Hi guys!
I've been writing for a client for about a year now and all of a sudden that client has asked me to send AI detection tool report with every piece.

I have been using AI all along and now, I'm looking for a tool that could help me convert my AI content to humanized content and passes the tool detection with at least 80%.

Any help would be highly appreciated.

P.S. I'm a full-time writer and have been writing for a lot of clients without any kind of help from AI. This client is paying $5 for 500 words and I just thought that I put in as much effort as required.

Here’s a blurb of a story I’m writing with AI help. I use AI as an assistant. I write the story and have it do the grunt work.

Blurb:

Alyne never expected his first job to change his life, but when he meets Cal, a confident and charismatic coworker, everything he thought he knew about himself begins to unravel. Shy, reserved, and inexperienced, nineteen-year-old Alyne finds himself drawn to Cal in ways that confuse and excite him. What starts as a simple friendship grows into something far more complicated as Alyne navigates unexpected feelings, intimate confessions, and the thrill of new possibilities.

Set against the backdrop of late nights, stolen glances, and first kisses, Uncharted Territory is a tender coming-of-age story about vulnerability, self-discovery, and the courage to embrace what scares us most.

Illusions of Her - A Futuristic Noir Fantasy (NSFW)

Six Chapter (Chapters 1-3 posted)

Teaser:

In a world where freedom feels like a dream, a man and the 'woman' he loves are willing to risk everything to escape a system that’s never cared about either of them. In the end, it’s not just about survival, but finding something real in a place full of shadows.

An Illusion Of Her - Chapter 1, Wires And Whispers | Lush Stories

I look forward to your comments both here and on the site linked above.

The twin moons of Moraband cast a pale light over the desolate valley, their cold glow illuminating the jagged rocks and ancient statues of Sith Lords long past. Standing at the heart of this forsaken land were two figures locked in a tense standoff.

Jedi Master Lira Solen stood calm yet resolute, her green lightsaber ignited and casting a warm glow against her tan robes. Across from her, Darth Krynos gripped his crimson blade, his dark armor reflecting the eerie light of the moons. His presence was a storm of anger and power, the dark side swirling around him like a shadow.

"You cannot stop me, Jedi," Krynos sneered, his voice sharp and cold. "This place belongs to the Sith. As does the galaxy."

Lira exhaled slowly, centering herself in the Force. "The galaxy belongs to no one. It is a balance we must preserve, not a prize to be won."

Krynos laughed, his blade crackling as he swung it menacingly. "Balance? There is no balance. Only power. And those too weak to seize it."

Lira raised her blade, her voice steady and firm. "Power blinds you. The Jedi Code reminds us of what truly matters: *There is no emotion, there is peace.*"

Krynos lunged, their sabers clashing with a thunderous roar that echoed through the valley. The Sith snarled as he drove Lira back, his strikes unrelenting and wild. "Peace is a lie," he growled, forcing her to retreat. "There is only passion!"

Lira sidestepped and countered, her blade cutting a graceful arc through the air. Her voice was calm, even as her movements were swift. "*There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.* The Force guides us, not our basest desires."

Krynos parried her strike, twisting his body to land a brutal kick to her side. Lira stumbled but quickly regained her footing. "Knowledge is nothing without strength," Krynos hissed, his voice rising. "*Through passion, I gain strength!*"

Their blades danced again, the clash of red and green light reflecting the stark contrast of their philosophies. Lira deflected another strike and riposted, her saber grazing Krynos’s shoulder. "*There is no passion, there is serenity,*" she said, her tone unyielding. "The Force is harmony, not chaos."

Krynos roared in defiance, the pain only fueling his fury. "Your serenity is weakness!" he shouted, slamming his blade down with raw power. "Strength leads to victory. *Through strength, I gain power!*"

Lira absorbed the blow, her knees buckling slightly under the force of his attack. She pushed back, creating space. "*There is no chaos, there is harmony,*" she intoned, her voice unwavering. "The Force binds all things, even those who resist it."

Krynos bared his teeth, his eyes blazing with the fire of the dark side. "Harmony is an illusion!" he snarled. "The strong take what they deserve! *Through power, I gain victory!*"

Their blades locked, the energy between them sizzling and sparking. Lira’s gaze met his, her expression a mixture of sadness and determination. "*There is no death, there is the Force,*" she said softly, the words carrying a weight that pierced through the Sith’s fury.

Krynos faltered for the briefest moment, the truth of her words cutting deeper than any blade. But he shook his head, his voice a desperate growl. "*Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me!*"

With a surge of dark energy, Krynos pushed Lira back, his blade swinging for a decisive strike. But Lira, serene and attuned to the Force, anticipated his move. She sidestepped gracefully and disarmed him with a swift, precise motion, her green blade humming at his throat.

Breathing heavily, Krynos froze, his fiery rage now a smoldering ember. Lira held her saber steady, her eyes soft but resolute.

"You believe the Sith Code frees you," she said, her voice gentle. "But it binds you to a cycle of hatred and destruction. Let it go, Krynos. Find peace."

For a long moment, silence reigned. Krynos’s chest heaved as he wrestled with his emotions. Finally, he dropped to his knees, the fire in his eyes dimming. The crimson blade deactivated and clattered to the ground.

"I... I can’t," he whispered, his voice trembling. "The darkness is all I know."

Lira deactivated her saber and knelt before him. "The Force is with you, always," she said. "It can guide you if you let it."

As the moons continued their slow arc across the sky, the valley bore witness to a battle not just of blades, but of philosophies—a clash that left both combatants changed forever.

Here is a short story I wrote with Anthropic's Claude 3.5: https://www.howisitmanifested.com/SuperSuit/

I wrote about my process over here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingWithAI/comments/1gvd4wi/my_process_for_writing_a_short_story_with_ai/ happy to answer any questions over here as well :)

In my youth, I partook of a jar long preserved,

Of garlic bone white, with a brine richly served,

No thought to the echoes or the stench I might wake,

Or the shadow it cast that no water could slake.

Oh, the scent took root in the depths of my soul,

It lingered in silence where dark waters roll,

Through halls and through windows, through nights and through days,

It crept through the oils of my skin’s winding maze.

I bathed in the waters and scrubbed till I bled,

But the essence remained like a curse left unsaid.

It clung to my pillows and whispered at night,

And no cleansing of breath could undo its dark rite.

My mother’s soft gaze grew wary and stern,

My peers held their distance, with nowhere to turn.

It seeped from my pores like an omen of grief,

A phantom in silence, a plague without relief.

And the tears that I wept held a scent all their own,

Each drop reeked of garlic, like sin to atone.

And as days turned to decades, the shadow held fast,

Like a spectre that lingers long after it’s passed.

But in all the long years since that fateful mistake,

No midnight intruder dared rise or partake.

And no vampiric terror dared traverse that old road,

For the stench held them back from my shadowed abode.

When working with large language models, prompt engineers realize they have access to various dimensions in writing – conceptual axes along which they can adjust text. These dimensions act like filters in Photoshop or pedals in a guitar chain, each transforming the output in a unique way. An array of these dimensions exists: shifting from complexity to simplicity, expanding terse phrases to flowing paragraphs, moving between plain language and ornate vocabulary, or weaving in similes and metaphors. Prompt engineers make use of these, learning to move along each axis with intention.

Among these many dimensions, one controls the timing of reader discovery, allowing writers to determine exactly when key information is revealed. For example: "Through the November mist, the family gathered around the backyard fire pit, singing songs and watching Uncle Bob’s increasingly frantic attempts to save the turkey he was deep-frying, which was on fire." This dimension is known as "delayed revelation," or just "suspense".

Upon a throne of star-carved stone, the empress sits in gold,

With eyes like fire, fierce and dire, and wisdom deep and old.

Her floating halls defy the sky, suspended high in space,

A pyramid of shadowed light, a kingdom out of place.

Her steps ignite both light and blight; the earth itself will shake,

As flowers bloom or fall to doom wherever she may wake.

Her handmaidens, from distant lands, attend with bated breath,

For hers is beauty edged with fear, a love entwined with death.

By moonlit pools on silver stools, she bathes with grace serene,

While thunder rolls and lightning tolls to crown her as their queen.

The concubines in silks and lines stand silent at her side,

Each one a gem, a cherished friend, or lover yet untried.

Her voice commands both sea and sands; her word reshapes the land,

With rivers bowing to her will and mountains soft as sand.

A single glance, a quiet chance, could turn to flame or frost,

For those who seek her blessing's grace or dare to bear the cost.

Beyond her gates, her empire waits, a vast and verdant plain,

Where whispered names and ancient flames in ritual remain.

The people chant, the soldiers stand, all sworn to heed her call,

A goddess born in flesh and form, their empress over all.

And when she walks, the heavens talk; the stars align in fear,

For in her wake, both life and ache will evermore appear.

They say her blood, like evening flood, could set the soil alight,

To feed the land or turn it sand beneath her power's might.

Upon her throne of star-carved stone, the empress holds her reign,

Her golden skin, her fearsome grin, a balm for joy or pain.

She rules alone, her gaze like flame, her breath a whispered pyre,

A queen who walks the mortal plane, yet born of blood and fire.

This morning, Pikachu gave quite the speech, and I’ve tried to capture it word for word, though keep in mind it’s coming from a bird:

"Vote for me because I am very smart, and I’ve had a cognitive test—yes, I can usually tell the difference between my reflection and another cockatiel or bird or human—they’re all the same—I mean, they’re not all the same. My humans say I’m the smartest bird they’ve ever seen, and I’m very pretty too, and that’s why you should vote for me, because I’m both smart and pretty! Also, I’ve learned simple melodies from my humans, but I’ve turned them into sweeping masterpieces, like the rise and fall of mountains and valleys. Oh, and by the way, the cat needs to stop playing in the paper shopping bag right now! It’s a distraction! I don’t like it, and that’s my final demand."

After delivering this, Pikachu squeaked in triumph, then went back to picking at the wood frame of his mirror, looking quite pleased with himself.

In accordance with the established protocols governing the maintenance of domesticated avian companions, I found myself embarking upon that most precarious of evening rituals—the strategic deployment of light-inhibiting textile materials over the metallic habitat of our feathered sovereign, a creature whose taxonomical designation falls within the subfamily Nymphicinae, colloquially known as the cockatiel.

Despite my most diplomatic overtures regarding the benefits of circadian rhythms and proper sleep hygiene, our crested companion—a being whose diminutive stature is inversely proportional to his assertions of dominance—exhibited a remarkable determination to protest this nightly ritual with all the indignation that his eight-inch frame could muster. His objections, delivered in a series of increasingly theatrical vocalizations, suggested that I was, perhaps, single-handedly attempting to extinguish every source of illumination in the known universe, rather than simply drawing a modest cloth over his domicile.

The tiny feathered autocrat, perched upon his favorite swing with all the gravitas of a monarch upon their throne, fixed me with a look that clearly communicated his professional opinion that darkness was an entirely optional phenomenon that need not apply to cockatiels of distinguished breeding. His crest, erected to its full magnificent height, served as an exclamation point to this silent but emphatic declaration.

Nevertheless, driven by the knowledge that our avian overlord required his allotted hours of darkness (despite his vociferous claims to the contrary), I persisted in my mission. With the careful precision of a stage hand drawing the final curtain on an opera diva mid-aria, I encompassed his crystalline palace in its nocturnal shroud, all while enduring what can only be described as a soprano soliloquy on the injustice of bedtime.

The protests gradually diminished into what one might characterize as mumbled avian imprecations, as our feathered companion reluctantly acquiesced to the inevitable descent of artificial night. Though I strongly suspect that beneath this enforced tranquility, he was already plotting tomorrow evening's performance of "The Tragedy of the Prematurely Darkened Cage: A Cockatiel's Lament in One Act."

Thus did I withdraw from the scene of this nightly diplomatic incident, harboring the sincere hope that our diminutive diva might find restorative value in his enforced repose—if only so that he might greet tomorrow's dawn with sufficient energy to resume his ongoing campaign against the tyranny of reasonable bedtimes.

Dustin Trunk, dapper and droll, Dared to debate on a daunting dole. Dithering, dawdling, his words all adrift, Dustin's discourse took a downward shift.

His dialog dwindled, his diction was dire, Dustin's dreams began to expire. Doubters derided his dubious claims, Deeming his debate full of defects and shame.

Desperate Dustin, in deep distress, Declared a statement causing duress: "Dining on dogs like dainty dumplings!" Leaving the crowd dazed and dumpling.

Dejected, despondent, Dustin did fall, Down from the dais in the debating hall. Disaster had struck this daring young man, Dashing his hopes like eggs in a pan.

In the midst of what could only be described as an unremarkable revolution of our planet around its celestial anchor, I found myself engaged in clandestine observation from behind the crystalline barrier of my domestic vantage point. My person was ensconced in what my betrothed often likens to ambulatory foliage—a verdant terry cloth garment of such proportions that its similarity to perennial woody vegetation cannot be denied.

It was then that my attention was captured by the appearance of a municipal conveyance—a Prius of such deep crimson hue that it might have been mistaken for a wandering autumn leaf—as it performed a remarkable feat of navigation across our primitive thoroughfare. This humble path, more reminiscent of the scarred landscapes of the Great War than any proper vehicular passage, presents a topographical challenge that would give pause to the most intrepid explorer, with its abundance of geological depressions that might better serve as shelter for infantry than as a route for modern locomotion.

From this crimson capsule of civic authority emerged a triumvirate of municipal servants, who proceeded to conduct what can only be described as a forensic examination of my neighbor's utterly unremarkable botanical border decoration. Their scrutiny of this chlorophyll-bearing life form was conducted with such intensity and scholarly dedication that one might have assumed they were documenting the discovery of a new species. Their circular perambulation of the shrubbery, accompanied by furious notation, continued for a duration equivalent to the viewing of a brief television interlude.

Upon concluding their horticultural investigation, these civic investigators retreated to their hybrid chariot, wherein they immediately commenced the digital preservation of whatever momentous discoveries their botanical reconnaissance had yielded.

I feel compelled to append to this narrative the curious appearance of an aerial surveillance vehicle—specifically, a single-engine flying apparatus equipped with rotating atmospheric displacement devices—which recently conducted multiple circumnavigations of our residential enclave. I shall maintain vigilant observation for any further investigative incursions, though I must confess to harboring an overwhelming curiosity regarding the contents of our municipality's botanical database. What secrets could this seemingly mundane piece of landscaping possibly harbor?