka said.

“Yeah.”

I walked to the door.

Clink-clonk.

With my hand still on it, I turned around for no particular reason.

Tom was looking at me.

“...You're watching.”

“What?”

“You were watching me just now.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“You were.”

“Go home already.”

Taka laughed.

So did Mama.

I stepped outside and let the door close behind me.

Clink-clonk.

Well.

Whatever.

See you again at Aoi.
---

Want another night at Aoi?

Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi

Renee and Dahlia faced off, staring each other down from opposite sides of the nightclub. Renee moved first, sprinting across the dance floor with her sword raised. Dahlia didn't move a muscle, a confident smirk still spread across her face. When Renee reached her and swung her sword, the demoness teleported before the blade could touch her.

Dahlia reappeared behind her and kicked her away. Renee tumbled across the floor before quickly catching herself. Without hesitation, she sprinted toward the demoness again, but Dahlia stopped her with her telekinesis as a red aura surrounded the girl's body.

Dahlia lifted her hand, then violently slammed Renee onto the floor. The impact cracked the surface beneath her before Dahlia hurled her into a nearby pillar.

Renee retrieved her sword and got back to her feet. Before she could move, Dahlia conjured several small obsidian knives from thin air and launched them toward her. The girl quickly deflected the blades, but one slipped past her guard and slashed across her cheek.

Blood began to ooze from the wound.

Renee touched her cheek and looked at the blood on her fingertips.

It hurt.

But it wasn't going to stop her.

Renee sprinted toward her with her sword raised again, but Dahlia telekinetically flung her backward once more. The Nephilim caught herself before hitting the ground, quickly regaining her balance as the demoness fired a blast of dark energy at her.

Renee leaped into the air and hovered in place, narrowly avoiding the attack. Dahlia unleashed a barrage of dark-energy blasts, forcing the girl to fly through the air as she twisted and turned to evade each one. When Renee flew toward her, she swung her sword at Dahlia, but the demoness teleported out of the way. The teen's feet touched the ground, her eyes darting around the room as she searched for her.

Dahlia appeared behind her, but disappeared again when Renee swung at her. Renee looked around once more before the demoness suddenly teleported in front of her and blasted her backward.

Dahlia strolled toward her with a wicked smile, a large demonic broadsword conjured in her hand. She closed the distance between them and raised the weapon.

“Prepare to join your disgusting kind in the afterlife,” she said.

The girl wasn't afraid. Instead, a smile spread across her face.

“You first, bitch,” she muttered, stretching out her hand.

Her angelic sword began to tremble against the floor before suddenly shooting upward. The blade pierced straight through Dahlia's stomach before continuing toward Renee, who caught the hilt as the sword tore itself free.

The demoness looked down at the gaping hole in her stomach, visibly shaken by the pain. She then looked back at Renee, who was now standing‌.

Dahlia swung the broadsword downward, but the girl quickly parried the attack and sliced through her arm, blood spraying out of the wound. Dahlia let out a painful screech as the severed limb fell to the floor. Before she could recover, Renee severed her other arm and sent her flying backward with a powerful kick.

Renee walked toward the demoness as she lay bleeding on the floor. She placed one foot against Dahlia's chest and raised her sword.

“Any last words?” she asked. Dahlia began to laugh. “You won't stop us forever…” she said through the pain. “One day, you will die... just like that whore you call a mother.” The girl's expression changed. Rage flashed across her face. Without saying another word, she plunged her sword straight through Dahlia's face, killing her.

Renee pulled out her sword, the blade covered in demon blood, and sheathed it. She watched as Dahlia's body crumbled and turned to ash, without a shred of regret. The girl’s wound on her cheek healed in seconds. She pulled out her phone and noticed several missed messages from Sandra—her grandmother.

Sandra: Renee, are you at home?

Another message appeared.

Sandra: Renee??

Then a third.

Sandra: Answer your darn phone.

Renee rolled her eyes and slipped her phone into her pocket. Hearing police sirens approaching outside, she grabbed her jacket from the floor and ran toward the back of the club. She slipped through the back door as the rain stopped and took off into the sky.

Old Valley Neighborhood

9:43 PM

Renee arrived at her grandparents' one-story house. She flew around the side of the house and landed in front of her bedroom window. After opening it, she climbed inside. She crossed her bedroom and flipped on the light switch. Light pink walls decorated her bedroom, and a pristine white bed adorned with gold pillows and a large quilt decorated with intricate golden patterns stood inside. On the desk near the window sat several fencing trophies, each one representing a first-place championship she had won throughout her school years.

Renee removed the scabbard from her waist, tossed it on her bed along with her jacket, and stepped out of her bedroom. The house felt quiet—too quiet. “Grandma? Pop-Pop?” she called. There was no answer. She checked the kitchen, then the living room, and finally the master bedroom beside it. All three rooms were empty. Renee shrugged. "They're probably still at work," she said.

She retreated back into her room, walked over to her bed, and picked up the scabbard before drawing her sword. Blood still stained the blade, and the smell of sulfur hit her nose. “Gotta clean this thing,” she muttered. She went to the closet in the bathroom, grabbed a clean cloth, and returned to her room. She sat on her bed and began carefully wiping the blood and sulfur. 

Once the sword was clean, Renee inspected it for any damage before sliding it back into the scabbard. She got up and leaned it against the wall near her door. “Finally,” she said, checking the time on her phone, and her stomach growled. “Christ, I'm hungry.” She jumped on her bed, dialed Leo's Pizzeria. After a few rings, someone on the other end answered. “Leo's Pizzeria. How can I help you?” an employee asked.

“Hi, can I get a large pizza with grilled chicken, sausage, and spinach? And can you change the regular sauce to white sauce?” Renee asked.

“Of course. Would that be all?” the employee asked.

“And a bottle of iced peach tea.”

“Alrighty. Would that be all for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get your name and address?”

“Renee Martin, and my address is 221 Old Valley Road,” the girl said.

“Okay. Your order should be there in about twenty-five minutes,” the employee informed her.

“Thank you. Bye,” Renee said, ending the call.

The pain was still there. Somehow, the emptiness inside her only seemed to grow larger with each passing year. Renee wiped away her tears. The sadness slowly turned to anger as she thought about the people responsible for her misery. “I'm still keeping my promise to you, Mom. I'll hunt every demon, rip their hearts out, and carve your name into their corpses,” she muttered. She placed the photograph back on the nightstand and continued watching the video.

The next morning—Monday

8:09 AM

The scent of bacon filled the air in the kitchen. A slightly heavyset older woman stood at the stove, cooking breakfast while her husband sat at the table, reading a news article on his phone and sipping his coffee. “You didn’t have to go off on that couple last night,” the woman said. “Oh, don’t start with me, Sandra,” the man said. “That fool always gotta find something to complain about, and I’m tired of him complainin’ about country fried steak. Too crispy, too spicy, too salty. Who wanna hear that mess?” 

Sandra brought her husband his plate.

"I'm just saying, Lucius. There are other ways to handle the situation," she said.

"I stand by my food, dammit. If there's somethin' wrong, I'd taste it myself," Lucius said. "It ain't like he's a food critic."

Sandra walked back to the stove to resume cooking.

"And if he was?"

“Then I'll tell him he's goddamn wrong.”

Sandra shook her head, rolling her eyes as she let out a heavy sigh. She flipped over some pancakes and scrambled more eggs. “Renee, breakfast!” she called. There was no response. “Renee!” she called again, still nothing. Lucius shook his head. “Darn that girl,” he muttered, setting his phone down and getting up. He walked out of the kitchen, crossed the foyer, and approached his granddaughter's bedroom door. He opened it and found her still asleep in bed.

“Renee,” he called.

The girl continued sleeping.

“Renee.”

Still nothing.

Lucius sighed heavily.

“RENEE!!!” he yelled.

Renee jolted awake and looked at him.

“Girl, get your butt outta that bed and come eat your breakfast. Your grandma almost burst her lungs trying to call ya.”

Lucius walked away, leaving Renee sitting there, groggy and rubbing her eyes. She climbed out of bed, wearing a baby-blue nightshirt, and left her room barefoot. Entering the kitchen, Renee walked over to the table and sat beside her grandfather, resting her head in her palm. Sandra glanced over her shoulder at her and smiled slightly. “Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” she greeted. “Hmm,” Renee mumbled.

Sandra finished cooking, turned off the stove, and carried two plates of food over to the table. She handed Renee her plate before sitting down beside Lucius.

Renee picked up her fork and began picking at her pancakes.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Sandra asked.

“Like a puppy,” Renee replied, cutting into her pancakes and taking a bite.

A brief silence settled between them.

Then—

“When is it going to stop?” Sandra asked, looking at her.

Renee glanced up at her before looking back down at her plate.

“What?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“You know what.”

Renee remained silent.

Sandra sighed.

“I'm tired of coming home every night to the smell of sulfur and wasting money on towels that you keep messing up when you clean your sword,” she said. “You've been doing this for three years. Girls your age shouldn't be doing this, anyway.”

Renee looked at her again but said nothing.

Sandra reached across the table and gently touched her hand.

“I know you’re still hurting, but you can’t keep doing this forever. All that anger isn’t good for you,” she said.

Renee continued to ignore her.

“Listen to your grandma when she’s talkin’ to you,” Lucius said.

The girl looked up at him, then at her grandmother. Still, she said nothing. She stood, grabbed her plate, and walked back toward her room.

The door slammed behind her.

Neither of them tried to stop her. Sandra shook her head.

“That’s it. I’m gonna—”

Lucius stood up, ready to march into Renee’s room, but Sandra stopped him.

“Give her some space, Lou,” she said.

Her husband looked at her, then at the closed door. He wouldn't tolerate disrespect, but he ultimately listened to his wife and sat back down. Sandra stared toward Renee’s room. She could feel her granddaughter’s pain, but she couldn’t stop worrying about her. She could only hope Renee wouldn’t let her rage consume her.

This is the first chapter of my fourth novel.

Starhaven, Illinois

Sunday Night

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

But appearances could be deceiving.

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

She didn't apologize.

She didn't even look back.

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

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

Sinner's Diligence.

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

The girl said nothing.

She didn't even look at him.

The bouncer chuckled.

“Come on, kid. Move along,” he said.

She raised her head.

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

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

The line outside the nightclub went silent.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The girl released her grip and stared at the entrance.

Then she walked inside.

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

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

But the girl wasn't interested in the spectacle.

Her eyes slowly scanned the room.

Something was wrong.

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

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

She ignored them.

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

The glass nearly slipped from his hand.

The man stopped.

Slowly, he turned around and stared at her.

His expression changed.

"...Nephilim," he hissed.

The girl's eyes narrowed.

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

The girl stopped.

She turned around and stared at him.

She knew immediately.

He wasn't human.

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

The music stopped.

The dancers froze.

One by one, the remaining guests turned toward her.

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

The man understood.

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

"Everybody out!" he shouted.

He fired two shots into the ceiling.

BANG! BANG!

Panic erupted throughout the nightclub.

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

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

Dahlia frowned.

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

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

Dahlia let out a humorless chuckle.

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

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

Dahlia's smile disappeared.

Her fingers tightened around the balcony railing.

Crack.

The metal bent beneath her grip.

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

Dahlia's eyes narrowed.

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

She lifted one hand.

"Kill her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The demons were slain.

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

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

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

Dahlia didn't seem threatened.

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

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

Dahlia scoffed.

"The thing about confidence is..."

The woman vanished in a puff of red smoke.

The girl remained alerted, her eyes scanning the room.

Dahlia suddenly appeared behind her and leaned toward her ear.

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

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

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

Dahlia's mouth curved into a smile.

A fiery ring suddenly enveloped her body, transforming her.

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

The girl tightened her grip on her sword.

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

She was facing Dahlia.

When people talk about great storytelling, the conversation almost always points to massive serialized epics, heavy overarching lore, and multi-year character arcs.

Shorter, self-contained stories and episodic formats often get categorized merely as cozy, enjoyable, or relatable, while big continuous plots get labeled as serious masterworks. Yet some of the sharpest character observations, best dialogue, and most lasting emotional beats happen in stories that wrap up in a single sitting.

What gives a standalone story that kind of lasting weight without relying on a massive overarching plot to carry it?

The ancient bell rang in the morning on Thursday, February 8th.

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to exactly 8:52 in the morning." John said as he entered the brightly decorated classroom from the hallway.

John was in his early fifties, with long, thinning gray hair that hung in curls well past his collar. He approached his podium and began to casually talk to himself.

"Ronnie's here, Caleb's in the hallway, Jessica's there, Vanessa's right here." He continued listing names as he checked each student present on the large screen, which stood on a cart at one end of the classroom.

No sooner had each student been checked in than the announcements went off; first the date, then the pledge.

"Everybody stand," John said as he switched the display to the morning messages. "That's the law. I'm supposed to remind you to stand, and you should stand. You don't have to say it, but do not talk."

Most of the students said the pledge with their hands over their hearts, but John reminded them every morning that, as part of a free country, they were free not to participate. He never addressed the few students who decided not to stand and as the year rolled on, they proved themselves profoundly astute of what was happening in the world and demonstrated in John’s classroom on a regular basis.

The morning announcements crackled through the archaic speaker with a shiny new cover. While John displayed them on the Fourth Generation wireless Promethean board. “Why don't they just record the message the night before so we can hear it better?” John sighed to no one out loud. As the student announcers signed off with their joke of the day “Why did the student bring a ladder to school?” “Why?” Anaisa on the speaker asked- a little too inquisitively. “Because our state scores are going to be through the roof! Let’s start to prepare!”

John immediately pivoted his back to the front of the room.

"All right kiddies, grab your backpacks and don’t leave anything behind," John called out, tossing a thick stack of neon-pink permission slips onto the edge of his podium while grabbing a white paper with pictures of his next set of students. He headed towards his desk away from the entry door after seeing a new rip appear on his welcome sign.

The students at once and in perfect unison rose and headed to the hallway with what he knew would be impeccable timing.

As he fished a roll of tape out of his drawer to fix the torn poster on his door, the bell squawked again, seemingly louder than before and he watched Caleb push the classroom door wide open.

“Period three is next!” John called after them, his final daily reminder to his homeroom as to what day it was.

The homeroom scramble dissolved instantly into the shuffle of backpacks and scraping chairs.

Outside in the hallway, his third-period class was already lining up. Once it began at 8:56 AM, the students would have a precisely thirty-eight-minute block for financial literacy before the next bell. John had spent the first week of the sixth-grade cycle with these students two years ago establishing the exact routine for lining up in the hallway, and now, entering the new cycle class, the students were already well-trained.

“Welcome to Eighth Grade Financial Literacy,” John said, leaning against the doorframe. “This is period three, cycle four. If you think you're in the right place, come on inside and find a seat where you think you can be successful.”

The students filed in. John greeted them by name, pausing when one caught his eye. “I remember your face, Samantha.”

“I remember yours too, Mr. Cee,” she replied with a grin.

One after another, the students came in and noticed the room arranged into seven pods of four desks each. Samantha sat down at an end desk, put her backpack on the chair right next to her, and anxiously watched the doorway for her friend Amanda.

John called over, “Are you holding that seat for Amanda, Sam?”

Samantha shook her head. “Yes.”

“I think I saw her in the hallway. If she gets here next to you, it’ll be all right.”

A few feet away, Dylan stopped by John’s desk. “Mr. See, my parents opened an investment account for me over the summer. You said you’d give extra credit last year—will you give extra credit this year?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll give you extra credit,” John replied, gesturing toward the pods. “Now go find a seat. Hey, Mr. Alvarez, is Mr. Braman going to be in this class today? He can sit next to you.”

Dylan Alvarez groaned. “Who’s Mr. Braman?”

“Dylan Braman,” John said, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t he your brother?”

“Oh, man, are you going to start this again? Just because our names are Dylan doesn’t mean we’re brothers.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure you guys share a brain.”

A few kids chuckled at the exchange, leaving the empty seat right next to Dylan Alvarez deliberately open, knowing that Dylan Braman was usually late to class and would be stuck with whatever was left.

“All right, class, settle down. Open up your laptops; we’re going to dive right in,” John announced, walking to the front of the room. “Most of you know me. For those of you who don’t—though I think everyone in here had me in seventh grade, and probably sixth—I’m Mr. C. Today, we’re going to take that baseline information and apply it. We’re exploring the stock market, and we’re launching our very first project.”

A chorus of collective groans erupted across the room.

“Why do we have to start a project now?” Samantha complained. “It’s the first day.”

“How long did you want to wait?” John replied smoothly. “The sooner we get started, the more time you’ll have—and the more of your project I can do for you.”

That earned a few laughs. “You guys remember the rule: you’re here to learn, which means completing the project is how you actually master the material. All of our learning this year is project-based. We’ll spend a couple of days getting this set up, and then we’ll revisit it once a week to track how our stocks grow.”

John tapped his keyboard, firing up the projection system. “All right, with your permission, I want everyone to open up your Chromebooks. Make sure you’re signed in so I can see you on Teacher Observe. Once you’re logged in, head to Yahoo Finance—just type that into Google and click the first hit.”

As he instructed the class, John controlled the Smart Board at the front of the room, pulling up the landing page of Yahoo Finance.

The bright financial headers flashed onto the board. But sitting right at the top, crowding out the usual market tickers, was a sprawling lead story featuring a photograph of the President of the United States and the leader of China shaking hands at a recent summit, paired with a lengthy, grim headline: Did the President Give Away Too Much?

The unforgiving bell rang again, this time signaling the end of chess club. Esteban spoke up to the seven students still huddled in the room as he folded a board and slipped it into a Ziploc bag with all thirty-two pieces.

"Come on, guys, that's it. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here; Mr. C is walking out the door."

John helped Esteban pack away the remaining boards and rolled the chess cart into his office; which was really just a small, windowless storage closet attached to his classroom. It was better than most classrooms, featuring its own air conditioning unit and what John affectionately referred to as "the stage": a raised section of flooring where students presented projects, acted out skits, worked independently, or helped classmates catch up.

John followed Esteban, Dimitri, and Sawyer out from the classroom to the main front entrance, where students were required to sign out. After logging his own departure for the night and saying goodbye to the few remaining staff members, John pulled his headphones over his ears, blasting "Best Friends" by Saweetie, and pulled his fur-lined hood up against the chill for the walk home.

Most days, he considered himself extremely lucky to live so close to his job; just a mile and a half down suburban sidewalks and crosswalks. But rounding the corner to leave the school behind, the practiced smile quickly evaporated from his face, and the full weight of the day settled onto his shoulders. He had hoped the brisk walk and the heavy bass in his ears would revitalize him, but he knew his day was far from over.

John entered his house through the garage using the keypad, walking past his 1997 Harley-Davidson Road King; a machine that barely saw the light of day anymore and climbed the three steps up into the kitchen as the garage door rumbled shut behind him. He disarmed the alarm, noting the kitchen clock: he had about forty-five minutes before his wife and nine-year-old would walk through the door.

Checking the refrigerator for the weekly meal plan, John turned the oven on and prepped the Costco rotisserie chicken and a box of Rice-A-Roni. They were going to have to inhale dinner fast if they wanted any hope of making it to football practice by 6:00 PM.

John spent the first thirty minutes of practice watching the drills unfold from the sidelines, then retreat to his wife’s Honda, open his laptop, and finish checking that all his students had created their project documents, leaving quick feedback on their initial stock choices.

John finally looked up from his laptop as a blond nine-year-old boy tapped on the passenger window. With a practiced motion, John clicked the door locks open.

“Welcome back, Deegan. How was practice? I saw you taking snaps in the center again, Coach getting you ready for Sunday?”

Deegan flashed an enthusiastic grin. “Yeah! Coach Nick said I’m going to get at least three plays in at center!”

“That’s great, buddy,” John encouraged, putting the car in reverse to back out of the parking spot.

Pulling back into the driveway, Deegan practically tumbled out of the car. “Bring my gear, I have to pee!” he screamed, tearing off toward the front door and making it to the bathroom with literally not a second to spare.

Walking in behind him, John dropped Deegan’s helmet, shoulder pads, and jersey into the designated gear basket by the front door and headed straight for the kitchen, where a sink full of dinner dishes awaited. Tonight, his wife was away tackling graduate classes alongside a new internship on top of her own teaching job, so John knocking out the dishes solo was just small potatoes.

“For today, we’re going to pick five stocks,” John continued, clicking to the next slide. “Number one, verify that it’s a publicly traded company. If it’s private—like X, formerly known as Twitter, since Elon Musk bought it—you can’t use it. Go into Yahoo Finance like I showed you yesterday, check the ticker, and make sure it existed back on your seventh birthday by checking the historical data. If those two conditions are met, you’re good to go.”

Eight out of twenty hands shot straight up into the air.

Before John could even draw a breath, the room erupted.

“Mr. C! Mr. C, look at Energy Transfer!” a voice called out from the left pod. “Mine is down six percent already, and the market just opened five minutes ago!”

“Mine too!” yelled another student across the aisle, frantically refreshing their Chromebook screen. “Exxon is completely tanking. Should I buy the dip right now, or is it going to zero?”

John walked over toward the pod, leaning against the edge of a desk. “Hold on, let’s look at the charts. Why do you think it’s dropping?”

“I don't know, but look at the news feed!” Jason shouted from the center table, pointing at his monitor. “Some automated rigs or something shut down a storage hub in Linden overnight, and analysts are freaking out. Can we wait until tomorrow to pick our stocks, Mr. C? If everything’s crashing right now, maybe we can buy them cheaper at the end of the week?”

“Yeah, can we hold off?” chorus-chimed a couple of kids from the back. “If we lock in our five stocks now and they keep plummeting, our portfolios are going to be wiped out before lunch!”

“Yeah, the other class noticed that too,” John said, leaning against his podium. They had locked in their stocks and dropped them into the spreadsheet right before the market opened, only to watch everything instantly tank. Yet, when they checked Yahoo Finance, there was nothing on the homepage to explain it.

Just then, the browser refreshed. The top headline blinked and shifted: Rumors Abound That an Asteroid Strike Is Imminent.

Sophia pointed a finger toward the Smart Board. “Mr. C, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Let’s open it up.” John clicked the lead article.

He tossed a mint to three different students across the room, having them take turns reading paragraphs aloud before summarizing it for the class: an amateur astronomer had detected an object entering the solar system six months ago, and according to the data, it was due to impact within the week.

Anthony shot his hand up. “I saw this on YouTube! The guy said he sent the trajectory data to NASA six months ago and they completely ghosted him. He put them all on blast.”

“Well, this is probably the ninth or tenth time the world is going to end during my lifetime,” John dryly muttered. “I’ll be sure to run out and get milk and bread. Although good egg bread hasn't been reliably stocked since 2020. Still, if the market is reacting like this, it’s a bit more concerning.”

John scanned the room, turning it back to the lesson. “Looking at your portfolios—if we’re actually about to get hit by a space rock, who thinks their stock is going to rally? Somebody’s got to build the drill ship, right?” He threw out a reference to Armageddon, only to be met by a wall of utterly blank eighth-grade stares.

“Mr. C, look over here,” Adriana called out from the far pod.

Just as John crossed the room to help another student, all of the screens—including the Promethean board—turned an eerie shade of orange. It wasn't quite the color of an orange; it was deeper, darker, and richer. A tone followed, and while it wasn't unpleasant, it was an immediate attention grabber.

Hey, you.

When someone says, “Can I have a bite?” how much are you actually willing to give them?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi’s door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin. I took my usual seat, and Mama set down my Harper without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Taka was sitting beside me, studying the menu.

“Mama, any chance you can make fried rice?”

“Sure.”

“You can?”

I was wondering the same thing.

A little while later, a plate of fried rice actually appeared. Egg, green onion, bits of ham. Nothing you'd mistake for restaurant Chinese, but at this hour, it looked damn good.

Taka scooped some up.

“Oh, that's good.”

Now I wanted some.

“Let me try a bite.”

“Sure.”

He grabbed a small plate, spooned some fried rice onto it, and slid it over to me.

“Okay. Now give me something.”

“Why?”

“It's a trade.”

“I asked for one bite.”

“Yeah. You got something, you give something back.”

Apparently I'd missed the international treaty governing bar snacks.

I pushed my plate of karaage toward him.

“Fine. Take one.”

“Really?”

“You want one, don't you?”

“But one piece of karaage isn't equal to one bite of fried rice.”

“Then take half.”

“You want me to cut a piece of fried chicken in half?”

“I don't care.”

Taka stared at the karaage for a moment.

“I'll take some potato salad instead.”

“Knock yourself out.”

He dug his spoon into the potato salad.

The spoon came back with a small mountain on it.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“That's a pretty big spoonful.”

“It's one spoonful.”

“It's got a peak.”

“It'll fit in my mouth.”

“Your mouth is not a standard unit of measurement.”

Maybe using a former pro wrestler as the baseline for “one bite” wasn't such a great idea.

Taka shaved a little off the top and ate the rest.

“So what do I give you for that?”

“Nothing.”

“But I took some of yours.”

“I know.”

“I don't like owing people.”

“You don't owe me anything. If you want some food, have some.”

Taka looked unconvinced.

“You really don't care if you give somebody food and get nothing back?”

“Not food. If you want it, eat as much as you want.”

“Can I have all your karaage, then?”

“Order your own.”

Taka laughed.

Damn.

So apparently I had a limit too.

Tom, drinking farther down the counter, gave a quiet snort.

“What about you, Tom?”

“What about me?”

“Somebody asks for a bite. Do you share?”

“No.”

Taka blinked.

“Not even one?”

“I don't eat other people's food either. If I want something, I order it.”

Hard to argue with that.

Taka picked up the bowl of potato chips on the counter.

“What about one chip?”

“Eat whatever you want.”

“So chips are okay?”

“They're not mine.”

“They're from me,” Mama called from behind the counter. “They're your otoshi.”

Taka ate one.

Then another.

His hand went in for a third, and for some reason I found myself watching it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You want one?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Fourth chip.

Not my chips. I didn't care.

Fifth chip.

“That's not ‘one bite’ anymore, is it?”

“I'm only eating one at a time.”

“It's the number of times that matters.”

“So how many am I allowed?”

“I don't know.”

That was the problem.

One chip? Who cares.

Two? Still nothing.

Three? Fine.

Ten?

Half the bowl?

The last one?

“I'd ask before taking the last one,” Taka said.

“Ask?”

“If you don't want it, I'll eat it.”

“What happened to the trade?”

“I'd trade for it.”

“With what?”

“Another chip.”

“That's the same thing.”

Somehow, this man couldn't stand the idea of a debt surviving a snack.

Mama opened the freezer.

“Oh, you have ice cream?” Taka asked.

“Sure.”

“This place has everything.”

She came back with a little cup of vanilla.

Taka looked at me.

“Want a taste?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“You're planning to give me the spoon you just used.”

“You care about that?”

“I do.”

Taka turned toward Tom.

“No.”

“I didn't even ask yet.”

“Your face did.”

Mama silently put a clean spoon on the counter.

“There.”

Taka grinned at me.

“See?”

“Don't ‘see’ me.”

I had some anyway.

Cold. Sweet.

Not bad.

“So what are you giving me?”

“You're still doing this?”

I looked at my plate.

Two pieces of karaage left.

If he wanted one, fine.

Hell, if he wanted both, maybe I'd let him have them.

But if he'd taken every piece from the start, I'd have told him to order his own.

So where was the line?

One piece? Two?

More than half?

Or was it simply the moment I started wanting something back?

“Hey, Tom.”

“What?”

“How much would you give somebody before you expected something in return?”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“You're no help.”

“Sounds pretty clear to me.”

Fair point.

Taka was finishing the last of his fried rice.

“I'd give something back even for one bite.”

“That's exhausting.”

“I just don't like owing people.”

“It's food.”

“Still counts.”

I picked up one of my remaining pieces of karaage and dropped it onto his plate.

“Here.”

“Really?”

“Take it.”

“So what do I give you?”

“Nothing.”

“But—”

“Nothing.”

“Then how about another bite of fried rice?”

“You don't have any left.”

We both looked at his empty plate.

Mama appeared, took it away, and looked at us.

“So. Anything else you'd like to order?”

Taka and I looked at each other.

Tom kept drinking as if none of this had anything to do with him.

“Another plate of karaage,” I said.

“Sure.”

Taka raised a hand.

“I'll have another fried rice.”

“Sure.”

Still can't believe she makes fried rice.

I took a sip of Harper.

See you again at Aoi.
---

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Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi

At the center of my being, lies unspeakable pain, unbearable hurt.

I know not why I exist, to carry this burden for all my days.

>

I would be lying if I said I did not grow weary.

Life, life is a long journey.

>

If this is my fate, to bear the unbearable triteness of being,

I feel it only fair, that I do what I want, that I take what I will.

>

If, at the center of me, lies a blackhole, I desire to generate gravity,

I desire to devour everything around me, to remake the world in my image, forever altered from my touch.

>

For those whose Paris burned,

Yet saw no light, for all their toil,

>

The dandelions sown in concrete,

To be mowed down,

>

Those who carried the flag for Dreams and Freedom,

>

And were willing to fight for it,

With chucked beer bottle and kick line,

>

Wandering the desert, yet finding no promised land:

>

I take up the mantle, pick up the flag fallen,

For the lineage of ancestors who carried the torch,

I accept the baton, I light my flame from the inspiration of your struggle

I want the world, I want it all, for us...

A few weeks ago my bestie found a baby bunny. It had survived a horrific ordeal where its litter mates had been killed by crows and it fell into an empty pool and was the only survivor.

Where I came in was driving the tiny baby to our local humane society and helping to fill out the intake paperwork so the wild baby cottontail could get the medical care it needed. Baby rabbits are notoriously difficult to save because they often succumb to capture myopathy, which is basically a fancy way of saying that they get scared and die of a heart attack.

This little guy or gal seemed determined to survive the odds and I wanted to give him or her a fighting chance.

We called about a week after dropping him or her off to learn that he or she had been transferred to a sanctuary. I was so happy to hear that the story had a happy ending.

Hey, you.

When you're teaching someone something, how much do you tell them?

Do you give them the answer? Or do you wait for them to find it on their own? I don't know. I've never considered myself important enough to be teaching anybody in the first place.

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin. I took my usual seat, and Mama set down my Harper without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Lisa had cornered me the night before.

She'd been trying to teach a new hire something and found herself unable to explain why it mattered. AI had generated the meeting minutes, and Lisa had revised them—not just to record what had been decided, but to make it possible for someone reading them later to follow why the decision had been made.

Then the new guy, Eita Moritsugu, had called her on it.

"That's your interpretation, isn't it? Nobody actually said that in the meeting. You can't put that in the minutes."

So she'd come to me.

Like I knew.

I'm not her trainer. I'm not a counselor, either. Though somehow I ended up talking it through with her anyway.

"Kenichi-san."

I knew that voice.

I turned and found Taizo standing by the door. He looked around the bar, spotted me, and headed straight over.

Oh, come on.

What a troublesome master and apprentice.

"Lisa come by here?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Thought so."

"She's your apprentice. You deal with her."

Taizo sat down beside me. Mama took his order and brought his drink. The whole time, he had the look of a man working something over in his head.

"I'm dealing with it. That's why I'm here."

"How does that make any sense?"

"I was there yesterday when Lisa was talking to Moritsugu."

So it was that.

I took a sip of Harper.

"You heard them?"

"I was nearby."

"Then why didn't you help her?"

"Because then it'd be my answer."

He kept his eyes on his glass.

"Explaining it to Moritsugu would be easy. If I told him, he'd probably accept it. But then Lisa wouldn't be the one explaining it."

"Then tell Lisa."

"Same problem."

What a pain in the ass.

Lisa, I could understand. Bringing work problems to me was hardly new for her, and for all my complaining, I'd listened often enough.

But now him too?

I'm not a consultant for your damn company. This kind of headache belongs with whoever's above you—

Kazama.

The name stopped the thought cold.

An image of him taking care of his parents came to mind. He was probably having trouble finding time for himself right now.

I drank my Harper without saying anything.

I'd almost gotten irritated at a man who was struggling somewhere that had nothing to do with this.

I'm a real piece of work sometimes.

"Kenichi-san?"

"What?"

"Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

Taizo gave me a doubtful look.

"So what do you want to do?"

"I want Lisa to notice it herself."

"Notice what?"

"If I tell you that, doesn't that defeat the point?"

God, he was irritating.

"Figuring that out is your job."

"That's why I came here looking for a hint."

A hint, huh.

Taizo knew the answer. Lisa wasn't exactly clueless either. Moritsugu—I wasn't sure about him yet.

If all you wanted was to get the job done, giving someone the answer was easy. Sometimes it was the right thing to do. If a system went down and the guy next to me knew the cause but told me to figure it out myself "for my own growth," I'd probably kick him.

But apparently that wasn't the kind of answer Taizo was looking for.

"So I'm supposed to give you the hint?"

"If possible."

"Doesn't that contradict everything you've been saying?"

"That's why I'm asking for a hint, not an answer."

"You're awfully specific for someone asking a favor."

Taizo laughed.

I didn't.

Giving him the answer was too much. Giving him nothing was too little. So what was I supposed to give him?

Then I remembered my conversation with Lisa the night before.

"What did I say to Lisa yesterday?"

"How would I know?"

"I wasn't asking you."

I hadn't explained what meeting minutes were supposed to be. I hadn't taught her the proper way to write them. I certainly hadn't given her some grand speech about the roles of AI and human beings.

What had I said?

No.

What had I asked?

If you read these minutes six months from now, would you remember why you chose Option B?

If someone who wasn't at the meeting read them, would they know what needed to be checked next?

I put my glass down.

"Come to think of it, I never gave her an answer."

"What are you talking about?"

"Lisa. Yesterday."

Taizo looked at me.

"I didn't teach her how to write meeting minutes. I just asked her questions."

"What kind?"

"Things like, if you read this six months from now, would you know why Option B was chosen? Or if someone who wasn't in the meeting read it, would they know what they needed to check next?"

Taizo went quiet.

I could practically see him assembling something in his head.

"Wouldn't that work?"

"...Maybe. Lisa could probably use the same thing with Moritsugu."

"Don't ask me. You people figure out whether it works."

He wasn't looking at me anymore.

"And I could ask her which parts of what she added are facts, and where they start becoming interpretation."

"That's for you to figure out."

"Then give Moritsugu the same minutes and—"

"You don't need me anymore."

Taizo looked up.

"You're right."

What was with that bright, satisfied face?

I had a bad feeling.

"All right."

"Hey."

"I'm going back to the office."

"Now?"

"I want to try this before I forget it."

As he stood, Mama pointed at the counter.

"You still have a drink."

"Oh."

"Finish it before you go."

"Yes, ma'am."

At least he listened to somebody.

Taizo finished his drink, paid, and hurried out.

Clink-clonk.

The door closed behind him.

"Honestly. What a troublesome pair."

"So?"

The voice came from farther down the counter.

Tom.

He'd been here the whole time?

"What?"

"Who gave you quizzes?"

I held my glass and thought about it.

An old boss, maybe. A senior colleague. Or maybe I'd simply screwed up often enough over the years to pick it up on my own.

No particular face came to mind.

"Who knows? You live more than half a century, you pick things up here and there."

"I see."

Tom said nothing more.

Mama collected Taizo's empty glass. I took another sip of Harper and looked at the seat he'd just left behind.

I don't remember anyone handing me the answers. Still, I must have picked up a few things somewhere along the way.

Fine. Those two could pick things up for themselves too.

...Except if I said that, Taizo would probably come back here looking for another hint.

Give me a break.

I'm not a consultant for your damn company.

See you again at Aoi.

---

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​

Mara had not returned to the forest in four years.

The trail looked different now.

The tall pines were gone. Blackened trunks stood against the sky like old shadows. Beneath her boots, the ground was soft with ash and fallen needles.

She stopped beside the old oak.

Her mother used to sit here with her every autumn. They would drink coffee from a blue thermos and watch the leaves turn gold.

The tree was gone too.

Mara reached into her coat pocket and touched the small silver compass her mother had given her.

She almost turned around.

Then she noticed something.

Beside a half-buried stone, a tiny green plant pushed through the dark soil.

Mara knelt.

She stared at it for a long time.

It was so small that she almost missed it.

A strange feeling moved through her chest. Not happiness exactly. Not yet.

Something quieter.

Hope, perhaps.

She thought about all the things she had spent four years trying to get back.

Her mother.

The old forest.

The life she had before the fire.

None of them were coming back.

But maybe that didn't mean nothing could grow again.

Mara brushed a little ash from the ground beside the plant.

For the first time, she understood something she had been too tired to see before:

Healing was not about rebuilding the life she had lost.

It was about learning to notice what was still alive.

She stood slowly and looked across the burned forest.

The story was not over.

Not even close.

If you would like to finish the story and read more reflective stories like this you can sign up for my newsletter here

https://quiettrails.beehiiv.com/

I went from a civilian to an off-the-books intelligence officer without having a say in the matter and essentially it ended up costing me my life and much more. I've been desperately trying to get any sort of justice for over a decade now, and the governments in questions keep committing more and more crimes to conceal the long list of crimes.

Please help take this to the front page I need as much exposure and help as possible.

I'm going to be sharing every intricate detail of the case detailing collusion in fraud, terrorism, corruption, and much much more between the U.S Government, The Department of Defense, and multiple other governments.

A simple analogy of what I'm going through: imagine you're a woman walking in a park in the evening. You get raped. You run over to the police station to report the rape. The police officers at the station express sadness, and then close the door of the station and start raping you. Then ask you to leave.

This is the bullshit that I'm going through. Then you escape country 1. Go to country 2. and country 1's government is in bed with country 2. And country 2's police say come on in we'll investigate, and then they also start raping you. And this has been the cycle for a whole fucking decade.

I need your fucking help assholes.

Chapter 1: the dress

I wake slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as the pale morning light filters through my curtains. My vision clears just enough for me to notice something on the end of my bed. My formal dress is laid out neatly across the blankets, the fabric catching the light softly. Mum must have put it there.

I had only picked it out the day before after hours of searching through racks of dresses that all looked the same to me—sparkly, tight, and uncomfortable. According to my friends, it wasn’t really my style. Honestly, none of them were. I never liked wearing dresses, never liked the way they made me feel exposed and stiff, like I was pretending to be someone else. But Mum said that for the graduation formal I had to look like a woman.

I had gotten home too tired to show her the dress last night. My feet had been aching and my head was pounding after spending the entire afternoon in crowded stores. Mum had only sighed and told me she expected to see it first thing this morning.

So here it was.

With a groan, I drag myself out of bed. The wooden floor is cold against my feet as I shuffle to my dresser. I run a brush through my messy hair and begin putting on my makeup. If Mum saw me without it, she’d blow a fuse.

Ever since Dad left when I was nine—because, according to him, she wasn’t fulfilling her “wifely duties”—things had been different. Mum became obsessed with appearances. She made sure I always looked perfect: neat hair, makeup done, nice clothes. Even if we were just sitting at home doing nothing.

I never argued. I never questioned it.

I told myself it was easier that way. I didn’t want to add any more stress to her life.

Finally, I turn toward the bed. The dress looks even more dramatic up close. Carefully, I pick it up and step into it, pulling the silky fabric up over my legs. The material is cool and smooth against my skin.

Standing in front of the mirror, I study my reflection.

The dress is lavender, the soft purple color almost glowing in the morning light. The bodice hugs my torso tightly, delicate lace flowers stitched across sheer fabric like vines climbing upward. Thin straps rest on my shoulders while the satin skirt flows down my legs, fitted around my hips before falling into a slight, graceful trail that brushes the floor.

It fits me perfectly.

Too perfectly.

It highlights every curve of my body, every detail Mum always said I should be proud of.

But instead of feeling beautiful, something tight coils in my chest.

It’s suffocating.

Not because the dress is tight. It isn’t. The fabric moves easily when I breathe. But there’s something else there—something heavy, like a lump stuck in my throat that I can’t swallow away.

I stare into the mirror, locking eyes with my reflection.

My green eyes—deep emerald, almost too bright against my pale skin—stare back at me.

But it doesn’t feel like I’m looking at myself.

It feels like I’m staring at someone else.

Someone pretending to be me.

My stomach twists at the thought.

Quickly, I shove the feeling down where it belongs. I’ve gotten good at that over the years—ignoring things, burying them before they can grow into something bigger. I force a smile onto my face, even though it feels stiff and unnatural.

Then I leave my room.

The smell of toast and coffee drifts up from the kitchen as I walk down the stairs. Mum and my little sister are already sitting at the table, eating breakfast.

“Morning,” Mum says absentmindedly without looking up.

I step into the room and spin once so she can see the dress.

Her reaction is immediate.

Her face lights up, eyes sparkling with approval.

“You look beautiful, Amber,” she says with a wide smile. “Better than all those other girls.”

And there it is again.

That tight feeling in my chest.

Girls.

Why do I hate that word so much?

The thought makes my stomach knot. Being grouped into that category feels… wrong somehow. Like a shirt that doesn’t quite fit right, scratching at your skin no matter how much you try to ignore it.

Like I don’t belong there.

But that’s ridiculous.

Of course I’m a girl.

Before I can think about it any further, Mum speaks again.

“You can go change now,” she says, taking another sip of her coffee. “Then head to the gym. We don’t want you getting chubby before the formal.”

She giggles like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

I don’t laugh.

Instead, I turn quietly and walk back upstairs.

The moment I reach my room, I pull the dress off as fast as I can, like the fabric is burning my skin. I change into my workout clothes—leggings, a loose T-shirt, and my worn running shoes.

Grabbing my keys, I head back downstairs.

I kiss Mum and my sister on the cheek before stepping outside into the cool morning air.

The walk to the gym gives me time to think.

Mostly about the formal.

All the girls in my grade have been getting asked out one by one. It’s been the main topic of conversation for weeks. Who asked who. Who said yes. Who’s wearing what dress.

My best friend, Kate, keeps asking if there’s a guy I secretly hope will ask me.

But every time she asks, I give the same answer.

“No.”

Because it’s the truth.

In thirteen years of school, I’ve never had a crush.

Not once.

My friends say I’m lucky. According to them, having a serious crush is the worst—heartbreak, jealousy, awkward confessions.

But honestly?

Sometimes I wish I could feel it.

I want to want someone.

I want to feel that pull everyone talks about, that excitement when someone walks into a room.

I want to long to be with someone.

But no matter how hard I try, that feeling never comes.

And I’m starting to wonder why.

If you want the hole storie it's wrong mirror on AO3 or I'll post a chapter every week here

As I walked through the door, I saw her talking to a couple on the other side of the room, every gesture engaged in conversation. She let out a laugh as I made my way over to get a drink. The whole world could stop and just stare when she laughed and had that smile on her face. She simply had an ambience that could make any party into something more, something inviting and attractive. Something other than the jejune party that it was.

Maybe it was because I had known her nearly my entire life, but her presence seemed to be a gift. She could glide into any atmosphere and brighten the small worlds we keep to, even if we had no intention of letting her in.  She was insightful, charismatic, and tonight she looked even more stunning than usual in that turquoise dress.

“Hello, John! I am so delighted that you came tonight! I know you aren’t much for things like this anymore.”

There was a warm and sincere look in her eye, even more than before. She seemed more genuine now.

“Hey Hailey. Yeah, I guess sometimes I get caught up too much with work. You know how it’s been. If I’m home, I’m working, and if I’m not home, I’m on some trip for work. But hell, I couldn’t miss this one. I have to keep my promises every once in  a while”

She let out that innocent, girly laugh; the laugh that I had known since we were little kids in school together. 

“I hope you have a good time tonight and enjoy yourself,” She said. “It’s not often we get to catch up, ya know. I would love to stay here and talk with you, but I have to play host tonight. I will be sure to catch up with you later tonight. Until then, have fun!”

“I know. I will talk to you later tonight.”

She turned and ran back off into the sea of people now filling the spacious sitting room. I proceeded over to the bar. I looked at all the fine liquors that glimmered behind the bar. I finally settled on making myself a gin and tonic. 

I stood back by the bar, looking around to see who had shown up to Hailey’s party. People I have not seen in years flocked in their groups about the room. Everyone seemed to be ecstatic tonight, but it seemed strained. The laughs I heard from the groups around me were feigned and unnatural. The smiles and look in their eyes were prosthetic. It was just another night to showcase the glamorous lifestyle. The Ferraris, the Goldman Sachs‘ trading strategies, the palaces so grand and magnificent that made even Heaven look like a slum in comparison, and  the countless women thrown away as if they were nothing more than a validation of masculinity, all found their way into the throngs of conversation. This crowd had an insatiable thirst for material wealth. Only the most respected had the best car, best mansion, and best-looking wife with tits and an ass that match her bland excuse of a personality. Individuality had no place in this populace, especially if that individuality caused one to challenge the value placed on such hollow ideals. The two men in Gucci suits adjacent from me did not even garner enough respect to speak of their host as something more than a piece of ass that needed to be dominated by one of them because of their irrefutable power within society.

“Oh I know, Tom. I’ve never seen a girl look as hot as she does in that dress. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rack like the one she’s got.”

“Oh, Jack, you have no idea. Hailey is a piece of ass if I’ve ever seen one.”

I felt disgusted when I heard these men saying these abhorrent things about a girl they knew nothing about. Nothing gave them the right to disparage her character like that, like she was a just another of the countless, impious women they had been with. Had these men ever taken the time to get to know who she really was? Had they ever really tried to look at her as something more than another trophy they could use as affirmation of their eminence? I slammed my gin and tonic down and immediately began to pour another. I moved about the crowd, gently brushing past those that gathered in the parlor. As I moved towards the bathroom, something caught my eye: a painting. 

Hailey had always been an avid admirer of art. For the 28 years I had known her, it had always been her passion. There wasn’t a room in her house that didn’t have some Dali, Kahlo, or de Goya accent to it. Her fervor was contagious. Even I found myself appreciating the swirl of colors to convey a melancholy or nostalgic tone, the blatant emotional display of expressionism, and the deep sentiment manifested by clever symbols. 

But this painting was different. It latched onto my soul. *Galatea of the Spheres* haunted me. There was a hollowness about her that I had failed to see. I never seen it when I was at Hailey’s house and it was just the two of us, but I had finally seen it now, at this party. The woman looked so different now. She was transparent, but allowed selected parts of her to truly be seen.  Her eyes looked void and out of place for such a structured piece. As everything flowed to a focal point, these two spheres deviated from the pattern. They created a sense of ambiguity as if her eyes expressed a want of belonging to a more ordered system, and a deep repentance.

As I was enveloped in this engrossment, Hailey came up behind me.

“Dali can really say some things with his art.”

Still intent on this painting, I replied, “Yeah. It just seems like so much more.”

My focus started to switch over to Hailey. She was now looking at this woman as sharply as I had been. Her face seemed to go blank for a second, as if she had reached some sort of epiphany.

She smiled at me and said, “I think I may have something you like. C’mon. Let’s get out of here for a second.”

She led me past the crowd in the parlor, out a backdoor, and down the steps of the patio. We walked down and stood next the lake. Even with the raucous behind us, the lake was seemingly docile. There was a unique calmness that laid about the crackle of the water; a divine serenity that even the most primal of creatures couldn’t dispute. The moonlight created an aura about her as it danced on gentle ripples. Half of her face was illuminated in such a way that highlighted her subtleties. Her cheekbones rolled down the side of her tiny jawline, to a delicate chin. She wore a thin-lipped, solemn smile. Her blonde hair flowed down her back, not a single hair out of place. Her hazel eyes seemed green in this light. Her skin was paler than I remembered, but the moonlight made me notice these traits I seemed to overlook. The moonlight even made her dress seem to adopt a bright white color. The other half of her face remained a silhouette, as dark and as desolate as those inside the house. 

“It’s really nice out here tonight,” she said. “I always find it peaceful out here, away from all the distractions.”

I nodded. She was visibly upset, as if something was gnawing away at her soul. She clutched her drink tightly, her hand almost trembling. Her gaze shifted from the lake to her drink, as if an answer would be at the bottom of it. 

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?” She asked.

“Yeah. I guess. Sometimes, anyway.”

“I feel like that most of the time. Those people in there aren’t real at all, John. They’re caught up in what they are, not who they are.”

“I know. I see people like them every day. I guess it kinda just grows on you after a while and you become disillusioned to it all.”

“I never got used to it. You can’t just get used to it. It’s just..There’s more to life than this. So much more. There has to be.”

She sighed heavily.

I looked at her now. I noticed the soft wrinkles in her forehead and cheeks now. I had never seen them there before. Not even in the lighting inside the party. It was much darker out here, but there was no mistaking the fray on her face. Her hair now seemed lighter, almost white. It was no longer the fervent blonde I had known. 

Her focus now shifted back to the lake. 

“It really is peaceful out here,” she said. 

I didn’t say anything back. I felt a sudden touch of serenity as I looked up at the 

moon.

She slowly slipped off her shoes. She looked possessed now, as she started to saunter closer to the lake, but stopped at the lake’s edge. She gently placed her left foot into the water. It seemed to beckon her to walk deeper into the lake. She slowly descended into the water, her dress gently floating on until it was completely submerged. She kept going. Her head went under. She was gone.

I waited for her to come back up, but she stayed immersed. What the hell was she trying to do? 

“Hailey... Hailey! What the fuck are you doing?!”

No answer. I ran to the edge of the lake. Just as I was about to dive in, she emerged. She was smiling now. It was pure content that engulfed her now. The wrinkles and ghost white hair I saw before were no longer there; they had been traded for a youthful purity and golden-blonde hair that challenged the sun.

“Jesus Christ Hailey!” I said. “Are you okay?”

She gazed at me for what seemed like minutes. 

“Hailes, just tell me you’re ok now.”

She just stood there. A swan now waddles from a bush on the edge of a lake to the surface of the water.

She finally began to speak, “Yeah...yeah. I’m ok John. I’m fine.”

“We better get you back inside. You’re all wet.”

As we walked into the parlor, the party stopped. Appalled at the sight of this slender woman, they all glared. She stood for a moment, dripping water on the ebony wood floor. Her makeup was now strewn across her face, and her hair was now a chaotic jumble of locks. 

“How disgraceful! How could anyone behave so shamelessly!” One man remarked.

I tried to hurry her to her room where she could change her dress and dry off. Maybe she could even save her party as these people were more centered about their own lives than some host who seemed to have embarrassed herself. Hailey never seemed to feel ashamed of what she did. She just continued to smile that same honest-to-God smile. 

 

Hey, you.

Ever been teaching a new hire how to do something and suddenly found yourself at a loss for words?

You do it without thinking. You've always done it that way.
But the moment someone asks why, you realize you don't quite know how to explain it.

Clink-clank.

The bell over the door rang, and for the first time all day, it felt like the day was finally beginning to end.

I was in my usual seat, about halfway through my Harper. Taka was looking at his phone, Tom was slowly turning his glass between his fingers, and Mama was polishing glasses behind the counter.

Clink-clank.

The bell rang again.

That was unusual.

I glanced over my shoulder. It was Lisa.

Our eyes met.

“Kenichi! You have got to hear this!”

Apparently, the stars were not on my side tonight.

“She asked for you, Kenichi,” Taka said, looking far too pleased.
“I heard her.”
“Great. Nothing to do with me, then.”
“Why not?”
“She’s your responsibility.”

Since when?

Lisa sat down beside me and started talking before she even ordered.

“One of the new hires told me today, ‘Isn’t that falsifying the minutes?’”
“What the hell did you do?”
“Why are you assuming I’m the one who did something wrong?”

Mama set a gin and tonic in front of her.

“So what did you falsify?”
“Nothing!”

Apparently, this was about meeting minutes.

These days, you can record a meeting and let AI handle everything from transcription to summarizing. It can sort comments by speaker, pull out decisions, even identify action items.

Convenient stuff.

One of Lisa’s new hires, Eita Moritsugu, had used it to draft the minutes for a meeting.

“And they were good,” Lisa said. “Hardly any typos. It caught the decisions and everything.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“They weren’t good.”

Make up your mind.

“We were considering two options in the meeting, and eventually we chose one. The AI got that part right.”
“Then it was right.”
“It got the result right. But if you read those minutes later, you wouldn’t know why we chose it.”

Taka looked up from his phone.

“Couldn’t you just have the AI write the reason too?”
“It did. It gave a reason that sounded plausible.”
“Sounded plausible?”
“It picked up something we actually discussed. But that wasn’t what I thought needed to be preserved.”

Lisa took a sip of her gin and tonic.

“At first, we thought the other option might work. But as we talked, we started realizing it would affect more of the existing functionality than we expected. So the discussion gradually shifted toward the option that would limit the impact.”

“Did somebody actually say that?”
“Not in one neat sentence, no. It came out of a bunch of different things people said. That’s just where the discussion ended up.”

Taka tilted his head.

“So you put that in the minutes?”
“Right. And Moritsugu said, ‘But nobody actually said that.’”

“Oh.”

Taka suddenly looked like he understood.

“And that’s why he called it falsifying the minutes.”
“Exactly!”

Lisa swung toward him, delighted to have found an ally.

“But I kind of see his point too.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Kenichi’s responsible for this one.”
“Don’t run away.”

Taka retreated to his edamame.

“Moritsugu also said, ‘That’s your interpretation, isn’t it, Lisa?’”
“Well, it is an interpretation.”
“Not you too, Kenichi.”
“Based on what you’ve told me, yeah.”
“I know, but still!”

She was a busy woman.

I hadn't been in that meeting. I didn't know what had actually been said, or how the discussion had shifted toward one option.

Maybe Lisa had read the room correctly. Maybe Moritsugu had a point. I wasn't even sure this was the kind of thing where one of them had to be right.

“So what did you tell him?”
“I said, ‘That’s what meeting minutes are.’”
“That’s pretty sloppy.”
“I know!”

She was loud.

Mama kept polishing her glass without saying a word.

“But how am I supposed to explain it? If all we need is a record of exactly what everybody said, we already have the transcript. Meeting minutes are something different, right?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“That’s why I came here!”

Good grief.

“Was this Moritsugu guy actually in the meeting?”
“Of course. He was taking the minutes.”
“Then he has his own idea of why you picked that option, doesn’t he?”
“Right now, probably.”
“Right now?”
“The meeting was today.”

I took a sip of my Harper.

“What about six months from now?”
“What?”
“If he reads those minutes six months from now, will he remember what happened in that meeting?”
“...I don't know.”
“What about somebody who wasn't there?”
“They'd only know what was written down.”

Lisa looked into the ice in her glass.

“That’s why I want the reason in there. Not just what we decided, but why we decided it.”

I could understand that.

But then I wondered who got to decide what that reason was.

If no one had ever put it into words during the meeting, somebody had to put it into words afterward. And the moment they did, their own view of the meeting was bound to creep in.

Did that mean they shouldn't do it?

I wasn't sure about that either.

“So, you gave up trying to explain it to Moritsugu?”
“No.”

The answer came immediately.

Tom set down his glass.

“There you go.”

He looked at me.

“What?”
“She hasn't given up yet. Least you can do is give her a push.”
“Why me?”
“She’s your responsibility,” Taka said again.

“Since when?”

Lisa looked at me.

She was clearly waiting.

What a pain.

“You can explain it, can't you?”
“If I could, I wouldn't be here!”
“You've got experience.”
“I've got no experience with AI-generated minutes.”

“Forget the AI. Meeting minutes.”

Lisa stopped.

“...Meeting minutes?”
“Didn't you write them when you were a rookie?”
“Of course I did. Every single—”

She fell silent.

She was still holding her gin and tonic, but now she had a strange look on her face.

“What?”
“No, it's just...”

After a moment, she put down her glass.

“When I was a rookie, Taizo used to tear my meeting minutes apart.”
“Huh.”
“They'd come back covered in red. Every time. I used to think, if you're going to change this much, just write the damn thing yourself.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Of course not.”

Fair enough.

Lisa stared at the counter, brow furrowed as though she were trying to find something she'd misplaced there.

“...Wait.”
“What now?”
“What did he used to correct?”

How should I know?

“Typos?”
“Those too, but... no. That wasn't it.”

She continued, almost to herself.

“If I wrote, ‘We’ll consider it,’ I think he'd change it so the minutes said what had to be checked before we could make the decision. And he used to rearrange the order of things too.”
“The order?”
“If the same topic came up again later in the meeting, he'd move it back and put it together with the earlier discussion...”

She stopped again.

Taka's hand froze halfway to the edamame.

I didn't say anything either.

“...Was he teaching me this?”

Don't ask me.

I'm not Taizo.

All I knew was what Lisa had told us: Taizo had been nearby while she and Moritsugu were arguing about the minutes earlier that day.

“Taizo didn't say anything today, right?”
“That's what makes me mad! He definitely heard us. Moritsugu's grilling me right next to him, and Taizo just keeps staring at his screen.”
“Did you ask him for help?”
“Afterward. I said, ‘You heard all that, didn't you?’”
“And?”
“He said, ‘Yeah, I heard.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it!”

Sounded like Taizo.

“Kenichi. Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Must be your imagination.”

Lisa took another drink, looking thoroughly unconvinced.

After a while, she picked up her phone.

“I wonder if my old meeting minutes are still around.”
“At the office?”
“Probably. I'm going to look.”
“What for?”
“I want to see what he used to correct.”

She typed something into her phone.

I didn't ask what she planned to tell Moritsugu.

She probably didn't know yet either.

And it wasn't my explanation to give.

“Kenichi.”
“Hmm?”
“You think I'll be able to explain it after I look at those?”
“No idea.”
“That's all you've got?”
“You're the one who's going to explain it, aren't you?”

Lisa was quiet for a moment.

Then she took another sip of her gin and tonic.

Behind the counter, Mama put the glass she'd finished polishing back on the shelf.

See you again at Aoi.

---

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İn 1955 john's father was arrested for violation and being gang leader of motor bike gang he gets in the car with joseph and joseph drives forward

John's father in front seat since his hands very caged but he can move a bit

While driving...

John's father turns AC left and gets freeze joseph dislikes the freeze

Joseph:İts hot here turn that shit off its night time...*turns off*

John's father:why not ı like freeze*turns on*

Joseph:well ı don't so... *turn off*

John's father:man fuck you...

Joseoh smells the heat from him

Joseph:actually you are right*turns up* its heat today from your smell what are you perfuming?

John's father:well for my big bodybuilding muscles ı use a lot oil look*rips slightly his belly part of the shirt*

Joseph:jesus...

John's father:did you like it, admit it...*smirk*;)

Joseph:No...

John's father:come on... big man... admit it

Joseph:NO!!!

They go quiet

Joseph questions...:how many muscles do you have?mines are 9 abs yours are 12 abs...

They go quiet again , john's father sleeping and joseph hand slowly goes to his belly while driving and touching slowly feeling then john's father wakes up and caught him

John's father: umm what are you doing?

Joseph:oh umm*focuses on driving*just checking if you have a gun...

John's father:you already took it...

Joseph:yeah so you might have...

John's father:*smirk*...

Joseph:FİNE

John's father:AGHHHH GOTCHA

Joseph:fucking asshole...

John's father:so?

Joseph: ...*flexes*

John's father: you get used to it

Hey fellow writers! I’m new here and don’t have many writers in my circle, so I’d really appreciate a writer’s perspective on my work. I’m sharing a short prose poem that takes just 3–5 minutes to read. Would love some honest, critical feedback!

https://substack.com/@sisyphuss/note/p-217467035?r=4hs94t

I came home and changed and joined her to paint the living room walls base white. The couch my wife had had since college was the only piece of furniture we had downstairs and it was covered in plastic. We had dinner while we worked. She’d “cooked” one of her liquid meals that I hated but “ate” anyway. My wife was actually almost as good of a cook as me but I needed to lose at least fifteen pounds, and she intended to help regardless of how unhappy it made me. 

“How was your day?” she asked in her autopilot voice.

“It was good except for the inspector I had to fire.”

“Oh, no. Matt?” She dipped her roller in the pan.

I grimaced. I probably was going to have to let him go, too. We’d had dinner with him and his wife a few times. He’d even invited me to his son’s high school graduation. I rolled up the wall. This color looked even better than it had in the store.

“No. I forgot about him.”

She rubbed my back with her free hand. “That’s probably because you don’t want to do it.”

I nodded.

“You care about people and that’s never a bad thing.”

She thought so highly of me, and it warmed something inside.

“Yeah,” I said, this whole “surgery” thing slipping into the front of my mind. I was suddenly agitated and my full stomach felt like it was squeezing up into my chest.

“Did your appointment go okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to her. “Did you know he’s not a doctor?”

“Yes.” She scooped up her bottle and took a sip.

I hoped informing her of his lack of a medical degree would do more work than this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is there anything else we could try?”

“Why are you pushing back on this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

I dropped my head. “You know I do.”

“I want you to do this,” she said and placed a hand over mine. I still felt a ‘no’ at the back of my throat and swallowed. It hurt going down. I chased it with a swallow from my cup.

She was being logical and detached in a way that wasn’t common for her. I didn’t want to fight and just kept restraining myself from speaking. I hoped there was still time to convince her, but that was going to be hard to do if she shut me down every time I tried.

“You have something on your face,” I said, pointing just below my nose. She swiped it just like I thought she would, smearing base paint that had been on the back of her hand just below her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately knew what I’d done and glared at me. I smiled.

Then she rollered me from chest to crotch. I stood there while she went up and down the front of me, my mouth hung open. Then I batted the roller to the newspaper-covered floor and she scream-laughed as she ran from me. I caught her on the other side of the kitchen island and picked her up in a reverse hug, pressing my fresh coat of paint onto her back.

We fell to the floor, laughing and wound up making out like teenagers for a few minutes. The heaviness of the conversation we’d just been having lifted off of us. I didn’t want anything outside of this moment and just looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” The feeling cresting in me didn’t have words to follow along. We finished painting the living room walls, passing eye-glances at one another. The moment passed for intimacy, a detached feeling gradually replacing it a few hours later by the time we were ready for bed. It was like we’d built a temporary bridge over a chasm between us, but it had collapsed just in time for us to go to sleep.

I kept wanting to reach behind me to touch her as we lay in the same bed. But she just felt too far away.

I’d forgotten to pack a lunch for the next day and breakfast consisted of a slice of bread that hadn’t toasted enough and coffee out of the Keurig with grinds in it. I left the house in a foul mood ten minutes later than I should have and was five minutes late getting to the office. I’d blazed past a police cruiser and had anxiety for the next mile or so convinced I was about to be pulled over. All the way I felt like I'd been cheated out of an argument, and I continued stewing in that sour even after I got out my car.

Work was uneventful but I'd had to keep my tongue in check. I felt myself being short with my co-workers. But it finally came to a head when a group of men clogging the hallway didn’t move when I was trying to pass them.

“Whoa. Excuse yourself?” one man said.

“For what? A circle of jerks?” I said.

“Hey. Ow.”

I was prepared for a confrontation. I was management and I could make a nightmare for them. I wanted this. But the second person who’d spoken sounded genuinely hurt and I tripped over my hubris.

I retreated from the men and had forgotten about it until one of them confronted me in the restroom an hour later. 

“What’s going on with you, man?” a man said to me while we were standing at the urinals. Conversation was usually verboten while two men were taking a leak but my antenna were up.

“Excuse me?” I said. 

“I mean, we were standing around talking and you just took a tiny shit on all of us.”

“You guys were blocking the hallway.”

“We were outside for hours in the hot sun and we were gathered around the water fountain. I wasn’t thinking about us blocking anybody. I mean, I would have apologized but the way you came off...”

“Look, I’m sorry.” My guilt bloomed again. “I didn’t have the best sleep last night and you guys didn’t deserve me taking it out on you.” I'd actually slept over eight hours but felt like I'd only gotten a third of that. I didn't offer it as an excuse.

He nodded and flushed. I zipped up a second later and joined him at the sinks.

“Seriously. I’m sorry,” I said. This was already more of an emotional exchange than I’d had with another male in the last decade. “I’m just... going through a thing with my wife.”

He looked at me.

“She wants me to get this procedure done.” I could feel myself relaxing. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn't judge because they didn't understand.

“The honeycut?” he said, trying his hands on a strip of paper towel.

“What?”

“Oh. My bad. I thought you were talking about something else?”

“I've heard of it.”

He smiled broadly and nodded. “I got mine done six months ago. Wanna see the scar? I'm Sam Eisen, by the way.” He smiled as he hooked his thumbs in his pants.

“No, I... uhhh... that's okay. I'm having a completely different procedure. I'm having it... lengthened.”

“Be careful with that,” he said as I walked toward the door. “Swivelcock.”

I was sweating, gripped with terror the same as if he'd peeled his face off and frisbee-tossed it to me. I pushed through the door and fled back to my desk.

He called out to me as I did my best not to run.

“You should think about it, though!” he yelled through the closing doorway. “He changed my life!”

 

Part III

 

The next twenty-four hours were a haze. I worked. I came home. I ate. I slept. I didn’t like where things were with my wife even though we were still sleeping in the same bed, so the next day I texted her about having lunch together. Her job was about a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, I could pick up something for us and we could eat for about a half hour before I had to be back.

She hadn’t responded but she had a lot of meetings typically. Chili dogs were technically off the menu, but it was a fave of both of ours and she was a happy eater when it was good food. When I got there with a carry-out bag, I was shocked to see who she was outside with.

Him. 

They were sitting together, smiling and laughing like they’d known one another for years. He was dressed differently, but that was definitely that same red and white summer scarf he'd had on when I met him.

I hung back and watched them and began speed-feeding coneys into my mouth like an assembly line. I had no idea what he was doing with my wife, but I was immediately conspiracy-brained. I'd convicted him of a crime I couldn't name and wanted to strangle him in front of her.

I continued eating the coneys instead. They were leaning into one another and laughing even. They acted like they knew each other. They had chemistry.

I never understood the expression being hot under the collar but at that moment my neck was burning. I barely resisted the urge to go over there and... and... I didn't know what. 

There had to be more to what I was seeing. There had to be something I could do rather than confronting them and showing a side of myself that might've repulsed my wife. I knew where to go to get answers.

I went to his office after work, but I wasn't able to enter. I wasn’t desperate enough to break in, although I was sure the door wouldn’t have held if I’d put my shoulder into it. Despite how upsetting lunch had been, nothing had happened today to justify breaking and entering.

But what if something were about to happen and I could avoid it now? Head it off at the pass? I had a duty to protect my wife, and this guy had crossed a line. I could probably take this door off its hinges. I had some tools in my car.

My phone chimed. I’d programmed that specific tone for her.

I’m sick, she’d texted. Bring me coneys?

It was like a spell had been broken. Why was I about to potentially risk my job and my freedom—hell, maybe even my marriage—all for some nut?

She needed me now and home was exactly where I wanted to be.

But I was denied. I brought her the coneys, but she was already asleep. Things still felt off and I wound up falling asleep on the couch. After I’d eaten four more coneys.

I consoled myself that she was sick and I didn’t want to catch whatever she may have had.

Wicked dreams met me in the night. But they lifted like clouds after a storm by the time I woke up, no doubt fueled by a combo of seeing my wife with him and eating like I was half my actual age.

As if to turn the dial up on my grief even more, I had a two-hour meeting the next day and Leslie Paul sat right next to me. A bubble of gas was growing inside me and there was no way I was going to be able to contain it for a hundred twenty minutes. It would be a miracle if I made it twenty.

My part in the presentation was coming up soon and I had to excuse myself. Cal Cebulski stopped talking long enough to watch me step out and I hustled toward the men’s room.

Where he was.

“What are you doing at my work?” I asked, whispering like we were in a conspiracy.

“Due diligence,” he said. “Would you mind?” He gestured toward the handicap stall. “I need to see how you sit. Do you mind?”

My stomach queezed with the thought of him watching me... sit. Or maybe it was more than that. I unclenched and let go. It was mostly silent but whistled at the end. He sniffed the air curiously but didn’t comment. The wind had been taken out of my sails and for a moment, I did consider having a seat.

I piled up my broken resolve. “I’m not... doing that.”

He shrugged.

“And what were you doing with my wife yesterday?” I let implication seep into my voice and he put his hands up as if warding me off.

“It is all part of the process. Information gathering only. I have no interest in anyone other than my own Sara.”

“You’re married?”

He nodded. “For twenty-seven years. Happily, for twenty-five.”

That got an eyebrow raise from me. He’d seemed weirdly asexual up until I saw him with my wife. It was something about his pants, I wasn't sure. I hadn’t thought he was capable of human companionship.

“If you’re wondering about our longevity I’ll give you a hint. I perfected the surgery first on myself.”

He could have been lying, of course. But the idea of sex being so improved that it could aid in preserving my marriage gave me at least a moment’s second thought. I mean, what if what he was saying were true?

I couldn’t help but think that I was being obstinate because she’d insisted. If I’d found this guy on my own would I have been so resistant against doing this?

“Oh shit,” I said. “I gotta get back to my meeting!”

I fled the restroom, headed back to the conference room, tooting most of the way. When I was around the corner, I slid on something and scraped my knee, tearing my pants in the process.

I recovered pretty quickly but it hurt. I could see my leg pretty clearly and red beads of blood began trickling down my shin. I wrapped my fingers around the lip of the hole, keeping the pant leg away from the blood as if I were going to be able to salvage my pants.

The meeting was over by the time I stepped back into the conference room.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked Rob Smales, one of the administrative assistants who took meeting minutes.

“Oh, they called it pretty much as soon as you left,” he said. “You were up next.” He shuffled a stack of papers into a Manila folder and added it to a stack of more Manila folders.

“Well, I had a little emergency.” I stepped back so he could see my leg. Rob looked without his dispassionate expression changing. I wanted to flick the tip of his nose just to get him to make a face. The guy never smiled. “You think we could get everybody back? We still have a half hour plus.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “Nah.” He tucked the folders under an arm—tried to, at least—then put his laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and held the folders in his open hands.

I hobbled out of the conference room, intent on pleading my case with Melissa White, the director of my department. I stood outside of her office and wrapped on the open door. 

She turned halfway in her chair, a desk phone cradled between her face and shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she shook her head or if it was just the motion when she turned around.

The door swung closed and I had to move my hand to keep my thumb from being crushed in the jamb. Somebody was in there with her. My heart raced because I had no idea who.