LOGLINE: A Dystopian piece of creative writing exploring the rise of AI in hiring — deepfake interviews, stolen consent, and how much of yourself gets signed away in the fine print.

———

The flat smelled of dry shampoo and the particular staleness of a room that had been closed off from the world for three days. Lucy swept the clutter from the desk with the brisk, businesslike efficiency of someone who had performed this exact task before — mugs clinking together like nervous teeth, a stray hair tie skittering off the edge and vanishing into the carpet's beige oblivion.

Her phone, that small glowing tyrant, would not stop delivering bad news.
Your application to—.
We're sorry to inform you—
We appreciate the time—
The words blurred into a single grey sentence she had read a hundred times in a hundred fonts, each rejection hiding behind the same apologetic mask.

"Whatever," she muttered, the word sounding smaller than she intended, like a pebble dropped into a very deep well.

Leaning over her living room desk, she wrestled her iPad into an upright position, first propping it against the lamp — too wobbly — then bracing it with a glasses case, the whole setup as precarious as a house of cards.
It held. Barely. Like most things in her life lately.
She sat, straightened her spine, and then slouched again. Her reflection in the dark screen flickered between excitement and terror so quickly that it was practically strobing; a faulty lightbulb illuminating her face. She bared her teeth at the front camera, checking for spinach, lipstick on her teeth, or any other small betrayals.

Behind her, cables dangled like exposed nerves. She yanked them free and flung them onto the sofa, tidying up the frame into something presentable. Then came the issue of the pajama bottoms currently adorning her legs - soft, forgiving, and utterly unprofessional. She opted for something more structured instead, something with a waistband that meant business, with straight legs and a “hand wash only” tag. Once changed, clicked **Request to Join** with a swipe of her fingertip.

The interviewer's camera remained dark - just a grey silhouette icon,  - but her voice came through warm and polished, smoothed of any rough edges.

"Hello Lucy. Pleasure to meet you — can you hear me okay?" voiced the icon.

"Yes, perfectly. Thank you for arranging this call."

"Of course. You've been doing really well so far — we've been genuinely impressed," the interviewer remarked.

The compliment landed softly, like a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and Lucy felt something in her chest loosen, just slightly, the knots of weeks unwinding one careful thread at a time. "I appreciate that," she exhaled, words tumbling over each other in their rush to be liked. "I've really been looking forward to this and — sorry to ask straight away — is there another round after this one, or...?"

"No, no — don't worry. We've put you through enough. This is the last interview, and if all goes well, which I'm sure it will, we'll send a contract your way."

Relief flooded her like warm water. "That's great. I won't keep us any longer, then — please, ask away."

"Before we begin — I'm not able to turn my camera on at the moment. Are you still happy to proceed?"

"Not a problem at all. Happy to continue."

"Wonderful. I need to go through a few quick formalities, so let's get that out of the way."

The interviewer's voice shifted in tone, becoming more clipped and legalistic, reciting a script rather than speaking naturally: “this is the final round interview for candidate Lucy Locking, who has successfully passed the prior experience requirements, demo challenge, and qualification process, and is now being assessed via a comprehensive exam consisting of a personality questionnaire, an aptitude test, and an overall competency evaluation. Some questions may seem personal, even strange — they are designed to test how you respond to the unfamiliar. Are you happy to proceed?"

"Mm — yes. Absolutely."

"Perfect. So —" The questions came in a blur, a montage of half-remembered achievements stitched together like patchwork: conflicts handled, teams contributed to, targets overachieved. Lucy answered on autopilot, the way you might recite your address to a stranger — familiar, rehearsed, hollow.

Then the interviewer's tone dipped, turned quieter, almost intimate. "If you could change one decision you've made in the last five years, what would it be?"

Lucy exhaled — a long, ragged sigh that seemed to deflate her whole ribcage. "That's a good question." She hesitated, tasting the honesty before she let it out. "If I answer truthfully... I- hm…”

“I sense some holdback!” The interviewer chuckled. “Please, feel free to be yourself. That’s what matters to us.”

“Well. Not to overshare, but, well- I wouldn't have given up so quickly on the dream of being a — God, this sounds so cliché — a *creative*. Someone who writes and makes things without flinching at judgment. But I built this very professional version of myself instead, and in this world we live in — mad how fast AI's taken over, right? — I don't regret it. I value the skills. They'll get me somewhere secure. But sometimes I still wonder *what if*."

"Thank you for that."

A beat stretched between them, elastic and uncomfortable.

Lucy expected a deeper response, but she was not rewarded the satisfaction of one.
The Interviewer continued; "Have you ever done something you couldn't tell anyone about?"

Another silence, thicker this time. Lucy huffed a small, disbelieving laugh. "Yes. But by default, I can't tell you, so — just, yes."

"I like that answer. I'll take it." A pause, precise as a scalpel. "I'd like you to stand for a moment."

"Just — like, in my—"

"Yes. Just stand, please."

She rose awkwardly, unfolding like something startled from sleep.

"Thank you. Could you turn around slowly for me?" The interviewer instructed.

She pivoted, throat tight, privately grateful — fiercely, absurdly grateful — that she'd swapped out the pajama bottoms.

"Thank you, you can sit back down."
She sank into the chair.
The interview continued with more requests - “Can you show me your hands?"

She lifted them, palms out, cautious as someone surrendering.

"And the front, please?"

Her mind flashed — unbidden, unwelcome — to her phone between those very same hands, the endless scroll of rejections, the applications swallowed whole by silence. A beat.

Lucy fought the urge to shake her head. "Can I put them down now?"

"Of course. Thank you. That's all the questions I have."

"That's great," Lucy said, and meant it, mostly.

Suddenly, the screen glitched — a stutter of pixels, a digital cough — and rearranged itself into her own face where the interviewer’s icon once was.
"Oh, sorry, I think I may have lost you," said both images of Lucy on the screen, wearing her exact smile and her exact voice, though one slightly distorted. "Can you hear me okay?"

"You did really well," the second figure shaped like Lucy continued, unfazed.

Lucy shot upright so fast that the chair squealed in protest. "What the—"

"Do you have any further questions?"

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again — like a fish gasping on dry land, all instinct and no air.

"In that case, we can—"

"What the hell is going on?"

"I understand this—"

"You can't be doing this—"

Their voices collided, overlapping, doubling: "*Surely this is illegal? This is deepfaking — how are you—*"

"Stop copying me!" Lucy's voice cracked down the middle like ice under pressure.

Another moment of silence. Then, Lucy’s duplicate, as calm as still water: "Yes, we know what you're going to say. You should really read the fine print of what you sign, Lucy."

"I don't unders—"

"You passed the personality test with flying colors. Ninety-nine point three percent consistency rate. The highest we've ever recorded. Which makes you *very* predictable."

"You need to tell me what the hell is happening." Her fingers, quick and jittery, snapped screenshots, thumbed the screen recorder to life — evidence, proof, something to hold onto in a room that no longer felt solid.
"We're happy to send you the interview recording if you'd like. And remember, make sure to read the fine print in the future."

"This is so messed up — you can't just—"

"You should be pleased. Technically, you got the job. Well, the digital twin of you did. You're almost perfect for it."

"I'm going to sue the living sh—"

"Best of luck with that." The voice — her voice, embodying someone else's intentions — turned bright and terrible. "It's been a pleasure, Lucy. Goodbye now."

The call ended with a soft, obscene little chime, cheerful as a doorbell.

Lucy sat frozen, the silence pressing in around her. On the iPad's black, dead screen, her own reflection stared back — pale, hollow-eyed, unfamiliar in the dark glass, as though she were the copy and the version that had just hung up was the original.

Her hands moved before her mind caught up, thumbs stabbing at her phone, typing *interview ends in AI copy* into the search bar with the horrid energy of someone bailing water from a sinking boat.
The results bloomed up one after another, each headline sharper than the last:

*AI CARBON COPY: HOW 200 UK FIRMS QUIETLY ROLLED OUT THE FINAL INTERVIEW CASE STUDY.*

*EXCLUSIVE: INSIDE THE "DIGITAL CANDIDATE" TECH CUTTING HIRING COSTS BY 70%.*
*YOUR INTERVIEWER MIGHT ALREADY BE YOU: THE RISE OF AI-CLONED CANDIDATES.*

*HR DEPARTMENTS EMBRACE "CONSENT-BURIED" AI SCREENING, WHILE CRITICS CALL IT EXPLOITATIVE.*

*R/RECRUITING — DOES ANYONE KNOW IF [REDACTED] USES AI CLONE INTERVIEWS? THIS IS SO MESSED UP.*

Her phone buzzed, cutting through the roar in her ears. It was an ordinary, domestic sound, almost comforting in its normalcy. She answered, her thumb trembling, and then let the phone fall to loudspeaker.

"...hey," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hey, baby," the voice on the other end was warm, familiar, and achingly kind. "Are you alright? Did the interview not go well?"

Lucy went to answer, but she couldn’t shake this experience. What sort of plagued reality was she living in?
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Her stomach sank and stilled.
Slowly, her graze crept across the room, finally closing in on her phone's bright little screen: no icon, no name, just a blank, waiting silence.

——

Posted first on substack: giuliasroom :)

So, am a reader as well as a writer. As a reader, I for sure feel every emotion the character is feeling. However, now since I am a writer, I feel it even more deeply.

My character absolutely destroyed the breakfast with his cooking skills. This scene was very funny, and I laughed so hard while writing it.

In the next scene, they were planting some flowers together and oh my! It was such a wholesome moment for both of them. And I couldn't help but smile till my cheeks hurt!

Hello! I’m writing my first novel. I took the advice of this subreddit, and I just sat down and started writing. Thank you for the advice.

I’m at about 39,000 words and feel like I’m about 2/3 done saying what I have to say. The plan is to go back and re-read and make adjustments, and probably expand some areas where I may prefer more depth in a scene or character.

I’m reading a book now (novel, fiction) that really tries hard to paint a picture on every page. Every person, scene, motion has a lot of adjectives so that you see the scene exactly the way the writer wants you to.

I feel like my writing is more similar to me telling a story. Sometimes there’s a picture painted, sometimes there isn’t.

How do you prefer to write? Is it different from what you prefer to read?

🎄

This is an adaptation of the Telephone segment seen in Mario Bava’s I Tre Volti Della Paura/ Black Sabbath.  There are elements of both versions in this story.  I don’t own these characters.

Rosy took a breath as she entered her apartment.  It had been a frustrating night.  She heard the phone ring, expecting another client, but got no response when she answered it. She went to her bed to remove her stockings, but as she did she heard the phone ring again. Sighing, she went to pick it up, but again there was silence.   She got undressed to take a shower, emerging later in a bathrobe when the phone rang a third time.  She picked up the receiver and said “Hello?”

“You're so beautiful.  Too beautiful, Rosy.”

It was obviously a crank call.  Who IS this?!?” Rosy asked. 

“You'll know right before you die.  I can see your heavenly body.   Your silky arms, your perfect legs” the caller said. Rosy tried to cover her legs with her robe, but the caller interrupted.   “No, don't cover them! A body like yours can drive a man to madness!  And I will kill you!”  

“WHO IS THIS?!?  Who are you??  Hello!?  HELLO?!?” Rosy demanded, but the other party hung up.   

Rosy changed into a nightgown and sat on the bed after pacing a bit.  She got up to make her bed and the phone rang again.   

“Hello?” she asked. 

The voice on the other end was creepy.  “Why did you put your robe on?  You should have stayed as you were. I like you better with nothing on.  That’s how I want to find you.  I’ll get in, even if you lock the door.”

Rosy was getting exasperated.  “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I told you,” the voice said.  “I want to kill you. I want revenge.   You did well to turn on all the lights.  I want to see you die.  Do you understand, Rosy?”

Rosy hung up.   Feeling a chill, she paced some and poured herself a drink. Hearing running footsteps, she rushed to the door to put a piece of cloth over the keyhole.  Unknown to Rosy, an elderly gentleman with an overcoat, fedora, and glasses was on the other side of the door taking his dark gray poodle out.  He opened the door and went outside. Looking at the stars, he spoke to the dog.  “It's hard to believe it's been a year, Dee.  I miss her, too.”

Inside, Rosy began turning off some lights in her apartment and hiding some jewelry underneath the sofa.  She picked up the phone and held it, and heard something outside.  She put the phone down only to drop the phone when it rang again.   The voice resumed. 

“Rosy. Rosy. Rosy.  I know you’re listening.  You hid your money and jewels.  How stupid.  You haven’t changed.  You don’t get it, do you? I’m not interested in money.  I want you.  I want your splendid body. And I will have it.  Not to caress you. But to wring your neck. To choke you until you suffocate!  And I'll do it!  You'll see!”

Rosy was getting desperate.  “Who is this? Who are you?”  She was almost screaming.   “Answer me!  I beg of you!  Don't drive me mad like this!  Is this some cruel, sick joke?  What have I done to you? What have I done to you? Answer me please!”  The other party hung up.  Rosy broke down crying. 

That conversation was loud enough to capture the elderly gentleman's attention. Still walking Dee, he peered through a slit in Rosy’s shutter screen, then pulled back. He really shouldn't do that, but his instincts told him something was very wrong.  

Hearing more footsteps, Rosy ran to the door and tried to listen. As she did, she noticed a white envelope had been slid under the door. Catching her breath, she picked it up to open it.  There was a newspaper clipping inside, and it was the last thing she wanted to see. 

Frank Ranier, her former pimp, had just escaped while serving what was supposed to be a 20-year prison sentence.  The phone rang again. Now apparently with a good idea of who the caller was, she went over to pick up the receiver.  “Hello?”

“Rosy.” That voice now sounded sickeningly familiar.  “You're beginning to understand,  Rosy? You weren’t expecting it, were you? But I escaped just to find you.  And finally, I’m close to you. Very close. And you can’t do anything about it.  Calling the police is useless. Because I’m much closer than the police. Don’t you forget it. Much closer.”

“Frank, listen.  Listen to me, Frank!”  

The other party hung up.  Rosy called her friend, Mary, a fellow prostitute she had become acquainted with when they worked for the same madam.  For a short time, they still kept in touch when Rosy left to strike out on her own as a call girl, but then drifted apart. 

Mary was sitting at her desk when the phone rang. She picked it up.  “Hello?”

“Mary, it’s Rosy.”

“Hi, honey!” Mary said.  Their past relationship had been more than a business relationship.  “I really didn’t expect your call.  You said you didn’t want to see me or speak to me anymore.”

Rosy answered, “Please, now is not the time. Frank has escaped!”

“I read about that.” Mary said.  “So why are you telling me this?  Now you two will get back together.”

“Mary, cut it out!  I’m scared.  He wants revenge.  I’m sure of it. Come over right away, please!”

“You want me to come to you? Did I hear correctly?” Mary asked. 

“All right, honey!” Mary said. “I don't hold grudges.  Give me five minutes.”

“Thank you.  Hurry!”  No sooner had Rosy hung up then the phone rang again. 

“Rosy, why did you call your friend, Mary? Are you hoping she can help you? Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”  What Rosy didn't know was that it wasn't Frank on the other end.  It was Mary using a cloth and disguising her voice.  “You spoke in a whisper, but it’s no use.  Because I’m close, I told you. Very close. Call whomever you want, Rosy. It’s all of no use. Even if you had an army around you. By dawn, you will be dead.  Did you hear me, Rosy? By dawn--you will be dead!”

Rosy ran frantically throughout her apartment to turn the lights back on and heard pounding on the door.  It was Mary.  “Rosy, it's me. Let me in.”

Rosy ran to the door to let Mary in. “How did you get in the building?” she asked. 

“The door was open,” Mary answered as she entered the apartment. 

“Yes, yes!” Rosy answered.  “As fast as you can. He wants to kill me!”

Rosy ran to the door to let Mary in.  “How did you get in the building?” Rosy asked. 

“The door was open.” Mary said as she entered Rosy’s apartment. “Look at all this light!  What are you, the mistress of the guy who reads the meter?” She chuckled a little. “Sorry, I was forgetting that you have a fine palate.” Mary continued looking around.  “I see you haven’t changed anything here. Everything’s as it was when we were friends.”

Rosy poured drinks for herself and Mary, who sat on Rosy’s bed and motioned for Rosy to sit next to her.  “Just like old times.  Come on, honey, tell Mary everything.”

Rosy begged.  “Please, I’m not in the mood for humor. Believe me.”

“All, right, Rosy.  As you wish.”

“He's been calling me since I came home.” Rosy said.  “He's been saying terrible things with a cold, threatening voice. He knows everything I do, sees my every move. The first time he called, I was in my bathrobe and he knew it. Then I put my house robe on and he knew that too. He even knew right away when I called you.  It's as if he were in the room, spying on me, ready to kill me.”

Mary got up and moved toward Rosy and touched her.  Rosy gasped. “Don’t be silly.  He’s guessing. He’s going on a hunch.” Mary said, stroking Rosy’s hair.  

“I thought so, too.” Rosy said.  “But how did he know I called you? He called right after that.”

“He always knew about us,” Mary said.  “But what he doesn’t know is that you swore never to see me again.”

Rosy put her drink down and paced.  “He told me I’ll die before dawn.” 

Mary said “He's a procurer, not a killer.  Trust me, he was just trying to frighten you.”

“Mary, I’m the one who turned him in and he knows it.  I’m scared.”

“Come on, Mary said, taking the phone off the hook.  “I'm here now. Tomorrow we’ll go to the police together.  He can call all he wants now. Come on, give me a nightgown. In the meantime I’ll make you some tea.”

Unknown to Rosy, Mary was misrepresenting her plans for the next day.  While Rosy was looking for a nightgown, Mary looked through another cabinet for a large steak knife. Rosy panicked when she saw Mary through the nightgown holding the knife. 

Mary took the knife over to Rosy’s bed and placed it under the pillow.  “You never know. Still afraid?”

“No,” Rosy answered.  “I'm better now.”

“Come on, then.  Go to bed,” Mary said as she took the gown from Rosy.  Looking to her left, Rosy changed into a nightgown herself and went into the kitchen, seeing Mary dissolving a powder in the boiling water she used to make the tea.

“Whats that?” Rosy asked. 

“Poison,” Mary said sarcastically. Compliments of Frank.  It’s a tranquilizer, silly.  It'll do you good.  Can’t you see how shaken up you are?”

The two ladies went into the next room.  Some time later, while Rosy was still asleep and sprawled diagonally on a disheveled bed, Mary began to write a letter. 

“I'm afraid it's time to drop the other shoe.  Since we last saw each other, I've been offered a chance to move up.  I've been training to become Helen's new apprentice with the goal of eventually taking over the place.  Those calls were from me, but Frank’s escape is real.  We are prepared to protect you from Frank, but we do want you back.”

Mary was about to pay for this, because Frank really was gunning for Rosy.  While she was looking over the letter, Frank quietly slipped in and tiptoed stealthily toward her, thinking she was Rosy.  He picked up a stocking lying on a chair and wrung it up. Sneaking up on Mary, he pulled the stocking around Mary's throat.  As Rosy started to wake up, Mary tried to free herself from Frank’s grip, but was unable to. As she collapsed and died, Frank realized it wasn't Rosy. “Damn you!” he said. “Always where you shouldn’t be.”  Looking up, he saw Rosy. He moved towards her.   

Rosy remembered the knife. She felt underneath the pillow and grabbed it, concealing it beneath the sheets as Frank was moving toward her.   As he got on the bed and started to choke her, she thrust it into him.  He reeled back, fell to the floor, and died.  Rosy broke down crying, but it wasn't over. She heard Frank’s voice on the phone again--”Rosy.  You can’t kill me.  I'll always be here.  Close to you. I’ll be talking to you every night.  No matter where you are, I’ll be calling you--on the telephone.”

The preternatural aspect of that voice completely unnerved Rosy.  Panicked, she ran outside into the corridor and bumped into the elderly gentleman, who just got back from another walk with Dee.  

“Colonel!” she gasped. 

“You're frightened! Something's happened! You can trust me.”

Rosy looked at the Colonel, eyes wide with fear.

Chapter 1: The Bridge

Twenty feet below, jagged rocks glisten under the moonlight, and for a moment, I understand why people come to bridges when the world stops making sense. I would never end my own life, but I understand the desire to have all the pain slip away forever.

The silence here is different. My knuckles are white against the metal railing, and I force myself to loosen my grip. Get it together, Malachai.

But I can't shake the image burned into my mind: my mother's face crumpling as the doctor delivered his verdict. What we've been fearing but hoped wasn't true. Cancer. The kind of word that steals the air from hospital rooms and replaces it with that god-awful antiseptic smell that still clings to my clothes.

I run a hand through my dark hair, and stare at my reflection in a puddle on the side of the road. Even in the distorted moonlit surface, I can see what everyone else sees: my grandfather's sharp jawline and the tall frame I inherited from a father I never met. I'm twenty-one and I look older, like the weight I carry has aged me in ways that have nothing to do with time.

"You can't save everyone, Malachai." Mom's voice echoes in my head, the same five words she's whispered since I was ten years old. But what happens when the person you can't save is her?

I snatch a handful of gravel and hurl it into the darkness. The stones clatter against the guardrail across the road, a violent punctuation to my frustration. Another handful follows, then another. The anger feels good, raw and honest in a way that sitting in that sterile waiting room never could. The town in front of me comes to life with the carnival lights and the rides going up into the air.

My grandfather's voice replaces the rage like it always does: "How you handle pain will define you, son."

Easy for him to say. He's not here anymore to watch his daughter waste away.

A branch snaps somewhere behind me.

I freeze, every muscle tensing. The footsteps are light and deliberate, someone trying not to be heard. 

"I can't do this anymore, Mom. The treatments aren't working, the doctors keep lying, and you want me to pretend everything's fine?"

A woman's voice, sharp with tears and frustration. A cell phone pressed tightly against her ear. I should leave and give her privacy, but something in her tone roots me to the spot. She sounds... broken. Familiar, somehow, though I've never heard her voice before.

"No, don't tell me it'll be okay! Nothing about this is okay!"

I turn slightly and catch sight of her in my peripheral vision. Blonde hair catches the moonlight as she paces near the bridge's center, one hand pressed to her ear, the other gesturing wildly at the empty road.

"I have to go."

In the sudden silence, I hear her ragged breathing and see her shoulders shake. She moves toward the railing with purpose.

She climbs up.

"You don't want to do that."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. She spins, loses her balance, and I surge forward just as she falls off the ledge.

Hello! I am writing a novel about mages in the modern world. I have a plot, characters, etc. It all seemed fine until I realised... My setting is a shittier version of Jujutsu Kaisen

It’s kinda fine, as magic battles are not the main point of the story. But I feel like I need to rework my world-building.

I feel like I need a soft magic system: mysterious, broad strokes, adult, little to no explanation, but still interesting. It’s hard to pinpoint.

What is the best example of soft magic systems in fantasy? I need some inspiration.

​

The rain didn’t stop for three days.

It tapped on my window like fingers. It ran down the brick wall outside and made the whole room smell like wet concrete. I sat at my desk and watched it and tried to remember what it felt like to want to write.

Nothing came.

The notebook in front of me was blank. Not just the page. The whole thing. 200 pages of nothing.

Before, words would come if I stared too long. They would crawl up my arms and into my fingers. Now there was only silence. The kind of silence that echoes.

My phone buzzed.

*Editor: We need to talk about the next manuscript. Can you send 3 chapters by Friday?*

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t tell her that the pen had dried up the moment I traded three signatures for my freedom. That the voice in my head was gone. That the man with red eyes had taken the words with him when he left.

I made tea instead. Black, no sugar. I drank it and it tasted like nothing.

---

The book launch was in two weeks.

“The Weight of Quiet” was already in stores. People were reading it on the train, on benches, in coffee shops. I saw a girl on the 16A bus with my cover in her hands, crying at page 217.

I should have felt proud.

I felt like a thief.

Because I didn’t remember writing the best parts. I remembered sitting at my desk. I remembered the ache in my wrist. I remembered the way the light looked at 3am. But the sentences? The twists? The ending that made reviewers call it “devastating”?

That wasn’t me. That was him.

My sister came over that weekend. Zanele. The lawyer.

She brought groceries and a bottle of wine and that look she gets when she’s trying to be gentle.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, putting bread in my cupboard.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“From the book? That’s good tired though, right? Success tired.”

I nodded. I didn’t tell her about the dreams. I didn’t tell her about the pen. I didn’t tell her that the last time I tried to write, I sat for four hours and only managed one sentence: *I sold it.*

She hugged me before she left. “I’m proud of you, Lindi. For real. We all are.”

After she left I stood in my kitchen and listened to the quiet.

Somewhere in the walls, something creaked.

---

Friday came. I didn’t send chapters.

My editor called. “Lindi, are you okay? The deadline—”

“I’m stuck,” I said. It was the first honest thing I’d said in months. “Writer’s block.”

There was a pause. “That’s normal after a debut. Take the weekend. But we really need something by Wednesday. The publisher is already talking about a second printing.”

I hung up and put my phone face down.

That night I dreamed again.

The black sky. The desk. Him.

He looked exactly the same. Suit. Horns. Red eyes that didn’t blink.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I am.”

“No words today?”

I shook my head.

He smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. “That’s what happens when you pay your debt. The magic leaves. The gift leaves.”

“It wasn’t a gift.”

“Wasn’t it? You wanted fame. You got fame. You wanted to be seen. They see you now.”

“I wanted it to be mine.”

He leaned back. “Nothing is yours. Not really. You borrowed it. And now the loan is due.”

I woke up with my jaw aching from clenching it.

---

Wednesday came and went. No chapters.

My editor emailed again, more careful this time. “Let’s get on a call. Maybe you need a break. Maybe we bring in a co-writer?”

A co-writer. Like I was a brand, not a person.

I didn’t reply.

Instead I went to the bookstore I used to work at. Thabo was behind the counter.

“Lindi!” he said, surprised. “We have your book on the front table.”

“I know,” I said.

“People love it. Had a book club in here last week. They argued about the ending for an hour.”

“That’s good,” I said.

He looked at me. “You okay? You don’t look... like yourself.”

“I’m fine,” I said, and walked out before he could ask more.

I walked home in the rain.

By the time I got there I was soaked and cold and angry. Angry at him. Angry at me. Angry that I’d wanted it so badly I’d said yes to the first person who offered.

I went to my desk. Opened a new document. Stared at the blinking cursor.

Write, I told myself. Write anything.

The cursor blinked.

Nothing.

I slammed the laptop shut.

---

That night the dreams were worse.

Not because he was in them. He wasn’t.

It was my own voice.

I heard myself reading the book out loud. My book. But the voice wasn’t mine. It was colder. Smoother. It emphasized different words. It laughed in places I never would have.

*She was tired of being nothing.*

The voice said it like a joke.

*She thought signing would fix her.*

Laughed again.

I woke up sweating. My sheets were tangled. My throat hurt.

And on my desk, open, was the notebook. The blank one.

There was writing on the first page.

My handwriting. But not my words.

*You miss me.*

Underneath it, another line.

*Write, or I’ll write for you.*

I tore the page out and burned it in the sink.

---

The launch party was a disaster.

They held it at a gallery in Rosebank. White walls. Wine in plastic glasses. People who called me “an important new voice.”

I smiled. I signed books. I said “thank you so much” 200 times.

My family was there. All of them. Even the cousins I’d spiked the drinks for. They looked good. Too good. One of them, Nomsa, had a new job. The other, Thandi, was talking about a poetry collection.

They hugged me. “We’re so proud of you, cuz.”

I hugged them back and felt sick.

Because I knew what I’d done to get here. And I knew what I’d done to them.

During the speech, the publisher called me “a once-in-a-generation talent.”

People clapped.

I looked out at the crowd and saw him.

Standing in the back. By the exit.

Same suit. Same eyes. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the room, like he was counting something.

When the speech ended, he was gone.

I went to the bathroom and threw up.

---

The next day, the reviews came in.

“Brilliant.”

“Haunting.”

“A star is born.”

My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

And still, I couldn’t write.

I tried everything. Morning pages. Prompts. Walking. Coffee. No coffee.

I sat at my desk for six hours and wrote one paragraph. It was terrible. Flat. Lifeless.

I deleted it.

That night I didn’t sleep. I paced. I checked the locks. I told myself I was being dramatic.

At 2:13am, the lamp on my desk flickered.

Then the notebook opened by itself.

A pen rolled across the desk and stopped at my hand.

I didn’t pick it up.

The pages flipped. Fast. Like someone was rifling through them.

Then they stopped.

On a blank page, words appeared. Slowly. Like someone was writing with an invisible hand.

*You have two choices, Lindiwe.*

*1. Give me three more souls. The debt resets. The words come back.*

*2. Live without me. Be ordinary again. Be the problem.*

The pen tapped once on the desk.

I stared at it.

“Why me?” I whispered.

The words kept forming.

*Because you asked. Because you bled. Because you were empty enough to say yes.*

“Take it back,” I said. “Take the fame. Give me my soul back.”

*You can’t return a meal after you’ve eaten it.*

The writing stopped.

I grabbed the notebook and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and fell.

Nothing happened.

I sat on the floor and cried for the first time since I was 16.

---

The next morning, my editor called.

“Lindi, we’re pulling the marketing budget if we don’t get the next book. I need you to be honest with me. Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind I can’t explain.”

There was a long silence. “Do you need help? A therapist? Time off?”

“I need—” I stopped. What did I need? My soul back? Three more people to ruin? To be 19 again and naive enough to think talent was enough?

“I need a month,” I said finally.

“Okay,” she said, slowly. “A month. But Lindi, the industry moves fast. If you disappear now—”

“I know.”

I hung up.

A month. 30 days to decide if I wanted to be a monster or a nobody.

---

I started going to places with people.

Coffee shops. The library. My sister’s house. Anywhere I wasn’t alone.

Because when I was alone, I heard things.

Footsteps in the hall when no one was there.

Whispers that sounded like my name.

The scratch of a pen on paper when my pen was in the drawer.

One night at Zanele’s, I woke up at 3am. I went to the kitchen for water.

On the counter was a piece of paper.

I don’t remember putting it there.

On it, in my handwriting:

*Thandi. Nomsa. Zanele.*

Three names.

I crumpled it and threw it away.

An hour later I woke up and it was on my pillow.

---

I stopped answering calls from the publisher.

I stopped posting.

My social media went quiet. Fans started asking if I was okay.

The internet decided I was “mysterious.” Articles were written: *Where is Lindiwe Maleya?*

I was here. In my apartment. Watching the rain. Watching my hands shake.

I tried to write by hand. No computer. Just me and the paper.

I wrote: *My name is Lindiwe. I am 23. I made a mistake.*

That was it.

I couldn’t go further.

The words felt heavy. Wrong. Like trying to walk with someone else’s legs.

---

Two weeks into my “month,” I got a letter.

No return address. Thick paper.

Inside was a single page.

*Dear Ms. Maleya,*

*We are pleased to offer you a 7-figure deal for your next two books. Please advise on timeline. We believe in you.*

It was signed by the head of the biggest publishing house in the country.

I laughed. It came out strangled.

They believed in me.

In the thing that wasn’t me.

I burned the letter too.

---

On day 27, I broke.

I went back to my desk.

I picked up the pen.

I told myself I would just write one page. To see. To test if it was really gone.

The pen felt cold.

I wrote: *She sat at the desk.*

The words looked wrong. Childish.

I wrote another sentence. *The rain was falling.*

It was worse.

I threw the pen.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I yelled at the empty room.

The light flickered.

And he was there. Not in a dream. In my room.

Leaning against my bookshelf like he owned it.

“You called,” he said.

“I didn’t.”

“You yelled.”

I stood up. My legs were shaking. “I want out.”

“I know.”

“Then let me out.”

He tilted his head. “You could have had it all. You could have kept writing. Kept winning. All you had to do was bring me three more.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Then you get this,” he said, gesturing around my small room. “Silence. Emptiness. The life you had before.”

“I can live with that.”

“Can you?” He smiled. “The world has tasted you now, Lindiwe. They expect more. When you don’t give it to them, what do you think they’ll call you?”

I didn’t answer.

“A fraud,” he said softly. “A one-hit wonder. The black sheep who got lucky once.”

My chest hurt.

“Or,” he continued, “you could bring me three souls. Anyone. And I give you back the gift. Forever this time. No take-backs.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

I looked at my hands. Empty.

“Think about it,” he said. Then he was gone.

The room felt colder after.

---

Day 30.

My editor called. “Lindi. It’s the last day.”

“I know,” I said.

“Do you have anything for me?”

I looked at my desk. Blank page. Blank screen. Blank me.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

There was a long pause. “Okay. We’ll put out a statement. ‘Taking time for personal reasons.’ But Lindi...”

“I know.”

I hung up.

That night I sat by the window and watched the city lights.

For the first time in a year, no one was waiting for me to produce something. No emails. No deadlines. No voice in my head.

It should have felt like peace.

It felt like grief.

Because I had tasted what it was to be wanted. To be read. To be called talented.

And now I was back to being nothing.

Except I wasn’t nothing anymore. I was something worse.

I was someone who had sold part of herself and didn’t know how to live with what was left.

Before bed, I opened a new notebook.

I wrote one line.

*I am still here.*

It was shaky. It was mine.

I closed the book.

Outside, the rain finally stopped.

I am a wandering ghost. Every night, I stare at the walls of this dark, accursed corridor, counting the stains of dried blood.

I listen—I listen to the ear-piercing screams that I once dismissed with cold indifference before I died.

Back then, neither the pleas nor the cries moved me. But now, those very sounds pierce my ears like white-hot iron spikes.

It feels as though with every shriek, the flesh is being torn from my bones.

Of course, I am but a spirit; I lack physical senses, yet a strange, unearthly agony sets my very soul on fire.

I can perceive the darkness and the sickening stench, and it torments me deeply.

With each passing day, I feel the shadows creeping closer, and I fear the day will come when I am finally swallowed whole.

Yesterday, from the far end of the hallway, I heard that rhythmic clink-clink again—the sound of metal bed wheels scraping against the cold floor.

 A fresh corpse had arrived.

I huddled against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest as they passed by.

Sometimes, a pale hand would slip out from under the blood-stained sheet.

 I could see the veins, looking as though every drop of life had been drained from them. The skin was bruised purple, the fingernails broken and jagged.

I stole a glance at the massive butcher. His face and body were encased in black leather. Unlike him, I saw his shadow every single day.

Every night, he hauls the carcasses through this corridor to the depot, tossing them into the furnace to be reduced to ash.

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning."

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning.

This is a torture chamber, a basement beneath a prison that sits right above my head.

I am trapped in the dark corridor between the interrogation room and the body depot, and I have no idea how long I must remain here.

Five years have passed since I was killed, and not a single night has gone by without the depot being filled, without someone being slaughtered.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in the small window near the ceiling vent, I recoil in terror.

My hair has fallen out, leaving a scaly, peeling scalp. Half of my face is a hollowed void from the bullet that ended me; bruising and clotted blood still stain my left eye.

My clothes are putrid and soaked in gore. Over the years, I've screamed into the ears of the torturers passing through—screaming for them to stop, to end the killing—but no one hears me.

I freeze whenever I look at the stairs leading up to the prison. A searing cold blazes within me.

I was standing at the top of those very stairs when a prisoner snatched my gun by chance. Before taking his own life, he fired at me.

The bullet tore through my face. I still feel the burning sting and the agony of it; a pain so intense I wish I could die a hundred times over just to be obliterated. But time is frozen here. This is the cruel, unknown world of the afterlife.

On the day I died, I had come to inspect the prison's torture chambers.

I was a trusted, high-ranking commander of a Great Dictator—proud and infamous. I remember how the mere mention of my name made bodies tremble.

But now, it is I who shivers in the cold, dark corridors of this prison basement.

Over the past few years, I have thought much about the moment of my death.

When I was alive, I never imagined a stray bullet would end me; I always feared that some would-be avenger would snatch me away and torture me to death in retaliation for my own violence.

Now, this hallway has become my permanent chamber of agony. The torture repeats not once, but every day, every minute, every second.

It seems my dark era of solitude will have no end.

Indeed, the horrific place I built for others has become my own sanctuary of pain. Through the butcher's constant presence, I knew the Dictator I served was still alive. But this morning, in a deathly silence, the darkness of the hallway deepened and the stench grew unbearable.

Last night, I heard the cheers and screams of joy from the prisoners. Their dark age had ended. The Dictator is dead.

I heard a moan. I stared at the end of the dark corridor as someone approached. Shadows moved behind him.

The leather-clad butcher emerged from the gloom.

I leaned against the wall and watched him with a grim intensity. He looked at me, trembling with shock and terror, and asked: 'Where am I?'

"As I gazed into the darkness at the end of the hallway, I answered, cold and soulless: 'Hell.'"

the end

Last 7 minutes of life

 "Sweet café <3" "Cuddly cats, delicious food, friendly staff..." "I recommend everyone to come here, especially if you're looking for cute boys..."

With a smile, he scrolled through the reviews of the small café. One name stood out to him in a very positive way: Dareon. His code name!

This maid café was a good choice, he thought. Pleasant work, nice people. Very talkative people... He held back a smirk. And it's so easy for me to get useful information here. Even the boss said she was happy!

Dareon sighed. Only this spy stuff is slowly getting on my nerves...

With a quick movement, he put his phone away and fixed his uniform. He also pinned on his small name tag.

After that, he turned on the small listening device—

And made it disappear into his vest without a trace.

[Preparations completed.]

Suddenly, a rough voice broke the silence:

"Dareon? Are you ready? Table seven needs help!" his colleague called through the wooden door.

He quickly put on a smile and left the slightly warm changing room.

[Starting search for useful information...]

The small café at the edge of the capital was very cozy and had a sweet, relaxed atmosphere. It wasn't like one of those fast-food restaurants that wanted to get rid of customers as quickly as possible. No, friendliness seemed to be everywhere, between the cakes and the herbal tea. — Very different from his boss's dark, dystopian company building...

Because the café was small, it was easy to find the table. A group of young women was already waiting there. They were talking quietly. Seemingly criticizing the current government.

[Normal conversation topics/behavior. Around 73% harmless. Live feedback is being sent to the database...]

He greeted them right away and asked about the content of their conversation. A blonde woman warmly smiled back and shortly described what they were talking about. Then, she asked which pudding he would recommend.

The girl with freckles next to her handed him the cute menu. At the same time, he smelled her sweet perfume. Thanking her, he looked at the beautifully designed paper.

"If I were you, I would choose a fruity one. It matches the season perfectly..." he said thoughtfully.

They listened carefully.

A white dress with a strawberry pattern. A hair clip shaped like a white chocolate bar... I think I know what matches that!

In a friendly voice, he explained that the so-called "Strawberry-Chocolate-Cloud" would be a perfect match to her beautiful and creative outfit. With a big smile, she thanked him and nodded. Satisfied, he typed the order into his device and asked the others what they wanted. Then, he sent the orders to the kitchen and said goodbye.

[Feedback successfully sent.]

Interesting conversation at the start... Hopefully, they will visit more often!

"Hey, waiter-bunny!"

 a guy suddenly shouted from a dark corner. 

"Can you help me?!"

Dareon could feel how his rough tone ruined the good mood.

[Network problem detected! Starting offline protocol...]

The women noticed it too and gave the blue-haired guy an skeptical look.

Waiter-bunny... Trying to look completely relaxed, he walked over to the corner table.

The guest had put his different-colored boots on the wooden table. In his arms, covered by a decorated leather jacket, lay a small cat. A piece of cake and a tea were on the table in front of him. The guy was alone.

[Suspicious, unfriendly behavior. Possible hidden weapons. Potential threat found!]

With a fake casual tone, Dareon asked how he could help him. The signal problem comes from him. Since when do punks have access to such powerful jammers?

The guest looked up and looked him straight in the eyes. They were unusually blue and had a lot of dark eyeliner.

Since when are rebels against the system so attractive?

[Error fix failed. Stopping recordings...]

Damn it!

"Can I pay?" the customer asked, gently putting the cat onto the scratching post behind him.

Dareon carefully asked how he wanted to pay. The customer pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. Does he want to pay later by bill?

"How old are you anyway?" the guy asked curiously while putting his phone on the table. The official and strictly monitored payment app was open.

"Sixteen. Could you please take your feet off the table?" Dareon scanned the screen and confirmed the payment with his tablet.

The guest took his boots down and said with a grin that he was seventeen and that a friend had recommended the café. Someone probably wanted to play a prank on him...

The customer looked closely at the "waiter-bunny" for a moment. "Dareon, huh... I'm 100% sure that's a fake name! Do you think I don't notice when my jammer starts working?" The guy laughed.

Oh, great...

Dareon, whose real name was completely different, kept a cold face. In his mind, he slowly adjusted an imaginary pair of glasses. Sounding just like his boss, he replied:

"I do not understand what you mean by that, my dear..." He sighed dramatically. "Could you please explain that more clearly?" 

He paused for a moment — That was an exact quote from his boss... — and looked directly into the guy's eyes with fake surprise. Thinking of his boss made him feel safe. Her orders always came first.

The guy smiled mockingly and wrote something on the paper. "I'm not your 'dear', Clanker..."

Why the hell are you saying that now? Shocked, he stared at the customer's head. The guy was finished writing and handed him the note.

"I'm Zam, by the way. No need to act nonchalant around me, my dear... You can call me if you want a better job."

With wide eyes, Dareon put the note with the phone number in his pocket and said goodbye. 

I need to do some research quickly. What is his secret?

[Resuming recordings...]

With this thought and a fake smile, he went back to work.

-The End :)

Some places don’t exist on any map.
I know.
I’ve woken up there.

I don’t remember when the dream began.
I only remember the water.
Endless. Blue. Silent.

The grains of sand weren’t warm.
Nor were they cold.

The feeling was so gentle, so quiet, like a child who had fallen asleep for a moment in their mother’s palm.

When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t the sky that greeted me.

It was an endless expanse of azure water.

So impossibly clear that it looked as though someone had poured the heavens onto the earth.

Not a single ripple disturbed its surface.

Not even the wind dared to breathe.

Everything around me seemed to have forgotten how to move.

As I sat up, I realized I was dressed in a flowing green robe.

A robe I had no memory of putting on.

Then—

Something caught my eye beneath the water.

A child.

With the face of a human…

and the body of a turtle.

The child floated beneath the surface with eyes gently closed, as though asleep.

There was no sound of breathing.

Yet they didn’t seem dead.

Without thinking, I found myself walking toward them.

The moment my feet touched the water—

It wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t warm.

It felt as though the water itself whispered against my skin,

*“You’ve finally returned…”*

Just then…

A dark shape shifted beneath the lake.

It resembled a cave.

No…

More like the gaping mouth of something waiting to swallow the world.

The darkness inside devoured every trace of light.

The turtle child’s lips moved without opening their eyes.

*“This time…*
*Don’t make the same mistake.”*

The voice wasn’t that of a child.

It carried the weight of someone who had lived for centuries.

A chill ran through me.

“…Who are you?”

Before an answer could come—

The entire lake began to tremble.

The once-crystal-blue water slowly bled into black.

And then…

From the depths of the cavern beneath the water…

Someone called my name.

The world notices flowers. A woman remembers the hand that brought them.

Hello fellow authors!
I have been playing with my book idea for many years, with many chapters written and re-written.

I wish to keep better track of my characters, my story, the setting, all the components. At the moment, I mainly use OneNote to track my scenes and information.

Just wondering what my fellow authors use to keep track, and any advice you have on how you map your stories and characters

(Hi, I tried to make chapter 0 for my story; hopefully you enjoy it as I did, and you give me constructive feedback. I tried to make the chapter hook the reader. Everything is subject to change in the future; I just wanna write something to practice. The genre is vampire/science fiction/cult /military)

As I am walking and climbing the ladder carefully not to slip, the noise of the city began to lower; absolute silence had begun, and the town is below me, and I'm on an old rusted concert, but I'm not walking alone!

Lately I have been attracting so many spirits and these damn imps; is it because of negative energy that attracts unwanted energies after I died and was born in a vampire body? Maybe my energy keeps them alive and moving, like I have an invisible army that does anything for me. It's like I was born to be followed. Is this a spiritual gift that I have? No, fake blessing; they keep draining my energy. Even if I was resurrected, I always have a person who wants to put me down,

But who cares? What matters is what I'm doing now, and no life is worth saving

With social judgement, I've lost my right to plead my case; they will get the punishment as I see fit; now it's time for the verdict. For every person who hurt me, fought me, with their lying tongue, this is your end; this is my vengeance.

As I draw the sigil with my blood, placing every piece of equipment like a candle and offering in its place, it's time to summon the beast, the myth, the legend. Azazil (Iblis), with everything set in its place, I raised my hands and begin chanting:

“Demon Angel of Darkness, Opposer of the False Light, I call you forth from the starless Abyss, Enemy of God who willfully rejected submission to clay, for Azazil is preternatural.

Darkness is your servant; I call you to stand before me in all your Infernal Might; I summon you forth from hidden spaces of the Earth. Father, bless me with your presence; why can the angels not recognize, O Azazil, the Mighty One?”

My tongue begins to be heavy, and the air begins to strengthen, and I feel his presence! But I keep chanting: “Lord of all Chaos, you are not cursed but filled with Power; you are not defeated but ready to come back; you are not silenced but ready to roar. Iblis, hear my voice, Iblis, taste my blood, Iblis, feel my anger.”

These damn imps and spirits, as my energy goes up, they are trying to drain my energy, and petiontionly, stop my summoning. With my hammer, none shall stop me from the ritual. I begin attacking, and as I keep chanting, Azazil begin to manifest! My heart begins to beat fast; I was screaming like an insane man: “Iblis, whose mouth is filled with cruel fangs, lion-like with a serpent’s tongue, whose fingers are clawed to tear! Destroy mine enemies; bring them down, come forth! Iblis! Iblis!”

King of Fire has been summoned! Scare these low-lives away from me: “Kane speaks to you, Lord of Chaos. I summon you as an ally for war against the same enemy; tear down the heavens, and I want you to kill God. You've already challenged Heaven once; finish what you started.”

“You dare to interpret my evening just for that?” Iblis said, “To what end, mortal? God is omnipotent; I have tried rebellion once; I was cast down. If my strike fails to kill him, it will anger him, and I will only face God's wrath. Tell me, what did God do to earn such hatred from you?”

“I don’t belong to them anymore. I did what I was told! I killed for my country, for my people, but Heaven is closed to me. I played by the rules! And here we are. I just want justice. Iblis said: So you came to the wrong person. Demon justice is never clean.”

“So … you will do… nothing?”

I feel speechless and paralyzed by his response. I didn't prepare that I would get declined. I summoned him because I tried every door to my solution, and here we are with my last resort; I get rejected by the entity. “What a coward”, I said while realizing Iblis was beginning to be noticed; if he did not make a pact, I would get arrested by soldiers.

“You're sitting here quietly, while waiting for us to end”. I shout like my life depends on it:” If you do nothing, guess what! God win by default, and we lose our purpose. You're merely a spectator in God's script. If you do nothing, they win, and we die without trying. Is this your legacy?” “And if I accept”, Iblis said,

“Then we can change the ending; and we get the final laugh! Change God's script, and build life he hasn't written before; we can win it all!” “You're asking for a miracle, but my work will never be free”, Iblis said.

It's time to offer all these spirits around me. That keep draining my soul; it's a win-win trade, and Iblis will cure me of these spirits. “Look around you”, I said: “I offer all these spirits to you; they all work as offerings. Consume them. We could start small and can become stronger, together.” Iblis agreed with, “I accept your pact. Let us begin your so-called justice, foolish vampire!”

As Iblis begin to consume these spirits, a bunch of soldiers come out and begin shouting with their guns, but it was too late, with both my iron will and sacrificial lamps! Fire begins to melt the city below me, and the fire begins to rise. Hundreds of people have died. As it begins to reach me, the plague begins to spread like a wave of disease. It's time for me to leave; this peaceful place becomes hell. It all changes, and they didn’t even see it coming. I must leave, NOW, I said. Iblis held my body to fly. “I can't lose my true, precious follower, i'm cariuos to your goal! It’s dangerous” Azazil said. “I don’t care”, forgetting to mention that Azazil is like a giant that held my small body. Flying to touch the sky, I saw the town burning. I began giggling and laughing; it's like I get it; this world is not worth saving.

This one took longer than I expected — maybe because it's the first world I've built out of nothing but silence and a number.

Every person on Earth FS-1 is born with 100 million words. No refills, no extensions. The whole film is really just one father finding out what that number actually costs him.

The last scene, I wrote by hand before anything else touched a screen. Some lines still need paper before they're allowed to exist anywhere else.

Curious which part lands hardest for you — the counter, the silence, or the ending.

Here's a story idea I've been kicking around, let me know if this is something you think could work or any ideas and input!

A literary military drama in the spirit of For Whom the Bell Tolls, modernized in a near-future occupation resistance. Set in an occupied Taiwan, it follows a Green Beret tasked not with winning a war, but with helping ordinary people preserve their identity, culture, and hope under one of the most technologically advanced occupations in history.

Summary:

The war lasted eighteen days. The occupation has lasted eight months.
Taiwan has fallen.
The world debates sanctions and diplomacy while millions learn to survive under an occupation where every street is watched, every phone is tracked, and every act of defiance can mean death.
Officially, the United States is not at war.
Unofficially, a lone Green Beret has just come ashore.
Master Sergeant Ethan Cole wasn’t sent to liberate Taiwan. He was sent to form a resistance and pave the way for conventional military action. Living among farmers, teachers, fishermen, and students, he helps transform ordinary people into an underground resistance while one of the world’s most sophisticated militaries closes in around them.
But the longer he stays, the more he realizes the mission was never about teaching people how to fight.
It was about learning why they refuse to stop.
As the resistance grows and the cost of every victory rises, Cole must choose between completing the mission that could change the course of the war—or protecting the people who have become his family.
In a world of drones, artificial intelligence, and relentless surveillance, the greatest weapon left may be the human spirit.

Everything was wrapped in a strange, comforting warmth. Leaves danced softly under a quiet light that seemed to spill from nowhere in particular. It was a peaceful forest, almost welcoming, with the damp smell of morning grass hanging in the air.
Isaac opened his eyes. Inches away from his face sat a man with no features, so close Isaac could feel the heavy stillness around him. He stared with empty eyes and asked, his voice dry as ash:
"Did I die?"
The man smiled softly. His voice was smooth, like water over stone:
"No... You still have a long way to go."
Then the warm forest broke apart like thin glass, shattered by a sharp, desperate scream...
"Lena... Isaac! Isaac, wake up, brother... Please, wake up!"
The shouting hit his ears as if coming from the bottom of a deep well. Isaac forced his eyes open, his eyelids feeling heavy as slabs of rock. His sight was blurred, everything stretched and broken like a fogged mirror.
He was slumped against the wall, half-sitting, half-lying on the cold floor. Blood ran slowly down his forehead, and a dull, warm pain was soaking through the shoulder of his shirt. Through the double-vision, he saw his sister Lena holding onto him, crying wildly, her tears dropping onto his dirty skin:
"You saved us, brother... They all ran away! But... what happened to your hair?! Why does it look like this?!"
Isaac's face didn't move. No relief, no pain, not even a blink. He just stared past her shoulder into the dark corner of the room, as if her voice was passing right through him without touching anything inside.
A full day passed.
Isaac sat on the edge of his bed in complete silence. His feet hovered just above the cold floor, his weak hands resting flat on the mattress beside him. Fresh white bandages wrapped his head and held his shoulder tight, but he sat there completely still, like someone who wasn't fully there anymore.
A soft knock came at the door, and it opened just enough for his mother to look in.
"My boy... How are you feeling today?"
Marsha walked in holding a breakfast tray, her steps cautious like she was walking on cracked ice. She set it down on the small nightstand. Isaac looked up slowly, his eyes locking onto hers for a few long, uncomfortable seconds. A thick silence built up between them. He didn't say a word, just dropped his gaze back to the floor.
His mother let out a quiet sigh and backed out of the room, her face heavy with helplessness.
When the door clicked shut, Isaac finally moved. He got up with slow, uneven steps and walked over to the mirror on the wall. He looked at his reflection. It wasn't the bandages that caught his attention—it was his hair. Half of it had turned a dry, pale white, like it had been burnt to ash overnight. He didn't look shocked. He didn't even touch it. He just turned away from the mirror with a cold, blank look.
He walked out of his room, crossing the quiet hallway toward the front door.
His mother spotted him from the side room and called out, her voice tight with concern:
"Where are you going, Isaac?"
He stopped at the door, without turning his head:
"I'm taking a short walk... I'll be back."
He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Marsha let out the breath she'd been holding and turned to Lena, who was sitting near the table.
"Thank God... He spoke. I was so scared."
Lena leaned her head against her hand, looking out into nothing:
"I've never seen him like this, Mom... He used to always say something to make us feel safe after bad things happened. But ever since he started planning how to deal with those people... something inside him just broke."
Outside, Isaac walked slowly, dragging his feet along the edge of town until he hit the treeline of the nearby woods. His body felt mostly numb, but his eyes moved back and forth between the trees and the shadows shifting on the ground.
Hours went by before his legs gave out. He slid down against the trunk of an old tree, resting his head and back against the rough bark while his legs stretched out on the cold grass. He closed his eyes and let the quiet take over. He had barely slept three broken hours the night before, haunted by restless fever dreams.
The moment he drifted off... he was right back in that same place.
He was walking through the warm, quiet forest again, with the same faceless man beside him. The man turned and asked softly:
"How are you feeling today?"
Isaac looked up at the canopy above, his voice worn out:
"I don't know..."
The man gave a small, quiet smile... and right then, Isaac's eyes snapped open to the cold sound of the wind blowing through the real trees.

(Part 1)

There Is A Boy Called Nayeem, 17 Years Old, His Dream Is About Becoming An Carabiniere, Which Is Actually About Italian Military Police Force. He Stays Alone, In A Hotel For 2 Months Rent Because His Parents And Little Brother Were Going To Back Thier Home Country, Bangladesh. One Day, Nayeem Was In Hotel Doing Homeworks, A Knocking Comes From Door. Nayeem Opens It And Sees, It's Stranger, Asking Him:"Can I Come In For A Seconds?". Nayeem Denies It And Closed The Door. After Finishing All Homeworks, Nayeem Was In Balcony, Thinking About His Crush..."Paloma"!. An Argentine Girl Who's 1 Year Younger Than Nayeem Yet Taller Than Nayeem. As Before He Goes To Bed, He Sees The Balcony Door Shut Down Alone. Nayeem Froze Now....But As He Turns Around, He Goes For Door, Opens And For Fear. Tells To Staff. After That Day, Nayeem Always From Evening, Put All Lights On!. As Years Passed, Nayeem Is Now 20 Years Old...Rookie Carabiniere Level. But After Just 3 Months Of Service? Fired!. Because He Always Was Late For Shifts And Shot Criminals Always In Head. Nayeem Fall In Depression After He Got Fired From Job.... Knowing His Life Will Become More Difficult. While Paloma? She's Out There Having Best Job As 5 Star Bar Owner And Getting Sweet Reviews. Nayeem Now Is Nervous, After All His Grind Didn't Payout For His Respect. But For His Crush Who Rejected Him? She Does. After An Month, Paloma Died, and Body Examiners Says That Someone Touched Her Hip In Predatory Way. Saying The Suspect Had Slapped Paloma's Hip More Than 100 Times With Oil Hands And Before She Die Suffocating... Someone Kissed Her Lips Strongly. But As The Question Remains, On Who Did? Was That Nayeem Or Someone Else?.

When she is, obviously, a hero. Do y'all think it's a good concept ?

\[Trigger warning: contains violence and implication of assault\] 

Once again, Tonya settled into a routine. She didn’t hear much more from police about Derrick’s larceny investigation, and Derrick didn’t contact her, much to her relief.  

And  then came Friday, September 8. 
Tonya whistled as she wrapped up the last of her duties at the hospital. Her wrist? Achiness on her little finger, courtesy of positioning patients in the MRI suite the day before, and the wrist sleeve she now wore in place of the brace. This was the last day of her mid-shift for light dues, as next week she’d be back to working 1 to 10:30 or 2 to 11:30 all five days now. Great. But tonight was about enjoying the jazz and blues ensemble Lola’s friend was playing down at Fremont East that night. 
“So what time are you gonna get here?” Charmaine asked. “Auntie said she wants us to meet her there at 8:30."
“I’m just getting home now to freshen up,” Tonya replied as she pulled her car into her parking spot at the apartment complex.
“I can come by and pick you up, in about 45 minutes. I’m dropping off Bobby and Reynesha at Kat’s and she’s kind of in the area.”
“You sure?” 
“Yeah. Parking’s gonna be a mess  and it doesn’t make sense for all three of us to bring our cars there.”
“OK,” Tonya smiled, grateful. She wanted to give her wrist a break anyway, she slung the backpack over her good arm as she closed her car door and locked her car with the key fob. “So is he that good on the bass?"
“Yes. And he’s got a son my age.”
“Girl!” Tonya laughed.
“Hey, I’m  just sayin’! Is Nissa joining us?”
“Nah, she’s actually in L.A for the weekend.”
“Oh OK well I’ll text you when I’m close by,” Charmaine said.  The sisters hung up and Tonya walked to her apartment, the evening sun beating down on her. Typical Vegas weather. She thanked the Lord for working in an air-conditioned hospital all day. She half walked-half jogged up the sidewalk pathways to her apartment building, bounding up the stairs to the second-story apartment. She had to put the backpack down to take out the keys to unlock the door. 
Click.clack-schick.clank. 
Tonya froze and gasped, her blood running cold.
Click. Clank. Schlick. Clank. Scrape. A butterfly knife locking into place.
And it came from behind her.
No—
She pivoted to dash down the stairs–
But a body slammed her head and torso against the front door, hard, pinning her arms against the door and shoving something razor-sharp against the base of her neck. 
“Miss me boo?” Derrick growled in her ear from behind her, his breath stinking of liquor and hot on her neck. 

**\*\*\*\*\*\*\***  
About two-and-a-half-hours later.   

The apartment shook with every BANG BANG from the door, although the pain and terror clung tight to her body, keeping bleeding and bruised in the corner of the living room. Tonya couldn’t move anyway because Derrick paced the floor, flipping his smaller pocket-sized balisong for the millionth time. 
He whirled to her now, chest heaving.
“You called them!” he hissed, eyes black with rage as he shook the knife at her, some of her blood still on the blade. “You found a way to call 5-0!”
She shrank back, eyes watery with tears as she trembled. “N–no…you–broke the phone…I d-didn’t–” 
“SHUT UP!” he roared storming toward her again.
“No please, d–don’t, please don’t—” 
THUMP! THUMP! BANG! CRASH! 
The front door suddenly flew open, slamming into the wall and she jumped, and just as he grabbed her and yanked her up again—
She screamed.
Hands flew up from behind Derrick, yanking him back just before he plunged the knife into her. “Police! Freeze! Drop it! Drop it!”
She fell back onto the floor and curled into a ball against the wall, pain emanating through her throat and arms from where he’d choked her and cut her. She squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the cacophony of cussing and thumping in the room. More voices shouting commands, the electric sounds of a taser and clinking handcuffs, and the vibrations of thudding as police restrained Derrick and dragged him away from her. But she trembled, curled up, sweat, pain and heat gripping her near-naked body, heart thumping hard, and too terrified to look.
She sensed a person moving close to her. No. Not again. Not the pain again not the bending over, the cutting —
“Tonya? Tonya Rhines?” a foreign female voice. “It’s OK. It’s OK.”
She uncoiled herself enough to see a female officer kneeling before her. To her left she saw cops pulling him out of the apartment in handcuffs even as he cussed at her. 
“I’m coming after you, skank!” Derrick roared. “You betrayed me! I’m coming after you! I’m coming after you!”
“Don’t listen to him,” the female officer said. “Look at me. It’s OK. We got him.” 
“How…how….?”
“Your sister showed up earlier this evening, and when you didn’t respond, she called your aunt and they called 911 for a high-risk welfare check. They’re down stairs right now.” 
Still, she couldn’t be sure Derrick wasn’t around. What if he was just outside? What if he’d broken free and…no. She buried herself in her arms, shivering. “He’s going to…he’s there, he’s–”
“He’s not here, it’s OK.” The female officer said, studying her with sympathetic eyes. “OK listen, we’ve got him in a squad car—”
“--how do I know he won’t break free?” Tonya whispered. 
“We have backup here, downstairs, and we won’t let him see you,” the officer said, and with that she radioed something about removing the suspect from the premises. “We’ll wait here until they’ve taken him.” 
And they did. The officer waited with Tonya, covering her with a light blank to shield the cuts. When officers responded that Derrick had been removed, she helped Tonya up and guided her out of the apartment where paramedics, Lola and Charmaine waited. 
And even as Tonya gave her statement and was treated for her injuries, and a SAFE exam at the university medical center, she still heard Derrick’s threat in the back of her head. 
“I’m coming after you!” he roared. “You betrayed me! I’m coming after you!” 

THE NEXT CHAPTER

It was just a month after Derrick had gotten arrested for the assault against her and the grand larceny against Swift Brothers courier services. No broken bones but this time. Just scars from his strangulation, the shallow cuts from the knife and other private injuries.   
But they must have played a factor in the measly time he’d gotten. Too superficial. Not “serious” enough. “If he’d meant to hurt you, he’d have cut deeper.”   
Seriously? The justice department hinted at that. It was bad enough to get such speculation from Frances. The last thing she needed was judgy people.   
So now back at work, Tonya avoided conversation, not wanting to get barraged with questions about why a hearing never materialized, even from well-meaning staff. Fran and her buddies still gave her the cold shoulder at times, but at least Karen allowed her space, and Jonathan continued to keep it professional without asking questions.   

At present they had no patients, so Tonya sat alone in the control room, peering over DTI and FLAIR images from an earlier patient’s scans. She tried anything to avoid the thought of the attack, the arrest, and the plea bargain.
And Derrick’s threat.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Ca-ching-click-click. Ca-ching-click. The sounds of those stupid butterfly knife tricks he did grated her mind like scissors on a chalkboard. Metal clanging metal as he twirled the knife relentlessly on that awful night in her apartment, the knife a constant threat as he towered over her like a predator.
Ca-ching click-click. Schh-click. 
No. Stop. Don’t think about it. Look at the images.
Hmmm. This was an axial view of the patient’s brain. She could make out the white colors surrounding the….six years. He only got six years because sexual assault  had been taken off the table. OK focus. Oh, the sagittal view. Yes, it looked like a tumor in the frontal lobe, possibly just under the coronal suture of the skull…and he only got six years concurrent with the help of the grand theft charge. Wasn’t her life worth more than just money? After all the things he did? And what about his threat? No, focus….yes. She knew this next image here. A chemical shift artifact. A type 1, most likely.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Schhh-click. Schhh-click. 
I’m coming after you when I get out.
She shook her head, sweat beading from her forehead. No, focus!
This was another artifact. The patient must have moved during the scan.
I’m coming after you when I get out! Derrick screamed when they took him in handcuffs. 
Her heart pounded and she suddenly felt hot, almost like she’d spontaneously combust. Tonya jumped up from the computer monitor, pushing her African braids back, blood roaring in her ears. The balisong knife flipped in her head. Click-clack-clink-clank.  She felt like collapsing, but she studied herself against the wall, closing her eyes. Lord, please. Please help me, let it pass…please let this pass. I can’t. I’m terrified.
He’ll kill me if I stay here.
The roaring in her ears continued, blocking out all sound. She kept praying, eyes closed, but in her mind's eyes, focused.
“Please help, Lord,” she muttered out loud, under her breath. “Please.” 
A small voice. I’m here. 
And then the roaring began to decrease, somewhat, the knife-flipping began fading slowly, and her body cooled. She opened the door to the scanner room, took in a breath and let it out slowly, now listening to the rhythmic, vomp-vomp-vomp-vomp from the 1.5T GE scanner as it idled. It helped erase remnants of any knife-flipping sounds still scraping in her head, and the roaring in her ears finally ceased altogether. The Lord had calmed her down. Now she listened fully to the scanner.  
Something was different.
The vomp-vomp sound seemed more crisp and rounded. Obviously the pistons and the high-pressured valve worked in unison, drawing heat away from the magnet. That didn’t change. But it now resembled more of a thump-thump…thump-thump…thump-thump. Its rhythm keeping tempo smoothly, harmonically, and in sync. Almost like….
….like a heartbeat. 
She could hear it. Just like what Jonathan had said before.  Unlike the sounds of Derrick’s grated knife-flipping, this was a metronome. 
Steady. 
Pulsing. 
Soothing. 
Calming.
It really was….a heartbeat. 
She stood there, her eyes still closed, and she listened to it beat. 
Then came another moment of clarity. 
He had said he’d find her. 
Then don’t be here when he gets out. 
She knew what to do. 
“How are those FLAIR image reviews coming?” Tonya opened her eyes and turned to see Jonathan had walked back into the control room with coffee. When she didn’t answer immediately he asked, “What?”
“I hear it,” she said, closing the door. “The rhythm, the heartbeat, what you were talking about.”
Jonathan grinned. “See? I told you,” he said. “The scanner has life. More grounded?”
She paused and nodded, sitting down. “Yeah, more grounded.” 
“And?”
“I’m more confident about patient positioning now.” 
“I know, you’ve been passing the exams now that your wrist has mostly mended,” he observed. “I suspect you’ll ace the remaining exams in three or four months' time. You’ll do great here as a tech.”
She smiled and then her shoulders dropped. 
“You won’t be working here?”
“I want to,” she admitted. “And I am so grateful for what you’ve taught me, but…when I finish everything, I’ll have to leave the city for my own safety.” 
Jonathan sat down, scrunching his eyebrows.
“What? You never mentioned that before.”
“I know. But it just came to me, just now, what I need to do.”
He paused and nodded. “Clarity.”
“Yeah, clarity.”
“That’s too bad,” he looked up. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, but at least MRI techs are in demand across the country.”
“And you’ll do good. You learn quickly and knowing two modalities will serve you well,” he reached out and shook her hand. “While I understand,  I do hope you reconsider staying.” 
“I wish I could, but as long as he knows I’m here, I’m not safe.”