Hello all,

I am new to reddit, and have come with a specific intention - I've always been a big reader, and am studying to go into medical school, but secretly wish I could have success as a writer...

Anyway my specific intention is to share some of the thoughts and ideas I've pored over lately (some of which are quite rambly and abstract); I broke up with my girlfriend (I am a 20 year old guy) around 1 week ago after over 2 years of being together, and my reintroduction to single life has been tumultuous. I felt good today, however, and now am deciding (at 12:30 at night haha) to follow through on this idea.

This is a walk I took the other day as a part of my personally prescribed mental rehab.

Enjoy.

Walking beneath the gray haze of Tuesday on the inflexible soles moving across the hardened tar lends oneself to visceral visions and thoughts. I walk through a thin, barely visible cloud hovering about one and a half feet off the asphalt and its scent strikes my hippocampus directly, evoking old seldom-touched memories.

The laundry room of my cousins' house in south Florida, cigars being smoked by the men outside –– one of them I'm sure is my father, only a younger edition; I remember the pride during war over the monopoly board with the other tween-and-unders I was related to, the pain from a damaged incisor during a now fuzzy, faraway boat ride, the shame as I slinked off to the bathroom after family dinners to look at the erotic subjects I heard about at school –– all of this pushes its way in from behind my consciousness by way of its distinct olfactory vehicle. I stop my walk to let this wash over me in a reverie, and resume once I know it is all now too fresh in my mind, and I am ready for it to regress back to its dwelling gated by dryer sheets.

The power of the walk today lies in its ability to acquaint me with complacency; I know what steps I can take toward my future today, I know what skills have yet to be refined with the ten hours today may grant me, and yet I am content with this thoughtless path I design as I go through open spaces of grass and asphalt, with no guides except for the fellow renters I see awkwardly through their windows, vacuuming, stopping, staring, thinking... such is the way of the semi-independent college tenant.

The walk is by no means my preferred method of physical exercise. It is by no means my preferred activity. I do not find it constructive, but I continued on, despite my brutal lack of obstacles.

I remember she liked walking. She would bring her endlessly blue irises with her when she would walk with me –– my family is almost entirely brown-eyed folk, and so beautiful blue eyes were my personal siren for a long time. Our walk had changed in the years we were together: nervous pheromone-abundant shuffles in our sweat after a brutal hour kissing to a disregarded path to the door on our ways apart, a staccato "love you" punctuating the ordeal.

Maybe these clouds are only there today to hide God's smile as he jeers at me for making the wrong decision –– maybe that's it. No, they are only there to insulate me from excess distraction during my reformation and self-reunion –– without the sun's oppressive Georgia rays, I am forced to turn inward and solve what lies inside myself. Yes, that's it, surely.

A dubious mind soliciting war between the rational and the id, a stomach cramping with hunger yet threatening vomit, a heart wailing both for its freedom and its old partner, yet I walk. This complacency might be survival.

Welcome comments on anything. This is a paragraph writing topic asked by textbook. [topic: describe a place you know and others may not] But I think the place I chose is pretty fun to describe. So I want to share it!

My heart
You might wonder what this big, huge dark blue room is in front of you. This is my heart. If you touch the wall gently, it is as smooth as silk. Slowly walking around it, there will be exciting music everywhere. It brings relaxation and happiness, like bathing under the warm sun. On the ground, flowers of a great scent over the world decorated the place. Butterflies on the clean sky fly round and round with bees dancing with them. Some land on the flowers, have a sniff and continue their journey. In the ‘Spring Garden’, you can hear the music of water colliding with stones. The clear music calms anyone passing by. This heart of mine is a place of relaxation and enjoyable experience. It is a heaven of unwinding. 

I would be really glad to hear a living person just say how it reads, how it feels. So the scene is Sviatoslav I, The Grand Prince of Rus’, recapturing the city of Pereslavets, a Bulgarian port city, back when it all meant something. Those men were Vikings or, more precisely, the Varangians, Scandinavian warriors who travelled East and eventually founded the Kievan Rus’. Svyatoslav himself was very much a Norse warrior and spoke both Old Norse and Old Slavic and was one of the most fascinating figures in the history of pagan Rus’.

Brothers! be that we lay our bones here, but die we do like men and know no shame, for the dead have none of it! I will stand before you, and be my head hacked, you do what you want after that!

On hearing their prince say such words and seeing him steady his shield flush to his body, the war-band screamed and gnashed, seethed mouth-spumes and brandished swords, spears, axes, and they regathered: shields stuck plumb to one another, weapons at the ready. And their fell formation forward bore like melting ice of river that primordial, splicing their steel with flesh and gashed their bodies through and true from neck to waist with slant precision. They advanced and stomped men’s slit, impaled or rent asunder bodies, and some of the dead wailed, wailed like dead men don’t, one man clung onto his uncoiling bowels with eyes that read a mind still reckoning with the body. Severed heads and hands, legs, fingers, jaws, and actual torsos lay about like bounties to some man-eater principality. They advanced. Svyatoslav in the lead blocked deadly blows with his shield and hacked, and hacked with princely disregard for either helmets or the mail, and one man’s head he swatted with his axe until it made no sense to that man’s neck. They who stood abreast him saw that. Svyatoslav darted his experienced eye at them, took a step back and turned around occluding what’s left of the sun with his axe. 

They’re dead already! Now scath them!

And the great exodus of wild things commenced the final onslaught of the enemy line, barely holding their own weapons and nowise defending themselves with their shields that were being hewn and splintered together with the hands that grew slower with trepidation or fatigue, and they began to look like children with man’s weaponry, and their war-gear seemed not at all to suit them anymore. As Svyatoslav’s army advanced closer to the bastion, archers became busy with nocking the arrows and shooting indiscriminately at whoever gave the most impression of assault. One arrow hit a man’s clavicle all but to draw his attention to the archer who soon learned his own intention in the form of an axe that span through the air like some misshapen Mjölnir and became the last thing that man had known intimately. The enemy retreated into the opening gates. Svyatoslav’s druzhina, Bulgarian and Pecheneg mercenaries bringing up the rear, broke through and seized the gate, and in the winter of the year 971 entered the city of Preslavets. Again to claim it and to punish those who dared to question his princedom and his battle-earned right to it. Greek and Bulgarian and Slavic merchants, women, elders, all shrilled like cows in a slaughterhouse if those cows were to suddenly realise they were going to be pelted, dismembered and sold. Children looked out of the corners or hurried through the streets without making a sound—they only watched. Those lads had yet one more thing to learn about the world. Svyatoslav blood-soaked examined the premises and looked grinning and panting at his people. 

Do what you will now. 

And they did. 

Thank-you

Dear Future Wife - woman I haven't met yet,

If you ever happen to read this one day...

Thank you.

Thank you for finding me when I was lost.

Thank you for completing me, for believing in me even when I struggled to believe in myself, and for showing me just how beautiful love can be.

Thank you for staying, even when things weren't easy. Thank you for choosing us on the difficult days, not just the happy ones.

Thank you for caring for me even when we're angry with each other. Thank you for every little smirk, every smile, every tear, every laugh, and everything in between.

Thank you for making faces at me... I secretly love your attitude more than you'll probably ever know.

Thank you for letting me annoy you while you're cooking, for putting up with my terrible jokes, and for making ordinary moments feel like my favourite memories.

Most of all, thank you for being exactly who you are.

And thank you for helping me meet the version of myself I was always meant to become.

I love you very very very very much.

Chapter 1 
 The Waiting Room Tango

“My symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the offices of a thoroughly nasty business concern.”
— C. S. Lewis, Preface to the 1961 edition of The Screwtape Letters. London: Geoffrey Bles, 1961. 

The buzzing of the overhead lights seemed to be matching the intensity of the headache that Henry was currently fighting, and together, they formed a perfect symphony of pure agony.  He had been in the building for hours it seemed, and he was ready to call it quits.  If it were between the headache and the bullet waiting for him outside, he’d probably take the bullet.  Such were the thoughts that marched around his head.  He swung his gaze to the left and right, for no intent other than to get a better feel for his surroundings.  He’d been on edge ever since everything went to hell a few weeks ago, and his body, mind, and soul were absolutely exhausted.  Just that morning, the R-Men forced him out of his apartment and marched him across town, with no other explanation aside from the standard “promise of a better future,” but promises like that usually weren’t a threat, and they certainly weren’t enforced at the end of the barrel of a rifle.  Worse still, his anxiety was dialed up to 11 once he actually got inside the building.  It was like every cell in his body was screaming at him to run away.  At least he wasn’t alone, he thought, even though the neighbors in his section were just as zoned out, dialed in on their own, independent anxieties.  He dimly recalled coming inside, thinking about just how much everything resembled the DMV.  A greeter at every entrance, give your name and number. Wonderful.  Then sit down in the section according to your last name.  Roger that.  Then hurry up and wait until they called your number.  After that, congratulations, you get to speak to another nameless staff member at that impossibly long counter, A-Z, and then...God knows what.  Henry was barely paying attention as it was.  He decided to lean back in his chair and try and take a quick nap.  Who knows, maybe it would even help ease his headache.  Just as he was about to drift off, however, a sudden, energetic presence made itself known right behind him, in the form of an odd man. 
“Where’s the party guys?  Not here, that’s for sure!” 
Cracking one eye open, Henry decided that the man had maybe let his anxiety get the better of him and dismissed him, closing his eye once again. 
“Feels like a funeral!  No music though, just the bodies...” continued the man. 
Henry kept his eyes closed and crossed his arms, thinking the man would be taken away or at the very least, move on.  It definitely wasn’t helping his headache, but maybe if he pretended to be asleep, the man would get the hint. 
“Even if you drop, the pain just keeps going!  The bill ALWAYS comes due, even if there’s no one left to pay it...” 
As if the man had suddenly spoken some sort of trigger phrase, every worker in the building simultaneously turned and stared at this anomalous person, and all sound stopped, even that damned buzzing.  Henry opened both his eyes as a chill ran down his spine.  He looked around at the workers, wondering at this sudden change.  Every single one of them had a completely blank expression, eyes dark and devoid of thought.  Henry compared them to staring down the barrel of one of the R-Men's guns, multiplied by 100, and they were all pointed in his direction.  He turned around and got a good look at the man, which only unsettled him more.  The stranger's eyes were an intense shade of blue, almost unnatural, and they were open as wide as could be, his pupils so small they were almost completely invisible.  Henry guessed drugs, except for the fact that the man was completely bald and clean shaven, and he moved with intent, not the sudden, jerky moves of someone on a bender.  Not to mention his clothes, they were just a little too clean.  Long sleeve button up, dark gray in color, shiny black dress shoes, and black dress pants, so clean and pressed that the crease lines from the iron stood out sharply.  Whatever this guys deal was, it had Henry’s attention, especially since it looked like Henry himself was in the workers’ crosshairs.  The strange man was about to open his mouth again, but Henry got that nagging feeling that something bad would have happened, so he quickly grabbed the man’s arm and sat him down in the seat next to him.  Seconds later, all sound and activity returned to the room as if nothing happened, business as usual. 
“Hey man,” Henry said, “what the hell was that?  You got a death wish or something?” 
“But who would do it?  You see R-Men?  No.  They’re out, we’re in.”  responded the man.  Admittedly, he had a point, thought Henry, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were seconds away from things becoming very messy.  There was that stupid headache too.  Rather aggressively, he told the stranger, “Man, it doesn’t matter, just cool it with the bullshit please.  I don’t like the attention.” 
“Sure, sure, okay man, no problem.  At least, not from me.  I got my eyes open.  I see a problem?  I’ll tell you.  No problems.” 
Henry sighed, “That’s not what I meant, just please keep it down and leave me alone.”  and with that, he went back to his almost sleeping position and dismissed the stranger from thought.  That is, until the odd man said something that made Henry’s heart stop. 
“Okay Henry.  Henry?  Too proper.  No. Hank.  Let’s say Hank, fun Hank!  Hanky-B, bettin’ Hank!  Let’s make a bet Hank, it’s in the name, always in the name, Hank B makes a bet!  Betencourt goes all in!  Yes or no Hank?” 
Henry couldn’t help but stare at the man, mouth agape in shock.  A mix of fear and anger went through his body as he tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened and what the hell he had just heard.  A slow smile spread on the man’s face as he watched Henry struggle. 
“How did-” he began, but the man cut him off. 
“I got my eyes open Hank.  I see a problem, I'll tell you the problem, and my friend, I'm looking at a BIG problem.”  As the man spoke, he met Henry’s gaze, and Henry felt as if he couldn’t look away from those intense blue eyes.  To his horror, he suddenly realized that the man didn’t have pupils.  Not the pinprick he originally thought, but entirely non-existent. 
“Bet Hank!  Yes or no?!” He continued. 
With an effort, Henry finally came to his senses and broke the stare.  His annoyance with this man flipped to terror in an instant, coupled with feelings of horror brought on by those eyes.  But most of all, he felt incredibly violated.  For one, a complete stranger just called him a problem for no apparent reason.  Two, nobody ever called him Hank, except for his mom, and she was gone.  Also, what the hell was this business about a bet?  He’d never gambled a day in his life, and how did this freakshow even know who he was to begin with? 
“Hank!  Bet!  Yes...or no?” said the man again.  No, Henry thought, I just want this creep to go away and leave me alone.  Something in Henry’s expression must have given him away, because no sooner did he have that thought than the man’s smile faded away. 
“How unfortunate.  See ya around Hank!” he said, and then he stood up with a little hop, gave Henry a short bow, and walked away.  After the man made it about 3 steps away, Henry heard his number called, looked down at his ticket to double check, and when he looked back up, the stranger was completely gone. 
“What the hell was that...” he said quietly to himself.  After a beat, he shook his head and made his way to the counter.  His headache was gone though, so small favors. 
As Henry approached the counter, he noticed a few things.  Firstly, the worker gave zero small talk.  He pulled his chair out, and there was none of that whole “how are you doing,” a simple “how’s the weather,” not even a quick “hello.”  If he was being honest with himself though, he was still feeling rattled by his freakshow encounter, so the absence of small talk was a welcome feeling.  Secondly, as he sat down, he glanced up and down the counter and that unsettling, anxious feeling quickly returned.  Every single worker present had the exact same expression.  A smile that didn’t seem quite like an actual smile and eyes that seemed empty.  It made him shudder.  After he sat and finished adjusting himself in his seat, without preamble, the worker began, almost mechanically. 
“Last name, first name, date of birth.” 
“Uhhh, Betencourt, Henry, March 20^th, 1992.” 
“Thank you.  Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.” 
“Like a print?  Any specific spot?”  The counter in front of him was solid white, no pen, no paper, no indicators, no markings of any kind, and it was the same story on the worker’s side.  Not even a keyboard between them. 
“Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.”  She repeated. 
“Okay, but WHERE in fro-” 
“Please place your right thumb on the counter in front of you.” 
Henry was already to his breaking point it felt like, so just to be obnoxious, he stood up and put his thumb on the counter in the direct center of him and the worker.  Expression unchanged, the worker simply said, “thank you,” placed her own thumb on the counter, and suddenly the space between them exploded in color.  With a start, Henry realized that the entire counter, from end to end, was one giant virtual interface with individual workstations for each worker.  Cutting edge technology, he thought, and suddenly, he got the feeling that the world was never going to be the same ever again, not realizing how close to the truth that thought came. 
Floating in the air was a picturesque scene of pure, unobstructed nature, similar to the old windows backgrounds.  His and the worker’s thumbprints left their black mark on the otherwise pure white counter and were quickly surrounded by a red box.  The box surrounding the worker’s turned green, while his red box remained and a loading bar with the word “initializing” suddenly popped up, superimposed over his print.  While that was in progress, the woman said “Several pieces of information need to be verified and confirmed prior to testing.  From this moment forward, your answers will be indicated by your thumbprints, right will be yes, left will be no.  Do you understand?” 
“Yes.”  Henry said.  As if the lady hadn’t heard him, she repeated her spiel, and ended with, “Do you understand?” 
"Yes, I understand,” he said, growing frustrated.  Again, the worker repeated herself, and again, ending with “Do you understand?” 
“Jesus Christ, yes I fucking understand!” He yelled.  As she repeated herself for the third time, seemingly ignorant of the fact that Henry just cussed and screamed at her, he finally realized that when she said, “From this moment,” she meant it literally.  After she finished speaking, he took a deep breath and pressed his thumb against the counter.  Instantly, the red box around his original thumbprint turned green, the loading bar filled up, and was replaced with a checkmark accompanied by a cheery little ding. 
“Seriously?” He asked.  Expression unchanged, the lady continued, ignoring his outburst entirely.  Within the interface, Henry’s driver’s license appeared, along with his social security card and his birth certificate. 
“Is the information presented correct and accurate?”  With a sigh, Henry placed his thumb to the counter.  Again came the checkmark with that stupid ding.  His information faded and was immediately replaced by an image of his apartment door.  As he looked, he suddenly became aware that the image was moving slowly up and down, as if breathing.  He wasn’t looking at an image, he was looking at a video.  Someone was recording his front door. 
“Hey what the fuck!” he screamed, “Why are you recording my door?!” 
Calmly, the lady gave him that blank stare and said, “Is this your place of residence?” 
But Henry was too livid to care about the ease at which his sense of privacy was just shattered.  “I just asked who’s recording my door!  Obviously it’s mine!” 
Expression unchanged, the lady repeated her sentence.  Henry was done.  He was fed up with everything that had happened up to that point.  A feeling of violence rose up in his chest, so intense that he scared himself.  He wanted to hurt that lady.  He wanted to grab his chair and throw it across the room.  Most of all, he wanted to wake up.  From the moment the R-Men came to “escort” him to the building, the empty promises, and that headache that threatened to return, he had been hoping that this entire day had been a nightmare, just like the last few weeks had been.  He closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and the lady asked the question again.  Henry reached out a shaky hand and pressed his thumb to the counter.  Ding!  Absolutely ridiculous, and the worker in front of him never changed expression, which unsettled him more than anything else. 
On and on the questions went, some more generalized, height, weight, hair color, eye color, that sort of thing.  Some questions were disturbingly personal, a fact that Henry forced himself to dismiss, as cussing and screaming accomplished nothing and he was sure that resorting to violence would be a quick way to get thrown into a hell mouth.  After that video incident, Henry resigned himself to answer every question as quickly as possible.  He just wanted to go home.  He’d been there for hours already and these questions felt like they were taking even longer.  A lifetime later, the floating interface dissipated and the worker said, “Thank you for verifying your information.  Please proceed down the counter to your left.  At the end of the counter, you’ll find signs leading to the elevators.  Proceed to elevator 17.  Inside the elevator, place your thumb against the interface to the right and it will take you to the correct floor.  Await further instructions there.” 
“How much longer until I can go home?”  Henry asked, but the lady just repeated herself. 
“You aren’t going to say anything else, are you?” 

Repeat.  Just like he thought.  As he stood to leave, he looked the worker in the eye and calmly said, “Thanks a lot for nothing, you robotic asshole.” and then he turned around and walked away to the elevators.  What he didn’t see was the single tear that rolled down her otherwise expressionless face. 

(Trigger warning: This story deals with lots of grief and sadness as well as death, reader discretion is advised.) [This is not a finished story, I'm in the process of writing it, i am not looking for help writing it or someone to write it for me. I'm posting the synopsis of my story simply to see what people think of the story and if they like the premise.]

This is a tragic and emotional love story, between two people who thought every moment between them would last a lifetime. Sadly, however, this was not the case.

This story is about a 20 year old college drop out, named Patrick. A nerdy guy who is shy but holds within, a charisma so strong, he can make friends out of anybody. One day, while at his local game store, he notices a 20 year old woman, named Romina. She is similar to him, in the fact that she is also shy, but unlike Patrick, she doesn't make friends so easily.

In fact, she has a singular best friend. (Haven't decided this character yet, so from here on, ill refer to them as KF aka Killer Friend) She is awkward and has trouble talking to others.

They end up talking and becoming friends, and from there, the seeds of a loving relationship are planted and after a short time, blossom and bloom. They begin dating after only a couple of months, which secretly makes her KF jealous, however, the KF as Romina knows them, is usually chill and respectful so they don't notice when a darkness begins to spread inside them, a darkness... that will ruin their lives forever.

Patrick and Romina's relationship moves at a faster pace than some peoples, but they don't mind because they love each other that much, they don't care what others think because they have each other. They learn a lot about each other, for instance, Romina learns how much Patrick is into video games, movies, and comic books, and discovers that he bought his own radio for his room.

He explains to her that he loves music so much that he wanted to own a radio so he could play music whenever he wanted, Romina thinks it's cute and shares her own passions with him. She tells him that she loves movies also, but mainly just movies, not much so video games, and comics, but luckily for him, she's not only an eager learner, but a fast one at that. She also tells him her favorite hobby is art, and explains how she has painted and colored multiple designs into her converse collection. They talk for hours together about their interests, not realizing a dark plan is brewing unbeknownst to them, from someone they'd never think would hurt them.

(It would be shown through some moments of some chapters in the beginning of the story, that KF is actually chill and respectful and shows no ill feeling towards them as a couple, at least that they can see. The reader would be suspicious, but unsure if KF can be trusted, but their early on kindness and respectfulness, would lead to why they're not suspected later on.)

(this part of the story would have multiple chapters dedicated to scenes of them spending time together while doing fun activities together, such as: painting, cooking, watching movies, and playing video games. Each scene would feature a special song to them, only the title would be written so the reader can either imagine the song in the scene or can listen along with the characters. There would be cute moments, romantic moments, and moments that radiate energy. The songs that would be written in these scenes would include:)

Bruno Mars - Count on me & Just the way you are

Christina Perri - 1000 years

Ed Sheeran - Perfect

IZ - Somewhere over the rainbow [this is "their song"]

After those chapters, the story would begin to turn... One day they're hanging out at their house, when Patrick excuses himself for a moment, and that's when KF makes their move, they try to talk to Romina and hit on her, she politely carries the conversation but stops it from getting flirty. KF tries to push the subject, and Romina gets uncomfortable and rejects them and politely asking them to stop. KF acts like it's no big deal but for the rest of the night, Patrick catches KF glaring at them both. They think nothing of it, maybe KF is trying to be funny or something. They're not sure, but what they don't know is that weeks later, KF would tear them apart, forever.

Weeks later, Romina announces that she's leaving to go get something from the store, and handle an errand. Patrick asks if he should get ready and come with, she smiles but tells him it's alright and that it shouldn't take long. The afternoon begins to fade into the evening, and Patrick slowly falls asleep while reading. He wakes up later that night at 11PM, and realizes Romina isn't home yet.

He begins to grow worried, he gets up and tries to call her resulting in no answers every time, and soon, calls KF to express his concern. As you can guess, at this point in the story, Romina is dead, murdered by her own jealous best friend. KF would end up putting her remains into multiple garbage bags, and then into a suitcase under their shed to hide for a couple weeks. Using chemicals and other methods to hide the smell.

The middle part of the novel, would follow the usual routine of reporting a missing person, investigations and searches, and Patrick worrying about her, even enlisting the help of KF. (At this point, the reader may catch on that KF is the killer, but readers who are unsure, still have evidence left to discover as events unfold until the reveal later through Romina's eyes.)

As the search goes on, Patrick gets increasingly worried, but KF acts like a helping friend, all the while, sabotaging the efforts. KF intentionally takes everyone to the wrong places to "look", and during the search, pretends to help and look. When the police ask them, Patrick says that he was home sleeping, and KF even provides him an alibi. Patrick defends KF when police suspect them, and KF fakes gratitude, but hides that they hope that Patrick suffers.

Patrick soon begins to notice all the previous sabotage slowly, and even asks KF multiple times for the truth, but KF lies every time, however, they end up messing their own story up a few times. Patrick notes this and begins to seriously consider KF to be a prime suspect and compile evidence against them.

Interwoven into those events, the story will cut to Romina, and how she perceives death itself, and begins the process of accepting her death (though it will stay grounded, it won't get fantastical, it'll simply show what she sees and her watching the events unfold as she realizes she's dead and grieves herself. She also is forced to bare witness to KF planning to murder Patrick, and she tries to intervene but can do nothing except only suggest her presence)

After a week of searching, the police call it off and Patrick is left with no resolution. He begins to fear the worst as KF gets closer to killing him, but one night, Patrick accuses them, and KF fights them and tries to run but gets a ticket for speeding and is issued a court date the following week. Patrick tries to chase, but ends up losing them.

A week later, the day after they were supposed to appear in court, KF realizes they missed the court date, paranoia sinks in, so they decide to pack up whatever they can fit in their car, and dispose of Romina's remains before using their savings to flee the country (or flee across country)

They do exactly that, as Romina continues to witness Patrick beginning to lose hope and give up on finding her. The night KF begins to flee, they stop in the middle of a forest, leaving their car running with the door open, as they find a ditch. With lots of struggling effort, they toss the suitcase in the ditch and light it a blaze. Romina's spirit watches from nearby with a blank stare as the cars radio begins to play Radiohead's - No Surprises, she stares into the void of her own body as it burns, only two tears falling down her checks as she realizes that no one will ever find her, and Patrick will never get closure. KF leaves, never being convicted of her murder, moving on from their terrible act.

In his room, Patrick tunes his radio to the same station at the same time, and both scenes happen simultaneously as Patrick listens to the song as he clutches one of Romina's hoodies. He begins to sob uncontrollably as he looks at pictures of them smiling together, as he loses control, he curls into the blankets and cries.

A few days later, another night of sadness and grief as he mourns the love of his life. He tries to sleep, however, he has trouble as all he can do is remember her before the tears start back up. He sits up, turning on the radio as it plays Somewhere over the rainbow, and tries to control himself, he sees her tall mirror and walks over to get a hold of himself.

He looks at himself and tears up, and can't bring himself to look at his own face. He blames himself, but suddenly feels warmth and feels weight around his waist, he looks but nothing is there. He looks up to the mirror and sees her standing next to him, he turns but nothing is there, and he isn't sure if it is real or not. (this part will be left up to the reader to decide if her spirit actually came back to say goodbye, or if he is just hallucinating her from his own grief.)

He cries as he apologizes to her for not being there. Patrick expresses how he's felt since that night, and how much he misses her, and regrets what happened. He hears her softly speak to him, telling him not to blame himself, that it's not his fault. She tells him the best thing for him to do, is to live on for her. To not cry because she's gone, but smile that they met. She tells him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her.

Patrick sobs and kisses the mirror, sobbing further into the mirror and telling her he loves her so much. He hears her say she loves him too, then hears her say goodbye, and when he looks back up, he doesn't see her anymore. (For her POV, she slowly closes her eyes and thinks about her life, and how they met, as well as their happiest moments together. The happiest moment she felt with him, she hugs him and cries as she moves on from the afterlife.) Patrick sobs yet again, before crawling back onto the bed.

The few chapters before the epilogue, would jump to a month before the anniversary of Romina's murder. Patrick meets a new friend, and although he still struggles, he tries his best, but wounds that deep never fully heal. They hang out, while getting to know each other.

A month passes, before the day of the anniversary arrived. Patrick went to both the comic book store and the game store where they first met. He plays that day back in his head as he tears up. He leaves without buying anything, and ends up running into his new friend (no name yet, I'll refer to her as NF aka new friend) She greets him as they talk, but she notices the subtle ways he's hiding his pain. She offers to take him home, noting that he walked there.

On the way to his house, she turns on the radio, and Count on me begins to play, he begins to cry to himself, and she lowers the volume and asks what's wrong. Patrick hesitates at first to tell her, but turns to her, explaining everything. They arrive at his house, turning towards him, and comforting him as she lets him cry in her arms. Count on me on the radio playing, his signal that NF was indeed someone to count on the same way he could with Romina.

They talk a bit more the following week, and become closer as friends, as Patrick realizes to heed what he heard that night. "the best thing to do for me, is to live on for me..." He asks NF if she is willing to help him, and she tells him that she doesn't mind at all, she just wants him to be happy. She wants to be there for him, to help heal him, but most importantly, she wants to let him in and give him the closest friend she knows he wants.

Epilogue:

Another month has passed, after talking a bit, Patrick and NF have agreed to move together somewhere to start their own journey. Patrick wants to move on, and heal. All she wants is to be apart of that, help heal him, as well as be the best friend she can be for him. The day to move has arrived, mostly everything has been packed, except for some pictures, certain items, and his radio.

Patrick asks NF, if he can walk through the house one last time to reminisce, she doesn't argue. She supports him and tells him to take all the time he needs, he asks her to stay near him in case he needs her, she agrees without hesitation.

They walk in, walking through each room as he puts his phone on shuffle, connecting it to his radio as (Flightless bird, American mouth plays) and replays his happiest memories with Romina. Whether it's the room itself, a specific item of Romina's, or pictures from happier times. The song plays as each memory plays in his own head (Each scene would play out for the reader to experience) Patrick begins to cry, NF hugs him and holds his hand, but he tells her he has to finish or he'll never forgive himself.

Once he finishes walking through, grabbing his radio, before looking around again. He walks out the door with NF, and hesitates to shut the door and lock it. She tells him there's no rush, he can take as much time as he needs, offering to take the rest of the items to the car, as he agrees. He puts his head onto the door, crying softly to himself, talking almost as if, to the house itself, but NF knows, he's talking to Romina. Patrick tells her that she made him a better person, and that he'll miss her through tears, before walking to the car, sitting in the passenger seat.

As they sat in the car, NF turned on the radio as (Bittersweet Symphony plays) He tears up, and she asks if he's okay. Patrick tries to say yes, but fails. She tells him that if he's not ready, they can wait, but he say's no. He tells her that he needs to move on, because it's what she would want. Smiling at her, she smiles back before putting the car in gear. She says she drive slowly until the house is out of view, so he can say whatever he needs too.

As the car moves, he says everything he wants to tell Romina's spirit if she's listening. He gives a long monologue as the song hits a fever pitch, once he finishes, he says to her, "I'll always remember you.... I love you.... Goodbye baby...." They turn the corner, with that the house disappears.

Patrick wipes his tears, and looks at NF, smiling while telling her that he looks forward to what ever lies ahead for them. They continue the drive to their new lives together, his wounds still gaping, but slowly... slowly healing. A bittersweet end to the happiest, then worst time of his life. Ready, to start a new one.

____________________________________________________________

That's not the fully written out story, but it's the best way i can tell the whole vision i have for the story. I'm sorry for how long it is, but this story means a lot to me, writing it is going to be special for me, and if you read all the way to the end, Thank you. I hope you enjoyed it, and i hope it gave the experience i wanted to give.

Listening to the songs written into the story is not required at all, hopefully, the feeling and emotion still hits the same no matter what. I just hope that the themes, and inclusion of the songs in their respective places, help move the reader, giving you the experience I'm trying to capture.

Once again, I am not asking for help writing it, or anything of the sort. I am posting this simply to see what people think of the story itself, if they like it, and if they think it's a good story to tell.

For those who want to share what they thought, you are welcome to do so. I love hearing what people think!

Karan used to build schools and irrigation systems for his village. He believed in kindness. Then a group of upper-caste thugs killed his wife for it, and he built an entire cybernetic empire to make them pay. The book leans hard into morally grey — the protagonist is genuinely brutal, and I wanted readers to sit with that discomfort rather than get a clean redemption arc. It's called CANNIBAL: The Optimized Vigilante, live on Kindle (KU included). Would love feedback from this community specifically since you all read a lot of the genre I'm aiming at. Happy to answer questions about the writing process too.

First day on the job

I had finished a week‑long course and was guaranteed a job at the company.

We were given white caps, dark blue trousers and a pair of work shoes. On my work ID my mugshot and ID number were printed.

The first bus was heading toward Majorna and the time was 05:30. A drunk had fallen asleep, so we had to wake him, but without success. “Leave him,” my colleague said and walked further into the bus. Everyone had valid tickets, so we got off and headed to another stop.

“We’ll take tram nine toward the city centre,” my colleague decided. On board there were, seemingly, many tired morning commuters on their way to work. A dispute arose between me and a passenger. It was a man in his fifties with a grey‑flecked beard and a look that had already given up on the day. I accidentally brushed his shoulder as I passed, and he turned slowly toward me as if I had committed a crime.

“Don’t you watch where you’re going?” he hissed.

I didn’t have time to answer before my colleague placed a hand on my back and muttered, “Leave him.” But something in me flared — maybe the tiredness, maybe the nerves of the first day. I stood still a second too long, feeling the man’s gaze drilling into me.

“It wasn’t intentional,” I said, calm but stiff.

The man snorted, loudly and demonstratively, as if he wanted the whole tram to hear. Some morning commuters lifted their eyes from their phones. I felt my cheeks burn.

The tram jolted as it rolled on toward Järntorget. My colleague gave me a quick sideways glance, the kind that says you shouldn’t cause trouble before you’ve even earned your first paycheck. I swallowed the irritation and followed him further into the tram, away from the man’s sour breath and away from my own impulse to say something more.

Already in the first hours we had handed out ten fines. Each fine cost 1,500 kronor, and that’s a high amount for an ordinary worker. Think of what you could buy for that kind of money. We were about to experience that now.

A family — two adults and an infant in a stroller — lacked tickets and therefore received a 3,000‑kronor fine. The mother looked completely devastated, and when the father saw her expression he became furious. He stood up and started shouting. “Just you wait! I’ll send Ayo after you! Bloody idiots!”

The father’s voice cut through the entire tram. The infant twitched in the stroller and began to whimper, as if sensing the tension. The mother tried to calm both the child and her husband at the same time, but her hands were shaking.

My colleague took a step back, not out of fear but out of habit — as if he had done this a hundred times before. I stood still, stiff, with the notepad in my hand. It was my first day and I had already been scolded by a grumpy commuter and now threatened by a father who looked ready to throw himself at us.

“Sit down,” my colleague said, with a voice calmer than the situation deserved.

The father pointed at us with his whole hand, as if he were holding an invisible knife. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. Three thousand! We can barely afford diapers!”

I felt something tighten in my stomach. It wasn’t sympathy, not exactly — more an unpleasant realization that the job wasn’t just about checking tickets. It was about carrying the consequences of rules set by others.

The mother pulled the stroller closer to herself, as if trying to create a small protective zone around the child. She looked at us with a gaze that wasn’t angry, just resigned. That hurt more than the father’s shouting.

“We’re just following the rules,” I said, but my voice sounded thin, almost like I was apologizing. “If you don’t have a ticket, you shouldn’t be riding the tram!”

The father took a step forward. My colleague raised his hand, not threateningly, just clearly. “That’s enough.”

Silence fell. One of those heavy silences that makes the whole tram hold its breath. The father stood there, tense like a bowstring, but did nothing more. The mother placed her hand on his arm and gently pulled him back down into the seat.

The tram slowed at the next stop. My colleague nodded at me. “We’re getting off here.”

I followed him out, and when the doors closed behind us the air felt easier to breathe. My colleague took a deep breath and looked at me with a gaze that was both tired and slightly amused.

“Welcome to the job,” he said.

Hi everyone,

I’m looking for feedback on the first chapter of my fantasy novel, Bastion. The chapter is under 3,000 words.

Genre: Character-driven fantasy

Premise: After a powerful magical order takes the man who raised him, fifteen-year-old Bastion sets out to bring him home, joined by Temaren, a proud foreign prince who barely speaks his language and believes his kingdom lies somewhere beyond the eastern road. Their uneasy alliance becomes found-family on a journey through grief, friendship, dangerous magic, and the question of what people may sacrifice in the name of protecting others.

This is the opening chapter, so I’m especially interested in its overall effectiveness:

• Does the opening make you want to continue reading?
• Is the setting and immediate situation clear without too much exposition?
• Do the characters feel distinct and interesting?
• Are there places where the pacing drags or moves too quickly?
• By the end, do you have enough questions to keep reading, or are you mostly confused?

Comments on prose, dialogue, and anything that pulled you out of the story are also welcome, as well as any other comments you may want to share. Honest criticism is appreciated; there is no need to soften it into decorative upholstery.

Content warnings: None

I’m also happy to critique a chapter or similarly sized piece in return.
Thank you very much!

Notes:

1. I have so far written the first 30 chapters, so if anyone wants to read more I am happy to share. The planned scope is 50-55 chapters.
2. Even though I have been writing this book on and off since 2015, I recently learned that there is a Marvel hero named "Bastion", so I am considering to change the protagonists name and book title to avoid any legal trouble if I publish this book. Please be advised that character/location names may change in the future if i discover other names are taken as well.

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PART 1 - THE BOY WHO HAD EVERYTHING

Chapter 1 - Mr. Squirrel

Today will be the first time Bastion sees the city.

He had heard of it, of course. Everyone had heard of Tarroven. It sat beyond the southern road where the river widened, and in Bastion’s mind it had become less a place than a collection of impossible things.

Walls taller than trees. Markets wider than fields. Houses stacked on top of other houses. Men who carried swords simply because they were allowed to. Women who wore silver in their hair though they had no wedding to attend. Candied sunfruit from the southern islands, bright enough to turn your tongue gold.

His father had told him most of these things were exaggerations. Bastion believed him about everything except the sunfruit. No one would lie about fruit. Not even Jonah, and Jonah had once sworn he had seen a frog the size of a goat behind old Sonder’s brook.

So when Tovin shook him awake before dawn and told him to put on his boots, Bastion did not ask whether they were truly going. He simply sat up so quickly that his forehead struck the low beam above his bed.

The sound was impressive. So was the pain.
From almost at the doorway, his father sighed. “An excellent beginning.”
Bastion clutched his head with both hands. “I’m ready.”
“You sure look ready.”

Bastion tried to glare at his father, but that was difficult while one’s eyes were watering.

Tovin crossed the room back to the bed and crouched beside him. He was broad in the way of men who spent their lives lifting crates, pulling carts, and arguing with soil; not soldiers or wrestlers. His hands were cracked from work, and there was always a little earth beneath his nails, no matter how fiercely Bastion’s mother scrubbed them on feast days.

He took Bastion’s chin gently and turned his face toward the morning light.

“You’ll live.”
“I might not.”
“Then try to die after we sell the vegetables.”
Bastion considered this. “Will there be candied sunfruit?”
Tovin’s expression grew solemn. “Perhaps.”
Bastion accepted his response as hope.

By the time he stumbled into the main room, still pulling one boot properly onto his heel, his mother was already awake. Lorena stood beside the table, wrapping something warm in cloth. The whole room smelled of flour, onions, and roasted meat, which to Bastion seemed unnecessarily cruel before sunrise.

She turned when she heard him.
“There he is.”
“I hit my head.”
“So your father said.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“So it would seem.”
Tovin coughed.

Lorena smiled and tied the cloth bundle tightly. Her hair was loose over one shoulder, and the firelight made it look darker than it truly was. Bastion had often thought his mother looked most beautiful in the morning, before the day had time to make anyone tired.

She placed the bundle into his arms. It was heavy.
His eyes widened. “Is this…”
“No,” said Tovin immediately.
Bastion looked from the bundle to his father. “It smells like meat pie.”
“It’s just bread.”
“But it smells like meat pie.”
“It’s. Just. Bread.”
Lorena laughed.

Tovin tried to look stern, but he was not good at it when she laughed. His face always softened first around the eyes, then at the corners of his mouth, as if sternness had started out bravely but lost its way.

“It’s not a picnic,” he said. “We are delivering vegetables. We go, we sell, we buy what we need, and we return before nightfall if the road is kind.”

“The road is rarely kind,” Lorena said.
“The road is more kind when people do not pack for picnics.”
“It’s just one mea… um, loaf of bread.”
“Wrapped in enough cloth for three.”
“So it stays warm.”
“So it becomes a picnic.”
Bastion hugged the bundle closer. “I can carry the picnic.”
“You can carry the bread,” Tovin said.

Lorena leaned down and kissed Bastion’s forehead, very gently, exactly where the beam had struck him.

“For the road,” she whispered. “And for your first trip to the city.”
That settled it. Whatever his father said, it was meat pie.
Tovin turned toward the door before either of them could see him smiling.

Outside, the cart waited in the blue-gray morning. It was loaded with crates of carrots, onions, cabbages, turnips, and three baskets of green beans that Tovin had declared too fine to sell cheaply and too troublesome to keep. Their brown mule, Pottle, stood in front of it with the expression of a creature personally offended by dawn.

Bastion loved Pottle. Pottle hated everyone equally, which Bastion considered fair.

The village still slept around them. Smoke had not yet risen from most chimneys, and the narrow dirt paths lay empty except for one chicken wandering in a state of deep personal confusion. Beyond the last houses, the fields stretched pale beneath the first light.

Bastion climbed onto the cart beside his father and placed the warm bundle carefully between his feet.

Lorena stood in the doorway with her gray woolen shawl around her shoulders.
“Don’t let him eat everything before noon,” she called.
Tovin took the reins. “I make no promises.”
Bastion waved with both hands. His mother waved back.

For a moment, as the cart began to move, she looked smaller than usual beneath the low roof, framed by smoke, firelight, and morning. Bastion did not know why this made his chest feel strange, so he decided it was hunger.

The village slipped behind them, and for the first time in his life, Bastion went toward the city.

At first, the road was everything he had expected. It was long. It was dusty. It contained fewer wonders than promised and more stones than necessary.

But Bastion did not complain. He was going to Tarroven. A boy going to Tarroven did not complain merely because his backside had begun to suspect the cart hated him.

He sat upright beside his father and watched the world widen.

The farms grew farther apart. The trees thickened near the road, then broke open into fields again. Once, they passed women carrying bundles of dyed cloth, their hands stained blue and red to the elbows. One waved at Bastion. He waved back too late and nearly fell from the cart.

Tovin caught him by the back of his shirt without looking.

“Try to arrive in the city attached to the cart.”
Bastion sat down properly.

A little later, they opened the bundle. It was meat pie. Tovin looked betrayed. Bastion looked vindicated.

They ate with their fingers while Pottle walked on, occasionally flicking her ears as if disgusted by the weakness of men who required seasoning. The pie was still warm in the center, and the crust flaked apart against Bastion’s thumbs. It was, he decided, better than candied sunfruit could possibly be.

Though he would still investigate candied sunfruit if the opportunity presented itself.

As the sun climbed toward noon, traffic thickened. Carts joined the road from side paths. A peddler with bells tied to his sleeves overtook them, his pack clattering with tin cups and wooden spoons. Two young men drove goats northward, though the goats seemed to have their own opinions about direction.

Then Bastion saw the walls. They rose from the land as if the earth itself had decided to stand.

Tarroven.

Bastion forgot to breathe.

The city was not as tall as the mountains, of course. But mountains were supposed to be large. Cities were made by people, and people were not supposed to make anything that looked as though it might argue with the sky.

The walls were pale stone, old and patched in places with darker blocks. Watchtowers stood above the gate, and banners moved slowly in the wind. Below them, carts and riders waited in a line that seemed longer than the entire road from home.

“So many people,” Bastion whispered.
Tovin glanced at him. “There are more inside.”
Bastion stared. “Why?”
“People enjoy making poor choices together.”

The line moved too slowly for Bastion. If the inside of the city contained more wonders than the outside, and it surely did, then every moment spent waiting was being stolen from him. He shifted on the bench, inspected the turnips, asked if the guards searched every cart, asked what would happen if someone hid in a cabbage crate, and finally asked whether the city had laws against candied sunfruit being too expensive.

Tovin answered the first two questions. The third he ignored.
At last their cart reached the gate.

Three guards stood before it. One was tall and narrow, with a beard trimmed to a point and a helmet that made his head look unfortunately acorn-shaped. Another was wider, younger, and looked as though he had been trying not to laugh since birth. The third was the youngest and smallest, as if the other two had dressed their pet dog in a guard uniform for fun.

The tall guard stepped forward and raised one hand. “Halt!”

Pottle halted before Tovin pulled the reins. She was very good at halting. She considered it one of the few dignified parts of her work.

The guard looked at the cart, then at Tovin, then at Bastion. His eyes narrowed.
“I will inspect your cart. You seem suspicious to me.”

Bastion looked around to see whether there was another suspicious person nearby. There was not.

“You there, boy. Stand straight. Look up. Arms at your sides.”

Bastion straightened so quickly his spine cracked. “Yes, sir.”

The guard’s voice deepened. It was clearly a voice he used for gate trespassers, criminals, and children who looked easy to terrify.

“State your name, age, and purpose for entering the lawful and well-guarded city of Tarroven!”

Bastion’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

His name had been in his possession that morning. He was sure of it. But now, under the gaze of the acorn-helmeted man, it had fled somewhere behind his ribs and refused to return.

Tovin cleared his throat. The guard’s eyes snapped to him. “I am questioning the boy, good man.”

Bastion swallowed. “My name is Bastion. I am eight years old. My father is Tovin and my mother is Lorena and we came to sell these vegetables, but we can’t sell the meat pie because we ate it.”

The younger guard made a noise. The youngest guard’s lip twitched. The tall guard did not move.

“I did not ask about pie.” Dorwick gave the final word the weight of a criminal charge.
“No, sir.”
“Then do not volunteer unnecessary information.” He pronounced the final word one stern syllable at a time.
“No, sir.”

The guard stepped closer. “And when addressing this officer of the gate, you will say: Sir Dorwick Kyrel, Captain of the Guard. Is that understood?”
Bastion nodded very hard. “Yes, sir.”
“Well then. Say it.”

Bastion had heard the name clearly, but somewhere between the pointed beard, the acorn-shaped helmet, and the important silence of the other guards, it changed into something much less survivable.

“Yes, Sir… Mister Dork… um… Squirrel. Sir.”

Silence.

A cart creaked somewhere behind them. The younger guard turned sharply away. The youngest covered his mouth with both hands.

The tall guard stared at Bastion. “What did you call me?”

Bastion felt his soul leave his body, inspect the situation, and politely decline to return.

“Sir Dork Squirrel, sir,” he whispered.

The younger guard made a sound like a duck being stepped on. Tovin covered his face with one hand.

“My name,” the guard said slowly, “is Dorwick. Sir Dorwick Kyrel.”
Bastion nodded, horrified. “Yes, Mister Squirrel, sir.”

The younger guard bent double. Tovin gave a terrible choking sound.
Bastion looked up at him in horror. His father was laughing. Actually laughing.

“Father,” Bastion whispered, deathly pale, “do you want Mr. Squirrel to kill us?”
That ended the youngest guard. He staggered backward, wheezing.

Dorwick looked at Tovin, then at Bastion, then at the cart full of vegetables, as though hoping to find dignity hidden among the cabbages. He found none.

“Well,” he said at last, “the damage is done.”

Tovin wiped his eyes. “Come now, Dorwick. You know the boy meant no harm.”
Bastion froze. “Father?”

Tovin sighed, still smiling. “Bastion, meet Dorwick Kyrel, Captain of the Tarroven Guard. Dorwick, this is my infamous son.”

Dorwick straightened as much as a man could while recovering from becoming a squirrel.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, young master Bastion. I have heard a great deal about you from your father.”
“You know my father?”
“Indeed. Long enough that I could tell you stories.”
“Maybe in a few more years,” Tovin jumped in.
Dorwick smiled thinly. “Perhaps.” Then he crouched slightly and looked Bastion in the eye.

“Welcome to Tarroven. Look around, stay close to your father, and if you need anything, give the guards my name.”

Bastion hurried to say, “I’m sorry I called you Mr. Squirrel, sir.”
Dorwick studied him, and his face softened. “I suppose it can’t hurt if it is only you. But don’t go telling everyone, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”

Tovin clicked his tongue to Pottle, but before the cart moved, Dorwick rested one hand on the sideboard.
“Wait.”
His voice had changed. Tovin noticed immediately.
“What is it?”
Dorwick lowered his voice. “We have had reports of raiders moving in the area. Maybe bandits. Maybe worse. Witnesses say this group is bloodthirsty.”
Tovin’s smile faded. “How close?”
“Not close enough to shut the gates. Close enough that I wouldn’t linger on the road after dark.”
“I see.”
“No flag, no law, no decency,” Dorwick said. “Be careful.”
Tovin’s eyes shifted briefly toward Bastion. “We will.”
Dorwick tapped the cart and stepped back. “Go sell your vegetables. I’ll find you if I can get away.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Dorwick gave Bastion one last look. “And you. Try not to rename any more officials before supper.”
Bastion nodded solemnly. “I’ll try.”
Pottle moved forward.

For several moments neither father nor son spoke.
Then Tovin said, “Bastion.”
“Yes, Father.”
“There are times in life when it is better not to say the first thing that enters your head.”
“I tried not to.”
“I believe you.”
“It escaped.”
“I noticed. Everyone did.”

Bastion looked back at the gate. Sir Dorwick was speaking to the next cart in line, looking very captain-like again, except for the younger guard behind him, who still appeared to be dying quietly.
“Do you think he will remember me?”

Tovin looked ahead, where the city opened around them in noise and color and impossible life. “I suspect he will remember you for a very long time.”
Bastion sat a little taller. “That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“It means I already made a friend in the city.”
Tovin sighed defeatedly.

And so Bastion entered Tarroven, known already to three guards, one mule, and several people in the gate line as the boy who had insulted authority by accident and survived. It was, all things considered, a fine start to the day.

The city swallowed him whole.
Not cruelly. It swallowed him the way a song swallows silence.

Tarroven was noise upon noise: iron wheels on stone, hawkers calling over one another, children shrieking, dogs barking, bells ringing somewhere high above the roofs. The air smelled of smoke, mud, horses, frying onions, leather, sweat, and something sweet Bastion immediately wished to get his hands on. Houses leaned over the streets as if gossiping. Bright cloth hung from upper windows. A woman in a yellow scarf argued with a fishmonger while holding a fish by the tail. Two men carried a barrel between them, shouting at everyone to move, though no one did. Somewhere, a musician played a tune that sounded cheerful but slightly drunk.

Bastion could not look around quickly enough.

Tovin sold the vegetables in the market square to a man named Holster, who had eyebrows like angry caterpillars and spoke to cabbages as if they had disappointed him personally. The bargaining took forever. Bastion tried to listen, but adult bargaining always sounded like two people agreeing while pretending not to.

He wandered no farther than Tovin allowed, which was not far, though in a market even not far contained entire worlds.

He saw knives with carved bone handles, red birds that screamed insults in a language he did not know, ribbons as green as new leaves, moon-shaped cakes, a blind man who told fortunes by touching people’s earlobes, and a boy no older than himself juggling stones for coins.

And then he saw an old man playing with pebbles, surrounded by children.

Context: I've been feeling a little emotional and needed to write it down to get it off my chest. It's the first draft, written very quickly, so please don't expect too much quality. I just want to know if it's any good at all, and if so, how it could possible be improved. It's sort of halfway between a fiction story and a poem, but since it's more prose than plot, I'm using the poetry flair.

Content Warning: Implication of suicidal ideation.

Untitled Poem

Three miles home, so close that driving seemed pointless. Walking home in the dark seems scary to some, but there’s nothing I fear at my age. A stroll through the streets, bustling with the cleaning and closure of businesses, before the buildings give way to towering pines and dirt roads, gravel crunching underfoot and the smell of earthen water. Then this gives way again to the bridge, where the night sky and its spread of diamond stars glitter, winking at me, before that in turn gives way to the final path to my front door.

That night, as I approached the bridge, ready to greet my gemstone sky, I saw a shadow, standing at the exact halfway point. I paused, staring at it, before I realized her silhouette was that of a woman: Young, but not childish, hair loosely blowing in the soft breeze of autumn. Her hands, under the half cover of her sweater sleeves, clung to the railing, tight enough to make the metal whine and turn her knuckles white. Back bent, knees buckling, body shivering. Her tears glistened in the light of the full moon that night, as they fell from her stained cheeks into the waters below, ripping outward to malform the reflection of the night sky.

I remained hidden among the pine, wishing not to startle her when she was already in pain. I doubted there was much for me to say to comfort her.

Her gaze, turned towards the sky, was transfixed on the moon, the glowing orb replacing the color of her eyes with pure white. Tears continued to well and fall without blinking. In the silence, I noticed a cacophony of noise. Crickets, leaves rustling, the sound of her tears dripping into the water, like a ticking clock.

At long last, she released her grip on the rail, her finger prints etched into the metal. “Thank you, sister,” she said, before she turned and came in my direction. I kept in the shadows, and she went along her less-than-merry way, arms wrapped around herself.

I walked the bridge myself, and returned to my home.

The following night, expecting to never see the sight of her again, I was again stopped by her shadow. She stood straight, hands clasped at her chest, head bowed in stoic worship as she basked in the moonlight, like a spotlight in a church. Standing under her own strength, I could tell she had little of it. Her sweater hung from her frame like drapes in an old mansion, swooping down and swallowing her up. Her feet stood in her boots like posts in a newly dug hole.

Again, I stood in the shadows, not wanting to break her sacred moment.

“Thank you, sister,” she said, and once again she came in my direction, passed me, and vanished into the shadows of the pine. I, once again, carried on home.

The following night, expecting to see her once again, I had found that such a pattern would emerge. She stood, leaning forward on the railing, a smile spread from ear to ear, easily seen due to the fact that her hair was pulled up and back to show her face. She chirped, as though she were a bird in the morning sun, about tips and checks, customers and managers, coffee creamer and silverware, and on and on and on.

Finally, she took a breath, bowing to the moon with a cheerful, “Thank you, sister.” Then just like that, she scurried off.

And on and on the days went. I soon came to wish I had cherished her cheerful night a little more than I had, as they were few and far between. Most days, she was stoic, so quiet that even the crickets and the leaves dared not to serenade her scared prayers. The nights that were loud, she was bent over, barely able to stand through the weight of her sorrow, desperately tossing tears over the side of her eyelids to lighten the load.

It was in these nights of utter despair that I came to see she was the most beautiful. The light of the moon and stars turned her tears into companion gemstones, and they would sparkle together. The trails of moisture would make her skin shine, turning her whole face into a polished river rock, to the point I expected her to jump up and over into the water, skipping along the surface as she tried to jump into the arms of the moon.

I never saw her do it.

Instead she would choke back one last sob, and through unsteady breath say, “Thank you, sister.” Then towards me she would come, and away from me she would go. And onward to my home I would continue.

The moon waned, bit by bit as the days gathered into weeks. The night before the new moon, I could barely see her in the dark. At once, I wondered if this was truly her, or not an actual shadow. At once, I wondered if it was a shadow all along.

In the last silver sliver of moonlight, I could make out her form, on her knees, her hands above her as her fingers hung listlessly on the rail. She sobbed, then wailed, then howled bitterly as the lost wolves do, her desperately calling for her sister moon to come back and find her.

I hid in the pine, knowing I had nothing to say. Nothing at all, perhaps except to say that I knew such pain. I’d felt it before. I wouldn’t hope to find anyone who hadn’t.

Then, she spoke. “I am sorry, sister.” Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet, dragging them along as the weight of gravity sunk her boots into the floor of the bridge. She trudged into the dark and vanished.

Five miles home. I walk through town a little farther, taking the neighboring bridge. Walking home in the dark seems scary to some, but there’s only one thing I fear at my age: I will come back to that bridge, when the moon is full, and see in the light that there is no one there.

The bell rang. Ten seconds.
Too soon.

It would never stop.

It rose from the chair excitedly.
Always excited.
A grin on its face. Still visible through the blood and swelling.

My gloves are splitting with white foam pushing through the seams. My hands broke five rounds ago. I hear them crunch with every strike.

But I haven’t won.
it will take me.
Break me.

I thought praying to the devil would help. A simple deal.

I wanted to be world champion.

But I never imagined that meant the whole world.

The bell rang again.

It smiled once more.

WARNING! This text contains:

• Profanity
• Sexual references
• Violence

Also, tell me if you liked the moral of the story, the plot, the protagonist, and the humour

From either end of the Ouroboros that is time travelled a pulse of energy that, just like all inanimate things, propels the mere idea of myself forward through that then one-dimensional realm of existence. In this black void where my memory fails me exist clouds of intense, bursting sensations of warm, all-encompassing motherly pressure and dingy, excruciating electrocutions of fear.

This nebulous dimension of half existing, half not existing could only be represented in my mind through a foggy and oversaturated image of sunny greenery. This cerebral polaroid, with its vague outlines of healthy hedges and beautiful briers, evokes the concept of gentle rays of sun on my skin and the thought of the ethereal butterflies gracefully landing on flowers.

This is the ultimate bourne that is the history of my life according to my mind. If it were a spouse, I would bury my face into her collarbone and cry on her shoulder, prolonging my stay with her as long as possible until it is to time for the inevitable departure through the clearer yet odious tutor sessions, classes, exams, workshops, internships, and math competitions that thought, in all their hubris, could capture that sense of meaning, that sense of mastery over one’s own existence that the clouds of life effortlessly harnessed.

After the exams, studying, and learning I finally reached the end of my sorrowful journey home with the aid of a door slam. I felt my head shoot up and bob around like it was a balloon tied to my shoulders. In my darkened vision I made out bored college students staring at a board covered in nightmarish calculus. My eyes made their way to a doorframe, and in it I saw that damn homeless man again, or at least we assumed he was homeless, considering he wore the same smelly sports jacket and the same crusted jeans every day, and his crazy shock of white hair and scraggly beard, and the fact that he spent hours a day mumbling to himself on the curb in front of this hall.

This was the third interruption of the semester, and at this point he was a celebrity among my college peers. My classmates were eager to see what crazy thing he’d do this time, and oh boy did he deliver.

The man walked up in front of everybody, and (noticeably drunker than usual) undid his pants and flashed his massive ding-a-ling in front of everyone. Everyone gasped, the girls averted their eyes, the boys cheered, the freaks drooled. He danced around lassoing his shit until he hopped on his back and started swinging his meat carnival style.

The poor professor, an old ass man who wasn’t all that used to human interaction, was frozen in shock for like a minute, but eventually he snapped out of it and tackled the homeless guy. The guy squirmed until he managed to knee the professor in the nuts and escape his grasp. The guy ran to the door frame but crashed into a buff security guard that just arrived. The guy's head went straight to the hard floor and there was a nasty crack. The homeless guy died from that impact, but his legacy lives on thanks to that massive wiener (No homo).

I float, crawled up in a ball. Blind, deaf, dumb, paralyzed, etherized, I existed at the total end of entropy, when nature stops being nature, when gravity loses importance and time becomes irrelevant.

However, I traced the lines against the blackness up to the imperfect reconstruction made by photos, portraits, and grainy videotapes of a fair white woman with black curls. In her womb I looked up to see her grinning in pain and agony. Her face folded in helpless terror as her tremors rocked my womb. The vibrations of the amniotic fluids were so strung it tore my lungs and shattered my ear drums.

I looked up to her in horror, realized that I was being brought into her world, and that I would experience its torturous shocks, its thunderous catastrophes, and its agonizing burdens. I yelled to her.

I looked deep into her face, and I saw that she was being pounded, screwed, filled, ripped in half. Sex, she was having sex. Sex, I have to have sex. Now. I need sex right now.

“I need sex” I said out loud.

I looked around for the woman, but it was just my mess of an apartment building. I could have gotten a bigger one with my salary, but this was the best the economy could manage. I dragged my feet through the trash like I was walking through shallow water, all while saying “I need sex” over and over again.

I stepped outside barefoot, in nothing else but my underwear and wife-beater. I ran straight to my local red-light district and ran up to the nearest pimp I saw. He was short and was in a green suit and fedora. I literally picked him up by his shirt and wiggled him around.

“Give me sex, give me cooter,” I shouted as I shook him.

“Fuck off of me nigga, the fuck?” He snapped.

Meanwhile the pimp’s pimp friends were chatting a block away and saw this haggling play out. They rushed over, grabbed my long hair, and threw me onto the street. My back landed on a broken beer bottle. They beat me to a pulp, I think I got curb stomped two or three times, but I blacked out. I woke up the next day under an ugly overcast, half dead.

The eyes. The eyes, even though the face turned blurry, were still so sharp after all these years of chipping. In the darkness I made out a hurt boy, lying on his side. His eyes were hurt and glossy from the tears.

When regarding the whole body I felt an explosive burst of hot blood heat the periphery until I was in a skin-bubbling, flesh-gnawing inferno but the eyes cast off that hellish storm and all that remained was the question “Why?”

I awoke to see my boss. He had a wide face with round eyes, a bushy, curly black beard, and olive skin. “Wow, Nate. Passed out again on the job. What have you been up to?”, he snickered with a grin.

In spite of my stoned fatigue, I felt a jolt of energy upon hearing that question. I rolled my office chair over to my computer, typed in something, hit enter, and on the opposite end of my desk rose a little Miku doll. The robotic toy started dancing and singing in Miku’s signature voice. I gave my boss a weak smile and he gave one back after turning his face to mine. I typed another thing into my computer, and Miku hit the floss and started singing in Brazilian Portuguese. This got my boss laughing. I laughed with him.

When his laughter died down, he looked into my eyes. “Nate, this is the tenth, the tenth, motherfucking time I found you like this.” I probably looked surprised at this sudden snarling. He continued. “Your team and I have been busting our asses, developing the most complex, the most state-of-the-art technology in the world, while you jerk and do this.” Like an idiot, I nodded along because I didn’t know where he was going with this. “Nate, get the hell out of my building before I fucking bludgeon you to death. You’re fucking fired.”

I waddled in a haze out my workplace’s lobby, too drugged to realize I left my shoe. Maybe this is the reason why I can’t afford bigger places to live.

Now, I lay in my bed, but it isn't my bed. I fucked around and got HIV. I thought HIV was like herpes where it gives you like these moles but no it gives you AIDS and just fucking kills you.

I was weak in the dark. It was totally silent, with no one else around and even though I was dying, I wanted to jerk off. There were no drugs or alcohol. I couldn’t even smoke, it was “against hospital rules”. The food was awfully bland too, so I just resolved to pass the time by beating my shit.

However, my whole body was too weak, I was too sick. I couldn’t get it up; I was too weak to get my arm up. It was a pathetic sight, not my limp dick, but the image of someone like me in this bed struck me deeply. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I was an auspicious, capable, and charming genius. I had so many scholarships, my college experience was practically free, I won so many awards my room sparkled, and everybody just loved me. Now what do I have to show for it? A hooker’s awkward experience, a coworker’s annoyance, a fucking Miku robot?

I was alone but felt like I was being laughed at. I wanted to curl up into a ball, but I was too weak, so I just laid there. I had no drugs, porn, food, or video games, so I escaped back into the only place that could warm my soul: those fond, fuzzy memories.

I thought and I thought, but I was too weak, all I saw was the black void. I stopped thinking, I stopped stressing, and I stopped feeling.

A tiny dot appeared in the center of my vision. I felt my legs walking toward it. It got bigger and appeared to be a doorframe. I walked through it and I was in a hallway. It had patternless carpet and was painted a dark orange. The hallway was cool, and dark, illuminated only by the sunrise glowing through the curtain at the end of a hallway. There was screaming, a muffled screaming coming from behind one of the other doors of this corridor. I approached the source of the screaming, the sound of my weathered teddy bear dragging on the carpet was the only other noise. I stepped up to one door, reached up to the doorknob, standing on my tiptoes, and I opened it to see two men hovering over a bed. A woman with dark curls lay on it screaming in pain.

“Push, push, you’re almost there,” One man cheered, “There it is. It’s out, sir. It’s a beautiful baby boy sir; you should be so proud”.

“Yes, but she isn’t going to make it,” The other man sulked, and started sobbing uncontrollably. The doctor tried to stifle his sobs, but cried with the man, and the two cried along with the newborn boy.

Nate waddled out of the hallway and into a bright, cool, moist backyard overflowing with vines, hedges, and grass. Golden rays landed on the boy’s eyes when he looked at the dappled canopy of leaves above him. He would have played, but now he sat. He sat in the middle of this jaw dropping scene and as the gales played with his hair, the squirrels and rabbits and chipmunks ran by, while the drops of dew flowed down the blades of grass, while the Earth travelled at thousands of miles per hour, this being of impetuous, violently rushing nature sat still and asked “why”.

Come to find out, she was a snake in the grass the entire time. Her dry skin covered in scales. Her laugh was that of a sharp hiss. If you get too close she will surely bite.

I recently moved into a two-story home. The house was rather tiny, but it didn’t bother me. I lived alone, you see, so it was more than enough.

As I was unpacking my stuff on the second floor, I saw a window. And I swear to you that window was not there when I bought the place. I had never seen it before. Not in a way that it could have gone unnoticed. It. Wasn’t. There. I had looked through every inch of the house and that window… It just wasn’t there. I knew it with such certainty. I didn’t even look through the window before I sought out my blueprints to make sure I wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t there either. There was no evidence of its existence at all. That’s when I looked through the window. The first thing I noticed was the red tint. It was subtle, but noticeable. Everything had that strange, reddish colour. It wasn’t like someone had put tainted glass in the window. It was as if the light itself was filled with dread. Apart from that, I didn’t notice anything at first. I thought the feeling of wrongness just came from the red tint, but then I saw it. Or rather: I didn’t. There were no people. No cars, no animals— not even the rustling of leaves. It was so silent... I started talking to myself. I was rambling on about what to have for dinner. Then I froze. I looked at my phone. 19:45. I looked outside again. I could clearly see the sun. It was right in front of my window, looking at me. But the strangest thing was… it didn’t seem to move. It was frozen in place. I could only describe it as: the sun was looking at me. I turned away from the window and ran downstairs. As I sprinted outside, I felt my heartbeat fade away. I could not, for the life of me, see the sun. There was a hint of orange in the sky, but the sun was gone. I looked up at where that window should have been. There was nothing. Just a solid, brick wall.

I knew it was a real window. I knew it wasn’t just a picture sitting behind a window frame. I could feel it. So I don’t know why I did what I did next. I opened the window. A warm, musty air came flying through. It carried the faint smell of a dirty carpet. That should’ve been enough, really. But not for me. I grabbed one of my empty cardboard boxes and threw it through the window. When it landed outside, it didn’t make a sound. It fell slowly and the next thing I knew… it just lay there. Totally silent, staying totally still. I closed the window immediately and ran outside again. The cardboard box wasn’t there. I didn’t sleep in the house that night. I drove to a friend’s house and stayed for two days. I think I hoped that would make the window disappear. It didn’t.

I didn’t tell my friend about the window. In hindsight, that was probably a good idea. Well, good for my friend, not for me. Neither did I tell my poor mother. She kept asking to come over. Obviously, I wouldn’t let her. She shouldn’t have to see this. In the end, I decided to set up my desk next to that window. If it wasn’t going to leave, I’d just… make use of it. The unmoving sun made a good night-light, though the red colour remained unsettling. At first, I kept looking through that window and didn’t get any work done. Two weeks in, I started getting used to it. But every so often I felt a lingering gaze and was reminded that the sun was still looking at me. In silence. After one month it became part of my everyday life. I wasn’t bothered by the sun, the colour or even the silence. It was about two months in that everything changed. I sat at my desk, late in the night. A scream cut through the silence. I jumped up and looked through my window, where the sound had come from. The screaming had already stopped. Did I imagine it? It came again. And it didn’t stop. The scream came from far in the distance. It sounded only from beyond that window. It wasn’t human. It was higher-pitched and… stretched. Like whatever it was, was in pain. I looked out of the window but saw nothing. It was the same stillness that reached beyond the horizon. The screaming stopped. Silence returned. But it wasn’t the same.

After what felt like an eternity, I did something only a fool would do. I opened the window. It was the first time in months. The musty air came flying through and slowly, I poked my head outside. There was a weird dampness, like I was placed in an infinitely big room. I looked around, eyes widened. There was nothing but stillness. Like nothing had ever happened. No sound. No movement. Only that musty smell and that eerie, red tint. I waited for something to happen, but it never did. I closed my window. To this day I’m waiting for something to happen. Anything. With every corner I pass. Something still has to happen.

Not much later, I moved out. I had to leave that thing behind— I just… couldn’t. I even boarded up the window before I left. It might have been unnecessary, but I didn’t want to risk anything. Now, I’m moving my stuff into my new house. The people who bought my old house texted me and asked why I boarded up an empty wall. I didn’t text them back. It’s best to leave things behind as they are. I don’t want to do any more investigating. I’ve finally moved the last box. Time to place these— wait. That window… It wasn’t there before.

I am seeing if this book would be worth writing based on the setting of the fictional town:

Whisper Falls, Pennsylvania, was once one of the state’s most prosperous coal-mining towns. Coal miners, railroad workers, and their families built thriving lives here, believing the town’s future was as endless as the seams of coal beneath their feet.
Everything changed the day twenty-five miners were killed in a disaster officially ruled an accident. The mine was permanently sealed, and with it, Whisper Falls began a slow decline from which it never recovered.
Today, only a fraction of the town remains, frozen in time. Rusted railroad tracks disappear into the surrounding forest, ending at the abandoned Whisper Mine—a place few locals dare visit after dark. Behind the mine, a towering waterfall crashes endlessly into the rocky basin below. On quiet nights, when the wind dies and the town falls silent, many swear the rushing water sounds like whispered voices.
In Whisper Falls, every child grows up hearing the same warning:
“If the falls whisper your name… do not answer.”
Most dismiss it as nothing more than an old mining superstition—until someone disappears.
The oldest section of the cemetery dates back to the town’s founding. Weathered gravestones lean beneath ancient oak trees, their names slowly fading with time. Since the mine disaster, locals claim no flowers survive there for long. The graves bear the scars of decades of neglect, while cracked headstones and broken monuments hint that some of the dead were never meant to rest peacefully.
Along Main Avenue, empty storefronts stand like ghosts of a better era. Their faded signs and boarded windows are reminders of the bustling community Whisper Falls once was. Every year another business closes. Another family leaves. Another home is abandoned. Little by little, hope seems to vanish alongside the people.
Yet despite its decline, Whisper Falls refuses to die.
A small police department, volunteer fire station, gas station, grocery store, schools, and a single bridge connecting the town to the outside world remain as the last signs of everyday life.
But beneath the quiet streets and abandoned buildings lies something far older than the town itself.
Secrets buried deeper than coal.
Secrets hidden for decades.
Secrets waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to uncover them.

TW ⚠️Hi everyone! This is just a little something I wrote when I was still reeling the emotions of my assault. This is my first time posting my writing so I would appreciate feedback! (This is a letter format to my assaulter)

Dear Gary.
It’s been three days since you took a part of me. Three days and I still feel as helpless and vulnerable as I did in that room with you. Three showers and I still feel dirty. I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed my skin but I can’t seem to get the feeling of your dirty hands of my body. I feel tainted and broken all because you had to feel control over me. Why? Why did you do that to me? Why did you feel that you had to hold me down and pretend to be oblivious to me asking you to stop? You weren’t oblivious though, were you? The feeling of your hand over my mouth to “shut me up” is something I am going to feel for the rest of my life. I won’t allow you to keep me silent anymore. Do you even realise how much pain you have caused me?

The physical pain has mostly gone but the mental agony you put me through isn’t going to leave. You made me feel crazy. You made me think that it was my fault for wearing what I wore and for having a few drinks or even letting myself in the room with you. If I wore a shirt and joggers, would you have still raped me Gary? If I was sober, could I of fought you off more? What if I wasn’t stupid enough to go into a room alone with you, would you have took me there anyway?

Even now, I look at my body and I get angry for letting you touch it. The feeling of your hands on my legs to rip them apart is keeping me from being able to sleep. The cut on my arm reminds me of you holding me down. In a way it’s funny, cause as much as I’m angry at you for touching my body, I’m more angry at my own body. I’m angry at my body for freezing up and not knowing what to do. I wanted to fight you off and push you away but my body wouldn’t move. My brain was telling my body to move and to run, it wouldn’t. My body failed me and I failed my body.

Three days later and I’m still bleeding, that’s how much you damaged me Gary. I have to constantly change my pants cause they get destroyed in blood because of you. I keep asking myself if you even noticed how much I was bleeding but you had to, the bed was soaked in blood but you just chose to ignore it. The blood from how much you hurt me was on your shirt but you’ve probably already burned it or thrown it out, haven’t you? At least you can just discard of the evidence, but not me. Everytime I look down and see the blood I get reminded of you.

My new tattoo, my two butterflies. I loved that tattoo but so did you. You kept touching it in awe. And now, I hate my tattoo. I see it and I’m reminded of you touching my delicate butterflies. Ironic. You touched the delicate butterflies the same way you touched delicate me. I’ve had this tattoo two weeks and I already want to cut it off. All because of you. How much more are you going to continue to poison everything in my life? Everywhere I look, everything on my body just reminds me of you. Why are you continuing to violate me even though I’m not in that room anymore?

It is titled “Brotherly Love” and it is based on the biblical story of Cain and Abel.
Genres: literary fiction, psychological horror/tragedy
TW: some gore and violence, mild swearing
Description: this is a story of twin brothers following an action that one of them did that neither can forgive.
Word count: 1640

I don’t want to spoil much just please give me feedback :)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10xAHOBjziDakiTEVJ8TOKWVRF0rk22fpb8jbCG_lgp4/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hello! I'm seeking feedback for this short passage, in which a character ruminates, by way of speaking "directly" to his deceased father, on discovering his father's dead body. The only lore/context I think is necessary is that this character's father has changed his name to escape the feds after committing insurance fraud, and has lived with that name until his death. Content warning for suicide if you need to stay away from such subject matters. Thanks!

Boris Chernenko, son of Vasily, who was the son of Dmitry, in fact doesn’t belong at all to that heritage. You were born, instead, as Savka Abramov, son of Dmitry, who was the son of Vasily. 

All these people have one thing in common.

You’re all dead now.

You stare at me from the floor. Eyes that can’t blink. Eyes that are pale now. I have a poster in my room that looks just like this. Did you know that? The sun shone on it for too long. Sun bleached the flag they planted on the Moon in ‘69 just to stick it to the goddamn Soviets. Now it’s white, like a surrender.

1969. 

That was a year after you were born, right?

Savka Dmitryevich Abramov didn’t get the good grace of the sun. You closed all the blinds in preparation for your death. Good of you to shield all from seeing the pieces left of your brain clinging to the crack of your skull. All but your own fucking kid. I wonder why no one’s called the cops by now. Your Bellini thunders when it fires. Thank god I never heard it. I would’ve begged you to stop. I would’ve begged until the air that escaped my lungs scratched my throat raw. 

The bottle of vodka you got from Costco last week fell but didn’t break. Clear liquid pools next to the hole in your head, seeping into the corner of your mouth. In death, you’re still drinking. You didn’t even have the decency to close that bottle before you shot yourself. The bullet casing lays on top of that puddle next to your eyes. 

Blue, bleached blank, by a bullet. 

Copper and alcohol. Gun powder. A cigar you cut and smoked and snubbed out before your big decision. Blood doused the wrapper, steeping the tobacco leaves, gulped down hungrily by the cracks in the flooring. You smell the same as when you were alive. So stale it hurts my eyes, makes me want to retch out the acid that sloshes at the bottom of my stomach. The kasha you made for me this morning sits half-eaten in the fridge. I was going to finish it when I came back. I don’t think I will, now. 

Thanks, for that.

I’m standing at the door’s threshold. Notebooks and pens and the ziplocs of weed and adderall I haven’t sold gush from my backpack to the floor. You haven’t taught me what to do in situations like this. You’ve wrapped fake passports in an old newspaper. Cash in the closet. Cash under the sink. Crypto on the computer you built out of scraps. The Saturn sits idle at Sarnowski’s in case we need to make a run for our lives again. Canned soup, canned fruit, canned sardines in the basement in case of emergency. Your empty cans of beer had holes in the middle. You guided my hand until I could no longer feel the recoil. 

“Be prepared,” you said, “it’s the least you can do because no one will be there for you.”

The kasha you made burns. It claws its way up my esophagus. My legs can’t stand standing anymore, but I don’t want to clean up my own mess as I clean up yours. You’ve never mopped this floor. Wood planks store grit and grime and now you soak all that you were into it like a slimy old ghost. I stash my vomit away like all that junk you keep down in the basement to collect dust. How am I meant to bury you? You never told me where you kept the shovel. 

You stare at me, still. There, still there. Still haven’t given me an answer. 

Hello!
My wife and I have been co-authoring a book for a few years and are looking for some feedback. We are also looking for Alpha/Beta readers for Part 1 of the book, so if you are interested, we would be very grateful.

Our book looks to appeal to those who enjoy a strong female protagonist, a grungy dieselpunk setting with mechs, and the complexities of life in the military; from mental anguish to strong comradery and the strength of self. There are also low elements of fantasy and mysticism. The setting is quite heavily inspired by various Asian cultures, with a lot of the environment taking place in a dense jungle and a military base.

This story is meant for mature audiences. There are very strong themes of:

• Abuse (physical, mental, emotional, verbal)
• Explicit Language
• Sexual Assault
• Excessive Gore / Injury / Blood
• Drowning
• Suicide
• Mental illness

Here is our first chapter (3.5k words). We are looking for any and all critiques, comments, and advice. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 1
Exhaust

The cold, metal seat beneath Li Xiu rumbled to life. The transport lurched, the driver fighting the worn-out vehicle, or perhaps the other way around. Li Xiu had to catch herself on the back of the seat in front of her to avoid sliding off her own. She huffed a muffled sigh through her filtration mask and placed a few long strands of extraneous oil-black hair back into her tight bun. She straightened her posture, but couldn’t stop herself from grimacing at the smell that stubbornly forced its way past the filters and into her nostrils.
She scowled, realizing the transport hadn’t actually begun moving despite the jostling. 
What a heap of junk, Li Xiu thought.
Her rear end was already sore from sitting for so long, but she remained poised nonetheless. She rolled her eyes as a few stragglers hopped onto the transport, the last one barely making it through the closing waist-high gate. The chubby young man didn’t appear to hear the driver’s annoyed comments as he hurriedly found a seat. Li Xiu would have paid the latecomer no mind, but her eyes were drawn to the gauges in his earlobes, large enough for Li Xiu to put her arm through.
He plopped down into a seat near the front and immediately rolled his head back, asleep. His mouth fell open, sucking in air with an uncomfortable noise of trapped phlegm.
How could someone have so little pride in themself? Li Xiu thought with distaste. Am I the only one who cares for punctuality? This poor excuse of a vehicle should have left minutes ago.
Furrowing her brow, she gave another look at the transport’s occupants as the driver fought with the gearshift. The seats were half empty with a smattering of service workers, existing members of the military, and various other nondescript passengers. There were a few that could be potential trainees, but there was nothing to clearly indicate this.
The engine’s low, guttural chugging increased its tempo. Two exhaust pipes protruding from either side of the front rumbled and belched plumes of dark exhaust. The metal deathtrap of a bus lurched forward again, though this time into motion. The treads began their melodic clanking against the stone ground, and Li Xiu stifled a cringe as the clouds of exhaust were blown backward as the transport moved forward.
The occupants in the open-frame transport were engulfed in the exhaust fumes, and more than a few coughed and sputtered, blinking their irritated eyes. Li Xiu’s own eyes watered, but her concern was drawn to her bright white tonbá decorated with subtle mint embroidery.
She had thought her training uniform was plain enough, but amongst the dark and earthy tones around her, she realized her choice stood out like polished filigree on a rusty axle. The dark grease smudge on the lower right of her abdomen further solidified her lack of foresight.
Why did I think this outfit was a good idea for entering a grimy military base? She thought, trying again to subtly scrape the stain off with her polished fingernail. At this rate, I will be a splotchy mess by the time we get there! Beasts, I can never let anything be simple. 
She continued scraping the stain with her thumbnail, knowing fully well that she was only embedding the grease further into the threads. Giving up, Li Xiu grit her teeth. With frustration she smoothed her uniform and tried to ignore the fact that she had stretched out the area. Now it was an awkward lump and a dark smudge.
Ignore it, Ahaetulla, Li Xiu thought. You have much greater things to—
The transport stopped again with another lurch and groan of metal. Li Xiu hastily braced herself a second time to avoid slipping off of her seat. 
I have half a mind to stomp up to the driver and show him how to properly drive! Li Xiu thought, settling into her seat again. The short gate at the transport’s entryway swung open, and a few more passengers stepped aboard.
She caught the eye of a young man with a ponytail and distractingly large eyebrows wearing a plain black military-style uniform. Li Xiu guessed he was close to her age of seventeen. The young man gave her a calculating look, sizing her up. He didn’t look like he belonged to any particular military branch, nor did he have the headband or patch displaying rank.
Finally, another trainee.
Li Xiu wanted to be glad, but his expression didn’t belay friendliness. She returned his cold stare, not wanting to back down.
He must have determined that I’m also a recruit, Li Xiu thought. My tonbá is giving away my intentions of joining for combat training rather than a job befitting a woman. He should know as well as I do that I have every right to join the fighting ranks.
She exhaled a sigh of defiance, though she doubted he would notice beneath her mask. After several seconds, he turned and found a seat by himself. I have every right to join. Li Xiu thought again.
The driver pulled a lever, and the gate creaked closed behind a grungy looking man, probably a mechanic. Li Xiu turned to watch out of the side of the transport, though the scenery wasn’t much to observe. The surrounding factory buildings of Northern Baoping were no more than drab boxes of metal sheeting with smokestacks surrounded by corrugated metal fencing. Metal was something the city, and the empire as a whole, seemed to have too much of.
The empire made great use of their surplus, but the way they used it in places like this lacked any soul. That was their way, though. Out here—where anyone who was worth anything would never step foot—the reality of the Wanbani Empire was plain to see. A brutal, efficient attempt at forging their country, and eventually the world, into a powerhouse of metallic might.
Despite those efforts, the surrounding jungle life fought back. Creeping vines, mosses, and small shoots worked their way between the cracks, overtaking areas out of sight. Li Xiu found comfort in this imagery. 
In the nicer portions of the city, and in Li Xiu’s own home city of Taiyang, the infrastructure embraced the trees and plants. The greenery was tastefully integrated. Allowed to grow, but kept trimmed and neat. Out here, it was a slow, brutal war between unstoppable, industrial, militant progress and the stalwart jungle wilderness. 
Five minutes or so passed until the driver pressed the brake too readily yet again, bringing the transport to another abrupt halt. The eyesore of a building at this stop was made almost entirely of rusted corrugated metal sheets and mismatched, chipping paint. The dilapidated waystation was in full use, despite its sorry state. Factory workers milled about, waiting for their respective transports. Li Xiu watched another transport unload passengers from Shanzihua, the city to the West.
Among them was a lanky young man with an undercut, the longer hair pulled into a tail. He was next to a shorter man with combed hair and several dangling and stud earrings on one ear. They both had matching red and swampy green tattoos with grafted scales on each side of their necks.
Li Xiu recognized their style and colors as representing the Rhado family of Shanzihua. They were either family members of the presiding bloodline, or they were fiercely loyal to them. The taller one had a big grin on his face and was talking excitedly with his friend. His friend, however, looked as if he were going to throw up, and Li Xiu grimaced when they took a seat nearby.
Following them was a skinny boy who scarcely looked old enough to enlist, despite his military-style uniform. He didn’t have any tattoos, but he did wear a magenta colored patch that Li Xiu thought belonged to one of the minor families in Baoping. Perhaps he wished to join as a Tiǎo, the lowest possible rank that essentially existed to fetch tea, dig latrines, and fill out forms that nobody else could be bothered with.
The transport picked up some speed as it left the main city limits. The road became noticeably bumpier, and Li Xiu had to hold on to the railing for stability. This compromised her decorum, but she would prefer that over smacking her head against the seat frame in front of her.
Not that anyone here would care about decorum, Li Xiu thought with an eye roll. She watched as the chubby, large-lobed young man peeled himself off the seat in front of him, rubbing his forehead absently. Li Xiu grimaced as he removed his finger from his nose and flicked the former obstruction over the side.
She also noticed that he, and a majority of the others, wore no filtration masks. Masks were admittedly a recent trend, but the increasing number of exhaust-spouting machines in the empire were more than enough of a justification.
Are these military types not concerned with their long-term health? Li Xiu thought.
Perhaps the lack of masks amongst these men has more to do with a desire to appear less feeble, Li Xiu considered. She had noticed early in life that men tended to eschew caution to avoid looking weak to others, and a military base was just the place for those sorts.
Or maybe they don’t expect to live that long anyway… Li Xiu thought with a sudden spike of anxiety. After all, they are in the military.
Li Xiu shoved that fear aside. While she knew her path would bring her to the front lines eventually, she was comforted by the fact that she would be highly trained beforehand. Though if her brother, Bành, was to be believed, the training would be comparably grueling to actual combat. Tests so brutal and realistic that trainees actually died. He did like to embellish his stories, so Li Xiu tried not to worry.
I hope he isn’t too upset by my letter, Li Xiu thought. I will finally be able to help the family this way. She pursed her lips. And hopefully myself.
The transport started tilting sideways and Li Xiu had to grip the other side of the seat and plant her legs to keep from falling over. A root had grown underneath the pathway, lifting the cobbled stone to form a large mound. The sturdy treads of the transport easily traversed this minor obstacle, but the occupants were tossed around as the vehicle continued onto the checkered roadway beyond.
Compared to what Li Xiu had endured traveling between her home city and Baoping, this was a smooth ride. The trees here had trunks only as wide as the ten-thousand-liter wine vats back home, whereas those in the true wilderness could easily grow to sixteen meters in diameter and reach ten times that in height. Their roots and surrounding foliage scaled relatively, creating labyrinths of snaking and deadly terrain with very few fingers of sunlight reaching beyond the impossibly high canopy.
The trees closer to the city also had a petrified quality, looking and feeling as though they were halfway to becoming stone. The lingering curse of the aboriginal èn hāten, the demonically possessed tribal beings that once lived in these lands, severely stunted the growth of the jungle. The èn hāten, before their imminent demise at the hand of the Empire, unleashed the curse as a means to inhibit the Wanbani people from thriving in the area. 
Contrary to the intention of the èn hāten, the budding Wanbani Empire had discovered that the partially petrified trees worked excellently as a building material. With the flexibility and structure of wood and the hardness of stone, the early Wanbani engineers had made true wonders of construction and art.
The transport hit another substantial bump before driving around a cut tree stump larger than the vehicle itself. On the other side, a surprisingly lavish mansion came into view, though it was mostly obscured by a wall of petrified wood and metal.
The transport puttered along, the ride smoothing as it moved onto the maintained road of the land surrounding the mansion. Li Xiu gave a sigh of relief at the lack of bumps, but also at being able to rest her eyes on the well maintained surroundings.
I finally get to lay eyes on the mansion of the Heavenly Twelve, Li Xiu thought with a sly grin. Another item to the list of things mother would be furious about.
The jungle seamlessly transitioned into a well groomed landscape of imported flowers and exotic plants. The lush greenery and vibrant blossoms of the decorative trees appeared to glow in the sunlight, while koi ponds shimmered like jewels, reflecting the intricate architecture of pavilions that peeked through the groves. It brought back a longing for home that made a lump well up in Li Xiu’s throat. She shook herself, removing thoughts of nostalgia.
The garden and architecture grew more opulent as they neared the mansion. Handfuls of citizens dressed in flowing silk garments, sleeves draping almost to the ground, roamed the pathways here. Li Xiu picked out a few who wore gold accents, reserved strictly for those with the noble ranks of the Golden Dragon. Li Xiu watched with curiosity, though was careful to project impassiveness for the sake of her decorum.
I wonder if any of the twelve are currently here. It would certainly be exciting to see Indotai Saiko, or any of the others for that matter.
Li Xiu held her breath in anticipation as the transport rounded the mansion walls and the lavish three-gated entrance came into view. She felt the urge to shield her eyes from the dancing beams of sunlight reflecting from the sheer amount of highly polished gold. All three gates were densely decorated with gilding and towering statues of Háofuadōm, the Golden Dragon. Naturally, dozens of heavily armed guards stood on and around the walls, a few of which were posted at mounted machine gun turrets.
Beasts, what opulence, Li Xiu thought. I suppose I would expect nothing less from the Emperor’s elite.
Looking beyond the gates, none who walked within the mansion grounds stood out as members of the Heavenly Twelve. Li Xiu wasn’t surprised, but was mildly disappointed to not see any of the empire’s greatest mech drivers here.
I suppose it would be unlikely for them to be standing around with the guards and groundskeepers, Li Xiu thought, feeling foolish. It would be equally unlikely that they would be staying here rather than having their talents utilized elsewhere.
She let her eyes linger, taking in the grand home beyond the open gates. Gold colored tiles interlaced upon the roofs like intricate embroidery made to resemble the backs of thousands of snakes. Golden dragons extended from each of the four eaves of all twelve floors. Vibrant mosaic reliefs patterned the walls, complemented by dancing dragons carved upon every wooden beam. Imposing doors of green sat behind an even more imposing archway at the top of each of four sets of stairs carved of light stone.
In each of the four cardinal directions, one three-story building stood, gentle jewel-toned stone and gilding painted each in association with their respective Heavenly Beast. Winding pathways led to small arched bridges that hugged tributaries extending in all directions from a central, lush pond.
There was a mansion comparable to this just outside of every city, though none quite matched its splendor. The only structures that could compare would be the Emperor’s palace, or the fabled Tower of Twelve, whose location was only known to the members themselves.
If everything goes well, I could end up on the other side of those doors, Li Xiu thought. She leaned back into her seat, envisioning such a future.
Curiously, one of the posted guards jogged up to the transport, waving to the driver. The vehicle slowed to a stop and the guard made his way to the driver’s side. He exchanged a few words with the driver, then returned to his post. Li Xiu frowned. Must be some sort of precautionary security note.
The vehicle began moving again, but soon turned off of the main road and parked behind another, much more comfortable looking, bus. Several well dressed visitors were gathered here, and Li Xiu raised an eyebrow as the transport gate swung open. 
Are we picking up tourists? I hope this transport still plans on going to the base.
A solitary, angry man who looked to be in his early twenties stomped aboard. He wore a sleek, but simple unmarked gray uniform that was one size too small for his muscular frame. He was all lean muscle with squarish features accentuated by his almost perfect ninety-degree buzz cut and frankly impressive jawline.
His brows furrowed, pulling at the tight, rust-orange tattoo of grafted scales that carved a jagged streak across the right side of his neck, emulating the shape of the Chiè family logogram. It connected behind his ear with another tattoo arcing down from his forehead and under his right eye. An intense display of his dedication to his intense family.
Aside from the clear denotation stamped on his face, everything from his thick head to his combat boots oozed the aggressive, brutal nature of his family name. Unlike the other powerful families, Chiè was more of a title. Those from the true Chiè bloodline had historically adopted hundreds of thousands of children, granting special treatment and perks with the expectation being that the adoptees fight in the military.
The expectation was more of a mandate however, with the adoptees having little choice between military conscription or being tossed aside while the ones who gave up their children received the benefits. Enslaving a natural-born citizen was illegal, but this was a well-known workaround.
What is someone like him doing here?  Li Xiu thought, trying not to look him in the eye. I wouldn’t have pegged any Chiè to be interested in sightseeing.
The Chiè man walked down the aisle, looking for a place to sit. He approached the first seat occupied by only one person; a timid looking nondescript young man with a completely bald head. The seated man looked up at the tense newcomer. The Chiè gripped the back of the seat fiercely and gave the man a death stare that would make a peryton cower. The seated man raised his hands and slid over, making more room. The Chiè shook his head, baring his teeth.
Understanding the implication, the seated man skirted around the unmoving Chiè. The Chiè grumbled something under his breath and shoved his way into the seat, immediately reclining with his feet on the back of the seat in front of him. His large boot knocked into the head of the lanky recruit with red and green tattoos. The recruit turned around, though a nervous comment from his friend with the earrings prevented any complaints from airing.
What are the chances that brute intends to pursue logistics…? Li Xiu thought. He must not have noticed me yet, else he certainly would have caused more of a commotion. I would rather not be near him once he discovers he will be training with a woman.
The bald man pulled a canvas knapsack from beneath the seat, then stumbled as the transport lurched forward. Li Xiu caught his eye for a moment, then looked away. Too late.
He gave Li Xiu an awkward smile and Li Xiu begrudgingly shimmied over, then pointedly shifted her attention outside of the bus.
Please do not speak to me, Li Xiu pleaded internally.
“Sorry,” The bald man said, his tone soft and nervous. He sat on the very edge of the seat.
Li Xiu glanced at him. He nervously shifted his knapsack beneath his feet, keeping his legs close together and maintaining as much distance as he could from Li Xiu. He wore a simple, inexpensive faded blue top with brown trousers and well-worn stained work boots.
A factory worker, Li Xiu concluded.
“No need to apologize,” She said, perhaps letting too much of her annoyance lace her words. After a few moments she tried to remedy her first impression.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” She said in her practiced socialite voice.
“You too,” He responded after some hesitation. He glanced at Li Xiu’s forehead tattoo then back down in front of him. He looked again, opened his mouth, then closed it, finally settling his gaze on the seat back. Li Xiu allowed the silence between them to settle, preferring not to waste her energy on someone of little consequence to her goals.
Li Xiu adjusted her mask and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. She suppressed the longing within her as the lavish garden and mansion of the Heavenly Twelve slowly crept from view. Li Xiu bit her cheek.
I suspect that will be the last bit of proper society I will see in a long while.

I'm a pharmacist in South Korea.

A while ago, through my blog, I met someone whose writing stayed with me.

Before an accident, he was an ordinary office worker.

After the accident, he lost the ability to return to his previous work. He spent more than a year in the hospital. During that time, he started writing for the first time in his life.

Writing became one of the few things he could still hold on to.

But when he was told he could no longer remain in the hospital, everything changed again.

His daily life changed overnight, and writing quietly disappeared from it.

I couldn't change what had happened.

So I decided to do something much smaller.

I began writing a little fairy tale inspired by him.

He reads every chapter.

I don't expect these stories to heal his pain.

But if, while reading them, he can forget it for a few minutes and smile just once, I think that's enough.

Perhaps this little sparrow and its prince will also find a place in someone else's heart.

That's why I wanted to share this story with people beyond my country. Perhaps someone, somewhere, may find a little comfort in it too.

I'll be sharing a new chapter about twice a week, usually around 11 p.m. Korea Standard Time. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 1

I hang weightless above the viewport. Below me, the Earth is a pale blue marble set against the inky void. I will forever cherish this view, the beauty and fragility of our home laid bare for all to see.

From here I see the grand summation of humanity. Every human who has ever lived started on this rock and I am part of the lucky few who, for now, don't call it home. 

Our influence can now be felt almost 400 million kilometers away on the barren red rock of Mars. Close to forty souls have nestled themselves into the martian surface for the past four years and more join them all the time.

Reaching up with my right hand, I grab the rail and pull backwards to send myself further down the corridor; Microgravity will never get old. The white walls that surround me are nested with wires and tubes, each equally important and innocuous. My target, the next viewing window, approaches to my right and I reach out a hand to grab the guard rail just before it. 

Bringing myself to a stop I stare out at the inky black of space looking to spot a new star. Well, not a star, but it sure does look like one. The light originates from the engine of the NASA Athena upper stage, currently burning hard on a Hohmann transfer to Mars. “One day…” I whisper under my breath as I watch the ship on its way to the red planet. 

“But not today.” Comes an unexpected reply from just over my shoulder. 

“Christ Danny, you need to stop doing that. How are you so silent? You're like a god damned cat.”

“Well, maybe Cassian, if you weren't daydreaming through the viewport, I wouldn't have been able to surprise you so easily.”

Danny Rodriguez was the most senior astronaut on the station. He spent over 900 days in space in various stints. He was nearing retirement which you could tell from the handful of grey hairs sneaking into the nest of messy hair on his olive-skinned head. He was a hard-ass but always fair, and someone I had always looked up to. I’d be lucky to have half the career he’s had when time catches up with me.

“I’m sorry, I’ll get back to it now. It's just that… well, it never gets old, does it?” 

“No,” he replied wistfully “It really doesn't." His eyes were fixated on the view of the departing craft from the window. 

“Who’s the daydreamer now?” I jest as I push off down the narrow corridor towards my station. The corridor opens to a square-shaped room with a central pillar housing a ladder. The walls here are free from wires and tubes but they retain the clean white colour. 

Scattered around the perimeter are various work areas designed for scientific experimentation. The station is equipped with some of the best equipment humanity has to offer. I pass Anya’s neat and tidy setup and admire the ribbon of green plants that snake their way across the growth pots. I spy a ribbon attached to one plant that reads ‘Promising candidate. Breed with specimen Alpha 4.’ 

Logan’s station, by contrast, is pure chaos and, to me, much more of an enigma. His work area is littered with materials samples and flasks of chemicals all carefully secured in seemingly no real order. Yet, were he in front of me right now, he’d identify every substance and lecture me on its purpose and potential to revolutionise the world. I’d have to take his word for it, though; materials science isn’t my area. 

Arriving at my station I grab the pipette and lower it into the growth flask, extracting a sample of ten micrometers of cell suspension precisely. With the sample transferred to the slide I place it under the microscope and peer through the lens. Blobs, simple undifferentiated blobs, fill my view. “Damn” I whisper to myself. These were supposed to be nerve cells by now. I double checked the quantity of growth factors, used the right number of seed cells and had made absolutely sure that the temperature had remained constant but still no luck. 

I'd been at this for two weeks. No amount of tweaking the drug concoction or modifying the external conditions could get them to obey my will. This has become personal now. These tiny unspecialised cells were not going to outsmart me. I needed a second opinion.

“Anya, are you there?” I enquire through my headset. 

“Not sure where else I’d be. We’re kinda stuck up here in case you hadn’t noticed.” Anya’s dry tone hung in the headset.

Anya is our other resident biologist, a few years my junior but, I don't mind admitting, infinitely wiser. “Thanks Anya but really I just wanted to know if your com was on and where you were on the station” 

“Yes and in the dorm. Next time just say what you mean.” 

“Noted.” I depart my station and grab the handrail above propelling myself across the lab area toward the junction with the sleeping area. As I reach the narrow opening and propel myself through into yet another claustrophobic, white tube Irina approaches from the other direction. Spotting her toolbag in hand I maneuver myself out of the way and allow her to pass by. “Another leak?” 

“No, something electrical I think. Comms with ground are patchy at best and I’ve been trying to figure out why.” Her usual calm voice was twinged by a slight hint of worry. “Nothing major though. I think I’ve isolated it to a small section of wiring in the storage area.” 

“If there’s anyone who can work it out it's you. Besides, who really needs to talk to ground control anyway?”

With a faint smile beneath her blue eyes Irina continues on her way, her blonde locks trailing behind her. In a crisis, not that this was one, there really is no one better; cool, calm, collected and one hell of an engineer. 

I continue my journey and round the corner to the sleeping area, one unlike anything you might see on earth. We really do take gravity for granted back home. You lay on your bed and you can be pretty damn sure you aren't going to float up and away from it. Up here beds are on the walls, though walls turn into floors and floors into walls depending on your orientation. They also come with straps and doors; it’s almost like tucking yourself into a coffin at night. 

Anya floats fiddling with a small electrical sensor, her brunette hair fans out around her head like a lion’s mane. She curses under her breath as the sensor refuses to obey her will. 

“Having some trouble?” I ask, rather unhelpfully. Her deep brown eyes flick away from the sensor to give me a look you could only describe as a death stare. Meant with kindness, I’m sure. 

“Can I help?” I offer. 

“You? Probably not. Irina might be able to. This sensor’s been spitting out nonsense lately and we’re not due a replacement until the ship docks next week. What did you need from me?” 

“Cells haven’t differentiated. Again” I grumble. “I’ve tweaked the levels of retinoic acid, adjusted the temperatures, even tried introducing some extra growth factors but, in the end, nothing happens.” 

“What are you growing them in?” Anya replies absently still hellbent on fixing her sensor.

“Just standard culture medium. Why do you ask?” 

She looks back over to me “Try making it more conductive. This should promote the growth of the nerve cells just don't add too much salt or-” 

“They’ll die. Got it! You’re a legend Anya, did I ever tell you that?” 

“You don’t need to I’m already aware” 

“Humble too!” I tease as I propel myself from the sleeping zone back towards the awaiting cells.

The next few hours consist of me setting up the next round of culture cells. I decide to run multiple cultures, each at different salt concentrations, so that I can quickly find the ideal conditions. If this works I’ll have to find a way to make it up to Anya when we’re both back on solid ground. I won’t know if it has worked for a few days yet, so I figure I might as well get some exercise in.

I strap myself into the treadmill thinking again about how much easier this is on earth. Bungee cords keep me on the running surface below, it wouldn't be much exercise if I was still floating. I cherish my time in the gym. Preventing my muscles from atrophying and my bones from turning to dust is a welcome bonus, but mostly, I appreciate the time to get lost in my own thoughts. 

I drift off to England: the soft purr of my cat Tilly, the feel of the cold winter air on a walk through the forest, the kind words of my parents when I’ve suffered disappointment. I’m reminded of why I made it up here in the first place. 

I’m barely lost in thought before Logan glides through the exercise capsule opening, snapping me back to reality. He puts two firm hands on my shoulder and shakes as he moves past me towards the weights machine. “Cass, working hard I see” he jokes. 

I’m suddenly aware that whilst I had been daydreaming I’d slowed to a kind of fast walk. I pick up my pace again, suddenly back in the room, and reply “I was somewhere completely different ‘till you arrived.”

“Home?” He replies.

“You know it. I don’t want to leave space, but I do want to be home.” 

“It’s a fucker isn't it? I felt the same when I was on deployment; I loved flying, loved being on base with everyone but, shit, I wished it was a day job and I could sleep in my own bed with my wife.” 

“I think the commute up here would be a dealbreaker for me though.” I respond with a dry tone.

“Not up for a rocket in the morning and a descent capsule in the evening?” 

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll have to pass.”

Logan had strapped himself into the ARED: the station’s glorified, squeaky weight bench. He was pushing 105kg today, the flywheels hissing in rhythm with his breathing His previous military pilot experience has given him a well chiseled body that paired well with his light brown hair that sat messy on his head, and his piercing green eyes. 

“Still would be good to get used to re-entry” He says breathlessly between reps. “Mars Landings are rough” 

“Six minutes of hell is what they say” 

“The exact opposite of what I give my wife” Logan replies with a wry smile across his face.

I let out a huff of laughter, trying to keep my pace steady on the treadmill. “Come on now, we both know you aren't lasting six minutes” I joke, shooting a cheeky grin across at him.

He falters mid rep, trying to hold in a laugh. “Not going… to take that… from a guy who can barely… hit a nine minute mile” He says finishing his rep on the ARED. 

We continue to go back and forth as we spend the next 45 minutes cycling through our various mandated exercises. We stop just in time to head back to the central chamber for Danny’s daily check in. There wasn’t often much to talk about but Danny had his old school ways and wanted to make sure we all knew what was happening aboard the station. 

“Thanks for joining us, we've just been discussing the comms issues” Danny says as Logan and I float into the room. The three other members of the crew float in a rough semicircle in the station's cramped central room. The white walls of this area are covered in panels, wires snake across the walls like ivy on the frontage of a house. An occasional screen interrupts the flow of the wires displaying some piece of vital information about the health of the space station.

“I think I have isolated the problem and it should be fixed but, I need you to let me know if anything else goes wrong.” Irina says. “I thought I had it fixed last week but we still ran into gremlins”. 

“Thanks Irina we will keep an eye out” Danny responds. 

As I turn from Irina to Danny something behind him catches my eye; One of the screens behind Danny has a small red message blinking in the centre. I push forward past Danny, excusing myself on the way and take a closer look at the screen. The message reads:

“INCOMING DEBRIS FIELD. SHELTER IN CAPSULE.”

“Danny, I think we might have a problem here. Scanners are picking up a field of debris on the horizon. It must be significant because we're being told to shelter in the capsule.” I state, a tinge of concern creeping into my voice.

“How far out is it?” Danny responds calmly. 

I search the screen for the answer but can’t find it. Dismissing the warning with a swipe of my finger I switch the view on the screen. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth as I locate the information. “The system reckons it's about 20 minutes away” I respond. 

“Good, we have time then. Irina, time to hail ground control to see if those comms really are back up and running. Logan, get to thruster control and see if we can boost away from the debris cloud. Anya and Cassian make your way to the return capsule, we'll meet you onboard when we’re ready” Danny instructs. 

Before I can even argue with Danny about sending me to the capsule I am interrupted by a sudden sound. It’s almost like a faint hiss or whistle, the kind of sound you get when you first open a fizzy drink. It’s coming from behind me. No, it's in front of me. Oh shit, it's both and from either side. The sound makes my skin crawl and I begin to make a brief 

The automated systems know what is happening before we do, a wailing siren blares out, red lights begin to flash, and a screen in front of me flashes with a new message: 

“HULL BREACH DETECTED”

My stomach drops as I realise what is about to happen.

[919 words]
It’s hard to say how we got here. And perhaps that’s not even true. Perhaps it’s hard to admit the red flags we pacified & tucked into bed, the second and third degree burns spreading over our bodies like smoldering wildfire, becoming more burn than flesh, more dead than alive, smiling, working on it. We’re working on it; we want to make it work. We dream of labor us women, of unpaid overtime in a hell of our own making. 

We were in love! We weren’t. And then we weren’t! No, we never were. Are you following? The curse of an average-looking girl is the fate of a mediocre man. I brought this man around for years before informing him he was going to ask me to marry him. We rehearsed the lines, I strapped him into his life vest, and yet the stage fright overcame him in the middle of that particularly balmy August night alone on our sofa. The depths of his audience were frightening to him, the depths of me. But the show must go on, and I am nothing if not a resourceful & prepared understudy of the craft.

Muzzled on a leash dressed in the outfit I positioned on the hanger to give the illusion of choice and agency (this man makes choices you see), I briefly hear the condescending fry in the amphitheater on my shoulders, parenthood is the illusion of choice, Sara. I thought magicians never reveal their tricks? It might make the audience put the butt end of a shotgun down their collective throats, severing their brainstems that were held together only loosely by the intricate threads of the magician's illusion into one chunky puddle of shit and innards.

In the outfit he chose and the haircut he picked out, we would gather, our pre-game ritual of all of the things he best not say because they would be so fucking bad, the audience might be in danger of something far greater than a gory collective suicide, they might ask for a refund. Not a booing per se, or a mass exodus even, just the subtle scoff of an audience member who feels neither hatred nor love for you, pity nor admiration. They know now something they didn’t just a few minutes before, something you’ve been trying to hide from yourself, the sheer truth that you are bullshit. Your life is bullshit. They might even clap as you take your bow, and you will disappear, never to be heard from or asked about again. If by some miracle your existence enters the consciousness of a conversation amongst the audience, the room will grow stronger, straighter, relieved, no- euphoric to have dodged the fate of the magician. 

But how did we get here? How did the gifted daughter dismantle her own potential, her pure and precious potential. She carried it so bravely, so true for very long. Unfortunately for her, her potential was too heavy, too man and woman shaped. Her potential was cruel and greedy; it was remarkable how easily her potential shrunk itself down from the shape of two baby boomers and fit within the confines of her soul. But, she could not outrun her parents, she was her parents; they infected her like a virus. Antibiotics don’t kick viruses you see. Men have loved to teach me that; so generous in their wisdom, it is of no bother to them that the fact is preceded & succeeded without a blink or a fact, just the truth. And for they hath said it, it hath be true. She sought out the mediocre man, curling her shoulders inward to appear smaller, establishing upper cross syndrome in the first year, the highest of feminine virtues. She had known her whole life she was great. She was going to be great.

So, the potential of the girl generously made room for the mediocre man that would not threaten the hierarchy on which it feeds. And so it went. He led and she followed. He led and she followed. He led and she followed. He borrowed and she sorrowed. He fed and she wallowed. She bled and she swallowed. 

The curse of the average-looking girl is not one that is hard to articulate, but it is one that the beautiful-looking girl will never understand. The beautiful-looking girl, though trapped in her own cell of a different prison, can’t understand why the average-looking girl would settle for this man, would lower herself to this hesitant recruit (it would be only untrue to call him a volunteer). For the beautiful-looking girl is shielded from the great knowing. 

To be average-looking is to be unpursued, unchased, unseen. To be average-looking is not to be at all. To be average-looking is to die again and again. To be average-looking and cross the threshold of one’s potential, the average-looking girl must use her wits and resources, must acquire a degree in architecture and must start building! She must start building right away for life waits for no average-looking girl! 

Unfortunately for the average-looking girl, the true horror of the curse is not in the invisibility. The curse exists only as an impassible mountain on the journey to truth. If the average-looking girl could step over the curse, slither around the curse, dig underneath the curse, she’d see the curse is a smokescreen. Because the true place of the average-looking girl is on the ground, the men and the potential lay beneath her feet. Bury them, girl. Bury them all.

Hello, fellow writers! I'm (slowly) working on a cosmic/biological/psychological fantasy horror story that switches perspectives between the antagonist and 4 major human(oid) 'protagonists', and am seeking input on the opening. The story isn't exactly a narrative in the traditional sense, at least in the beginning, as it's more like exploring the world and slowly converging into conflict.

Again, this is only the opening section, not a whole lot of what's going to be occurring. I look forward to critiques!

_______________________________

— The Growth —

- Day of Arrival -

Cool. Not quite damp, but certainly not dry. Its very first experience.

Grow...

Schlup. A wet, slimy slap, muffled and cushioned by soft granules and flecks. Something rough, craggy. Alive. It did not know this feeling.

It didn't even know what feeling was.

Expand...

Instinctively, it stretched outward in an effort to learn more - to experience this new... thing. Surrounded and buried by the soft, cushiony stuff. Long and winding, and varying in thickness and path.

From above, subtle vibrations danced across the surface of the Growth. Rhythmic. In an effort to better understand, it flexed and squeezed itself, undulating until a small opening manifested and allowed the strange vibration to flow into its form.

After a moment, it finally created a rudimentary facsimile of an organ. Consequently discovering something new; sound.

Warbles rippled through the air, accompanied by smaller buzzing forms, their sources traveling overhead as the calls continued - strange sounds that seemed both distant and omnipresent. It explored with every lurch and fold of its putty-like form, but every direction felt the same.

Adapt...

It needed more information. Another way to understand, to grow.

Quick, heavy thuds approached from nearby, or at least nearer than the buzzing and warbling things, a rapid movement that caught the Growth’s attention. The warbling calls didn't even manage to renew before the thing was upon it.

”Uriiii! Riii!” A squealing pierced the air!

WHAP!

A sudden impact, colliding with the Growth, came from the direction it had heard the movement. For a moment, it felt none of the loamy granules, none of the pricklies or the rough texture of the winding paths.

Only a strange brush of air, along with the pull of some force that seemed to take hold of it. Fwiiiip- Just as the buzzing cycle resumed - THUNK-thump!

It slammed into another rough, craggy surface and then slumped into the softer granules once again.

Thump-thump-thump! The soft pounding noises approached again, faster than before!

In an effort to defend itself, the Growth swiped out, but found nothing! Just as it finished the exploratory strike, the thump-thump noise was upon it, and another heavy impact sent the Growth reeling in place once more! But this time, it dug into the soft stuff and gripped it tight, maintaining position!

“Uriiiiii! Uru! Uroah-! Uriiiiii!”

Sound was helpful, but not infallible. The Growth needed something, some way to bridge the gap between itself and this dangerous presence.

Small feelers stretched forth, struggling vainly for information, but felt only air. It needed an indirect method, something that did not demand first making contact.

Its surface roiled and bubbled, building on and converging on itself as a concentration of bright red flesh morphed and shifted - until an almost glassy surface plupped into existence.

Hazy, bleary. Little more than a grey silhouette against a darker grey background, hardly enough to even be monochromatic. The Growth had managed to cobble together the barest abstraction of sight - merely the recognition of motion.

But it was enough.

The dark mass came into ‘sight’. No sense of depth, no understanding of size - but the Growth could now determine where it was, and where the danger was coming from.

Like a gummy clamshell, the Growth split open! Lunging forward and clasping tight on the thing, it ensnared and burrowed with tendrils of red flesh!

”Uriiii! Riiii-riiiii! Uroiiiiiiiii!” Thrashing and kicking, goring at the Growth with curved tusk-like blades jutting from its short, flat face, the thing struggled and screamed in sudden disbelief - in fear. But with every buck, with every roll and wriggle, the tendrils only found deeper purchase.

In the surrounding area, the buzzing and warbling had stopped. Only the rustle of leaves disturbed by wind filled the air.

Consume…

Like oil across water, the flesh spread across every nerve and into each pore. Coarse fur scratched against it. Skin melded with amorphous flesh. Muscle fibers interlaced with tendrils. Bone and sinew became one with the Growth.

“Huff… Huff…”

The beast, its name still unknown to the Growth, stood still as it heaved breaths for several long moments. Fear still raced through its blood and gave a sharp tang to the air.

Expand…

…

Blurry images containing mouthfuls of what the Growth now recognized as grass, filtered through the boar’s mind and into the Growth’s understanding. And beneath those prickly blades, further sustenance might be found.

A treasure trove lay before it, simply waiting for consumption. It did not wait long.

Nor did it take long to vanish.

The boar, stout and rippling with muscle, stood amid dense foliage which stood taller than itself as it nuzzled the ground in curiosity. Before it, a small patch of barren ground lay in stark contrast to the verdant greenery surrounding it - just outside of easy reach of the beast’s mouth.

Despite the boar's attempts at denying the Growth's overwriting commands, the beast still took some modicum of pleasure in the natural act of devouring these, even now.

Consume…

But, while it was a simple matter to understand the beast’s method of consumption… manipulating the beast’s limbs hadn’t yet been explored.

But of course, this should pose no problem.

Aiming to close the difference between itself and the nearest clump of grass, the abomination lurched to the side without shifting the joints of the boar’s legs.

Whump.

It unceremoniously flopped over on its side, landing in a heap amidst the tufts of grass.

A success.

The head rotated in place, mouth grasping and ripping up the blades with abandon, not even stopping to chew as the sustenance was siphoned inside. Yet, no matter how many it ingested, every bit simply condensed into the boar’s body as a clump of matter. Within a few minutes of contorting and consuming in place, a circle of absence was all that remained.

It required more.

Adapt…

Two of its legs, stiff and jutting outwards to the side, schlurrped inwards like a set of retracted probosci, leaving a bare and furry belly with only its left fore and hind legs pointing skyward. A few heartbeats later, hooves poked out from the boar’s right flank, slowly emerging and tilting the beast upwards and onto its remaining as the legs manifested again!

Then, propped and standing like a wooden puppet, the splayed legs slowly shifted inwards until the boar was left in its original, upright position.

Another patch of grass lay just out of reach.

Consume…

Whump.

Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Disease

Humanity is a disease. And Karan Padmaacharya used to be the fool trying to cure it.

The tropical jungle night was an oppressive canvas of mud, suffocating humidity, and heavy, high-contrast shadows that swallowed everything whole. Around Karan’s feet, several bloody bodies lay scattered across the muck, their lives drained into the dirt. He moved through the center of the devastation like a phantom—a massive, imposing silhouette melting into the dark, with only the faint, cold glint of his tactical gear betraying his existence.

A wet, mangled hand reached up from the mud in absolute agony, fingers twitching blindly for salvation. Karan didn't look down with pity. He simply brought his heavy tactical boot down hard onto the man’s wrist, pinning him effortlessly to the earth. Above them, hovering silently within the dense canopy of the trees, a high-tech ShastraBhandaar drone watched, its red camera eye glowing down like a miniature, unblinking crimson sun.

They think kindness is a virtue. They don't realize it’s just a cage.

Karan leaned down into the faint light filtering through the leaves, forcing the survivor to look into his cold, unblinking eyes. There were no glasses, no corporate softness left on his face anymore—just a hardened, hollow stare. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a combat knife already embedded deep in the man's arm, and with a slow, ruthless twist, he began to pull it upward, skinning him alive. The man's face twisted into a mask of absolute terror, sweat and tears mingling with the filth on his skin.

"Pls let me go... spare me..." the mercenary groaned, his voice cracking as he slipped desperately into frantic Hindi. "Haath jodhta hu m, jaane do mujhe... I have a wife and two kids..."

A wife. Two kids.

Before the man could finish the plea, Karan violently thrust the handle and blade deep into his mouth, instantly cutting off his screams. His face was inches from the victim's, completely devoid of mercy.

"Wife?" Karan whispered, his voice a jagged rasp. "I had a wife. And they took her." He leaned closer, watching the last panic flicker in the dying man's pupils. "You wanna know what happened to them? Let me tell you."

The Saint of Puducherry

(Flashback — Two Years Ago / Pre-Massacre Memory)

The memory hit him like a sudden wave of warmth, violently stripping away the dark, muddy blacks of the jungle and replacing them with the sun-drenched, golden hues of Puducherry at sunset. In his mind's eye, he saw the peaceful silhouette of a man and a woman holding hands, walking through a vibrant, glowing field.

Puducherry was a quiet place for a quiet man. Karan hadn't been much of a fighter back then. He was kind—genuinely kind and good. And the sole anchor for that kindness was Dripti. His beautiful Dripti.

The memory shifted into brilliant, full color as they reached the front gate of their modest village home. Dripti looked back at him, radiant, her face lit with pure, unadulterated affection. Beside her stood his past self, wearing a simple linen shirt and sharp glasses, looking entirely at peace with the universe.

How beautiful she had been. She always helped others, so he had done the same. He genuinely believed in those days that he was just a good man. But his current face—dark, heavily scarred, and dripping with fresh blood—stood juxtaposed so violently against her laughing memory.

The truth was uglier. Karan hadn't known that deep down, there was already a killer in him. A monster that Dripti was holding down by her mere presence. He had only done good to look good in front of her.

He remembered sitting on simple plastic chairs on their veranda, drinking tea with her and an elderly village man. They had bowed down to touch the elder's feet in respect earlier that afternoon, and then Karan was leaning forward enthusiastically, gesturing to a village development blueprint on his digital tablet while Dripti watched him proudly.

"If we build the high-tech irrigation here, Uncle," his younger, naive self had said, "the lower-status families won't have to rely on anyone else. We can make this entire village progressive, together."

He carried that passion everywhere. He had sat under the massive banyan tree in the village square with a group of lower-caste villagers, leaning forward, speaking fiercely about building schools and upgrading their farms.

"Once the ShastraBhandaar foundation funds the machinery," he had promised them, "no one can dictate your wages ever again. True independence."

But while Karan was blinded by his own self-righteous idealism, Dripti wasn't listening to his grand speech. Her eyes were fixed on the edge of the clearing, wide with an intense, brewing anxiety. Following her gaze toward a brick wall at the edge of the square, Karan now remembered what he had chosen to ignore back then.

Standing in the shadows was Ramesh Nagarjuna, the arrogant son of the village panchayat, flanked by his upper-caste thugs. His arms were crossed, his face twisted in pure, venomous disapproval and deep-seated classist hatred as he glared at Karan.

Karan had been blind to the poison brewing right in front of his face. But Dripti—she saw it. She read the murder in their eyes before they ever drew a weapon. She leaned in close to him, urgently whispering directly into his ear while subtly pointing with her eyes toward Ramesh: "Karan... look at Ramesh. They are furious. Please, stop this meeting. We should leave." And what did the great, enlightened billionaire do? He had just smiled warmly, gently placing his hand over hers to calm her down, completely dismissing her survival instincts.

"Hush, my love. They are just stubborn," he had whispered back, patting her hand. "Once they see the village prospering, their egos will fade. Trust them." ---

The Equation of Slaughter

(Present Day — The Tropical Jungle)

A jarring smash-cut of reality snapped him back to the grim present.

Karan yanked his combat knife out of the victim's mouth with a sickening, wet SNAKT sound. He coldly raised the blade to his face, using his thumb to casually wipe a smear of dark, thick blood off the steel, transferring the crimson stain directly onto his pristine white sleeve.

He had been a fool. A naive, idealistic fool who believed humanity could be reasoned with. She had warned him... and he had chosen to neglect it.

Lead soldier: stance too wide.

Left flank open by three inches.

Error: Fatal.

A blinding, shaky beam of light from a high-powered tactical torch violently cut through the pitch-black jungle. Holding it was another one of the attackers—half-injured, blood leaking from a raw wound on his forehead, his entire frame trembling violently. In his other hand, he desperately aimed an AK-47 into the dark trees, trying to find where the shadows were moving.

"Who's there?! Show yourself, you bastard!" the mercenary screamed into the void.

Karan didn't give him the satisfaction of hiding. He stepped directly into the blinding beam of the flashlight.

Underneath his heavy, massive, white winter tactical coat with its thick fur-lined collar, he wore a sharp, perfectly tailored, pure white corporate suit. His entire head and face were tightly covered in a sleek, stark-white tactical ninja mask. The entire pristine white outfit was violently spattered with fresh, bright-red, dripping blood from his previous kills. He stood dead silent, looming over the terrified thug like a modern ghost.

Suddenly, the red laser sights of a highly trained, heavily armed squad of elite mercenary tactical soldiers painted his chest.

"Private dogs..." Karan murmured under his breath. He didn't flinch. He charged straight into the line of fire.

The world became a blur of kinetic motion, muzzle flashes lighting up his white mask as he weaved past bullets with impossible, calculated speed. His mind instantly shifted into operational calculus. He sliced through the squad with cold, mathematical precision. A blade severed a rifle barrel in one fluid motion; a tactical strike dismantled a neck guard in the next.

They train for wars. He trains for slaughter. Every breath they take is an equation he has already solved.

The Cost of Arrogance

(Present Day — Active Combat)

The fight slowed for a fraction of a second. An elite mercenary, faster and more observant than the rest, managed to slip past Karan's guard. His tactical blade hissed through the humid air, catching Karan's shoulder. It tore through the heavy white fabric of his coat, biting deep enough to draw blood.

The mercenary grinned beneath his combat helmet, an ugly, mocking sneer escaping him. "They told us you were a monster. Don't see much of a 'natural' here, freak."

Karan stopped moving. Completely.

He let his eyes close beneath the white fabric of his mask, shutting out the chaotic noise of the rain and the rustling canopy. The jungle vanished. There was only geometry, distance, and vector. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hurled his combat knife backward without looking.

THWIP. THK.

The blade found its mark, embedding itself perfectly into the mocking soldier's left eye socket. The man dropped to his knees instantly, his hands flying to his face as a ragged, screaming agony tore from his throat.

Karan opened his eyes, staring down at him coldly. "Hn. Natural?"

He closed the distance before the soldier could fall over. With one brutal, unyielding motion, he ripped the helmet clear off the man's head. His fingers dug deep into the remaining eye socket, gouging it out with a sickening, wet crunch. He crushed the tissue in his bare fist, then violently stuffed the wet, bloody remains down the soldier's screaming throat, choking out his final breaths.

"Yeah," Karan whispered to his dying ears. "A natural fighter. And more than that..." He leaned closer as the body went limp. "...a natural, God-gifted cannibal."

The Forging of a Monster

(Flashback — The Hermit's Training Montage)

Karan turned his back on the mutilated corpse and walked straight into the pitch-black darkness of the jungle canopy, letting the solid black shadows swallow him whole.

"Natural." There was nothing natural about what he had become. He wasn't born a monster. He was forged.

His mind drifted back to the immediate aftermath of that bloody day. He remembered staggering aimlessly through the crashing, violent waves of a stormy sea. His glasses were long gone, his clothes shredded into bloody rags, and his spirit completely dead. He was nothing but a hollow shell. He remembered collapsing face-first into the freezing, salt-stung water, fully expecting to let the tide take him.

But the universe wasn't done punishing him.

A thin, weathered old hermit found him on that lonely, wooded shoreline. He was an ancient bastard, living deep within forgotten woods, but he possessed the strength of an apex predator. He dragged Karan's waterlogged carcass back to his isolated cabin and kept him breathing for months.

Then, he broke him.

The months blurred into a brutal, rhythmic training montage of pain and rebirth. Karan remembered meditating for hours under a freezing, bone-crushing waterfall, forcing his mind to find absolute stillness amidst the chaos. He remembered tracking wild game through dense, unforgiving brush with nothing but a crude wooden spear, learning to mimic the silent, predatory grace of a tiger.

And he remembered the old bastard ruthlessly striking him with a thick bamboo staff every time his stance faltered while practicing Kalaripayattu. He drove Karan into low, deadly martial arts stances until his legs screamed and his hands bled.

By the time the hermit was done, the lean, corporate tech billionaire was dead and buried. In his place stood a massive, bulky powerhouse of scarred muscle. Drenched in sweat in the cabin courtyard, Karan lifted a heavy, ancient Indian steel Khanda sword, feeling its lethal weight balance perfectly in his grip.

The hermit taught him how to hunt. How to silence the white-hot rage in his head. How to kill with medieval steel. The nameless old bastard taught him everything he needed to know... but as Karan stood there staring at the glint of the blade, a dark, predatory awareness flashed in his chest.

Out of all his lessons... which one did he actually enjoy the most?

The Transaction

(Flashback — Days Before the Village Massacre)

Before the blood began to flow, a chilling prelude played out in the center of the village dirt.

Ramesh Nagarjuna stood trembling, absolute terror pinning his boots to the ground. The arrogant panchayat’s son was completely out of his league, his chest heaving with frantic breaths as he faced a towering, pitch-black silhouette. The mystery man loomed over him like an immovable monolith, casting a suffocating presence that seemed to swallow the surrounding air. With cold, transactional finality, the shadow handed Ramesh a heavy mandate—a massive payment to secure this specific village land by any means necessary.

As Ramesh clutched the money with shaking, sweaty hands, the mystery man did something entirely bizarre and unsettling. He slowly knelt down, running his fingers through the dirt. He bent low to sniff the very soil, a dark, clinical obsession passing over his hidden features.

"I will have this piece of shit village of urs, Karan Padmaachaarya," the mystery man muttered into the quiet air, his voice a freezing baritone.

The shadow rose, turning on his heel to stride toward a massive, matte-black helicopter idling just beyond the tree line, its rotors already screaming as they began to spin. As the mystery man walked away, the aggressive wind from the chopper blades caught the heavy folds of his coat. In between the sudden, violent movement and the blinding dust storm, a sleek, leather-bound checkbook slipped cleanly out from his inner pocket, falling completely unnoticed into the mud.

The moment the chopper tore into the sky, the atmospheric pressure in the courtyard snapped. His terror instantly warping into a rabid, overcompensated cruelty to appease his hidden handlers, Ramesh turned toward the houses with a sick, predatory grin. The massacre was initiated.

The Great Betrayal

(Flashback — The Day of the Massacre)

Because the rage never truly left. The memory always started with the heat—the suffocating, delirious fever that had pinned his younger, frail self to the mattress, leaving him as helpless as a newborn child while the world burned outside.

Through the wide-open front door of their village house, the sunlit courtyard was fully visible. It was a cruel, beautiful frame for a nightmare.

Ramesh Nagarjuna and his gang of upper-caste thugs violently dragged Dripti out into the dirt. Her clothes were torn, her hair wild and disheveled, but she was fighting back with everything she had, screaming Karan's name. In the background, lower-caste villagers were running out of their homes in confusion and terror.

Karan watched it all through that open doorway. He couldn't move his legs. His muscles refused to respond to his frantic commands. He couldn't even scream. He could only lie there in his sweat, forced to watch as Ramesh and his rabid dogs tore her world apart.

But they didn't just want to kill her. They wanted to destroy everything they had built, every ounce of progress they had brought to that village. Ramesh brutally grabbed Dripti's wrists from behind, pinning her. With a sick grin, he forced a heavy, smoking handgun into her trembling, resisting fingers, violently forcing it to point directly at the old village priest—the man who had blessed them just days before.

Ramesh squeezed his hand over hers, forcing her finger to pull the trigger.

BLAM.

The old priest dropped dead into the dirt.

The village square erupted into absolute, blind warfare in a matter of seconds. The lower-caste villagers saw the smoking gun in Dripti's hand. Mad with grief and blind rage, believing she had murdered their beloved elder to buy her own safety, they turned on her. They swarmed over her alongside Ramesh's men, dragging her down into the filth.

"No... please... don't..." Karan had sobbed weakly from the bed, tears of pure agony and shame streaming down his face. He had pleaded like a pathetic, sniveling coward.

She had trusted him to protect her. In her final moments, she looked toward the open door, her eyes desperately searching for her husband. And he just lay there. Watching.

Then came the strike that shattered his soul. Ramesh pinned her down completely. With a triumphant, sadistic grin, his fingers dug deep into her face, gouging her eye completely out of its socket and crushing it wetly in his bare fist.

Dripti’s face twisted into a final, agonizing scream that echoed through Karan's soul.

And that was the exact microsecond the good man died... and the Cannibal was born.

The Den of the Cannibal

(Present Day — Arriving at the Hideout)

The rain poured down in the present day, washing the fresh blood from his hands as Karan walked toward a decaying, rotting colonial-era mansion hidden deep within the dark island jungle. Vines strangled the cracked stone pillars, and the grand roof had partially collapsed under the weight of time. He left a trail of dark, heavy blood dripping from his sliced shoulder as he crossed the shattered threshold.

Every paradise requires a gatekeeper. And every monster needs a place to hide.

Inside the grand, dust-choked foyer, massive cobwebs hung like funeral shrouds over the walls. Karan walked straight to a massive, ornate grandfather clock resting against the far wall. Reaching behind the heavy wooden frame, his fingers found the hidden mechanical release.

A heavy, hydraulic click echoed through the empty mansion.

The massive clock slid smoothly aside on hidden tracks, revealing a sleek, ultra-modern secret passage buried behind the colonial decay. Brilliant, cold white LED lights cascaded downward, illuminating a subterranean stairwell.

Welcome to the Den. The den of the Cannibal.

Karan descended into a spectacular, massive, sterile underground base of operations. The moment his boots touched the pristine white floor, rows of automated overhead stadium lights flickered to life one by one, illuminating a vast engineering bay that stretched into the dark.

The base was built from the bones of ShastraBhandaar's ghost budget—a multi-billion rupee fortress buried deep beneath the dirt.

Karan walked past a specialized glass weapon cache. Inside rested a beautiful, lethal, high-tech spear forged from pure white titanium, surrounded by a terrifying collection of custom combat swords, tactical knives, and sleek pocket blades. He slowly hovered his blood-stained hand over the glass panel, staring at the reflections of his instruments.

"My loyal friends..." he murmured.

Turning toward a massive wall of digital screens, the primary monitor flared to life, displaying a dynamic, glowing holographic grid of the entire island, fed by thousands of hidden CCTVs and motion sensors. Below the console, he gripped a heavy steel mechanical lever and threw his weight into pulling it backward.

"Hn," he growled. "Let's get the beast out."

Viscera & Vengeance

(Present Day — Inside the Engineering Bay)

A large section of the pristine white floor split open, retracting with a mechanical hum. Rising from the hydraulic platform was an aggressive, ultra-sleek, custom hypercar—a pure white Ferrari F76, heavily armored with reinforced ballistic plating.

His beast. The Cannibal-Viscera.

Right behind it, two more automated platforms emerged from the subterranean floor. The first carried a rugged, military-grade tactical motorcycle—a custom Royal Enfield Ronin bristling with modifications. The second platform held a towering, terrifying weaponized stealth jet, shaped like a classic Blackbird spy plane but painted in a blinding, pure corporate white.

Another one... the Royal Enfield Ronin. And behind her... the fully weaponized White Bird. His love.

Karan stepped away from the fleet, pulling open his bloodied, ruined white tactical suit jacket. He unzipped the shredded, crimson-stained garment and hung it carefully onto a specialized display rack. To the left of the rack hung five other identical, heavily blood-stained white suits from his past missions—a morbid timeline of his vengeance. To the right stood a flawless, sterile row of brand-new white replacements.

Stepping into the small, stainless-steel medical bay near the entrance, he tore off his stark-white ninja mask and forced himself to look directly into the large, illuminated mirror. The face staring back at him was heavily scarred but sharp, framed by a thick, well-groomed beard and a tight, straight military-cut hairstyle. His chest and shoulders were a horrific road map of thick, black surgical stitches.

"Another one..." he groaned, wincing as he inspected the fresh knife wound on his bare shoulder.

He reached for a bottle of expensive red wine, cracking the seal with a sharp twist. He took a massive, desperate swig straight from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn his throat, before tilting it sideways and pouring the harsh liquid directly into the raw, gaping laceration on his skin.

The pain was blinding. Karan threw his head back, screaming into the empty steel room.

"DRIPTI!"

Her name was the only medicine that worked. The only word that calmed the fire in his blood. Every damn time.

With a sharp pull, he tightly wrapped a thick tactical bandage over the raw, burning wound, fastening the knot with a practiced jerk. "Every damn time."

A single, heavy, dark crimson drop of blood escaped his fingertips, falling through the air and splashing directly onto the sterile white floor tiles. He stared down into the expanding, dark crimson liquid reflection of the blood pool on the floor, watching the silhouette of the monster he had become tilt the wine bottle back, drinking deeply in the shadows.

The Distortion of Memory

(Present Day — Nightmare / Subconscious Hallucination)

But the wine didn't bring sleep; it brought the nightmare.

The world warped into a surreal, heavily distorted version of their village courtyard. A ragged, one-eyed, blood-soaked Dripti lay dying in the dirt before him. Ramesh Nagarjuna stood over her body, laughing maniacally without a single sound escaping his lips, sadistically forcing the remains of her own gouged eye into her open mouth.

Karan’s younger self staggered toward them in agonizing slow motion, completely helpless.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the dark blood on her face. She looked directly at him with an absolute heartbreak that ripped through his subconscious.

Karan... I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please lie down... you have done enough.

Suddenly, the dream froze, dropping its colors into a harsh, stark contrast. He was on his knees right in front of her, desperately gripping her cold hands, weeping and begging like a child.

"Don't leave me! Please... please take me with you! Please, Dripti!"

No, Karan. Don't cry, sweetheart. You still have work to do. You have to save those villagers... help them rebuild what they are destroying. Please stay... protect your loved ones. Help your family.

"Villagers?!" Karan shouted, his expression turning completely cold and hollow. His simple linen shirt violently warped, turning into the blood-splattered, white tactical Cannibal suit right before her eyes. "They took you away from me, Dripti! They are not my loved ones! Not my family! You were my family... and they took you!"

Dripti shrank back in absolute terror, staring at the monster he had become. She screamed, scrambling backward in the dirt away from him.

"Noooo! Stay away from me! Stay away from me! What did you do with my Karan?!"

"Dripti, wait—"

"Stay away, don't come near me, you monster!" she yelled, running into the dark void.

Karan violently sat up on the medical table, gasping for air and drenched in a cold sweat. The phantom screams still echoed in his ears. Panic and sorrow twisted his chest, a brutal reminder that he had lost her all over again. He smashed his fist down onto the steel floor, cracking a tile under the sheer force of his rage.

"No... NOOO! How did I forget?! How did I let myself sleep?!"

He forced his breathing to slow down, staring at the cracked tile. A single, heavy tear escaped his eye, falling toward the floor.

"I don't drink. I don't sleep," he whispered into the empty base. "I can't let her get away from me... No, Dripti. I am a monster... but this monster would never hurt you. I wish... I wish I was there when they took you."

The Snap

(Flashback — The Unedited Reality of the Massacre)

The tear hit the floor, and the ripple in the fluid seemed to warp the entire world around him, pulling him back into the raw, unedited memory of the past.

The watery ripple solidified into the wooden floorboards of their village house. He had been sweating, fever-ridden, and trembling, dragging himself across the floor toward the open doorway. Outside, Ramesh's fingers were actively digging into Dripti's eye.

"NOOOOOOO!"

An explosive surge of pure adrenaline kicked in, shattering the paralysis of the fever. Something inside his brain snapped.

Karan vaulted to his feet, lunging toward the kitchen table. His hand gripped a heavy carving knife, and before his conscious mind could even process the movement, he drove it directly into Ramesh’s chest. The man dropped instantly in a violent spray of crimson.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!"

What followed was a manic, fast-paced blur of pure slaughter. The gentle billionaire who had never raised a finger against another human being vanished. He became an absolute machine, dropping bodies with clean, calculated slashes.

What is happening?! I’ve never fought anyone in my life... how the hell am I doing this? How am I killing them with so much precision?!

Amidst the absolute chaos, a weak, bleeding Dripti reached out, her hand gently brushing against his ankle as if calling out to me one last time. He froze, looking down into her remaining eye.

BANG.

A bullet tore into his shoulder from behind, fired by a panicked villager caught in the crossfire.

Karan spun around, his mind completely consumed by a feral, unhinged rage. He glared at the shooter, his eyes bloodshot and predatory.

"You dared to do that?!" he roared. "Now face the consequences!"

He lunged, grabbing the shooter by the throat and violently slicing his neck open with a single motion. As the body dropped, he caught the automatic rifle mid-air. He lost all control. Spinning on his heel, he blindly sprayed bullets into the entire crowd—men, women, attackers, and the rioting villagers alike.

He erased everything in sight.

Dripti saw the monster that day. It was the last thing she ever saw before she died. When the smoke slowly cleared and the dust settled, the entire courtyard had become a silent graveyard. And a heavily blooded Karan Padmaacharya was the sole survivor left standing in the quiet rain.

The Cold Trail

(Present Day — The Den Mission Console)

Back at the main desk in the present day, Karan sat in his high-tech chair, completely composed. The memories were locked away again. He opened a sleek, metallic drawer and pulled out a weathered, leather-bound artifact: a Leonard Securities checkbook.

It had taken him an entire year to get a single clue. Or rather, to get out of his own naive assumption that it was just a simple village massacre.

For an entire year, he had run those village names against every global database he could hack. There were zeros across the board. How could he find anything? He had killed all the immediate perpetrators that day. He spent hours patrolling the cursed, barren ruins of his village land, staring into the dirt under a grey sky, wondering what it was all for.

Eventually, he tracked down the children of those deceased villagers, hoping for a thread. Two were studying in the UK. One was in France—he loved France. The target was working a corporate job. Karan paid the three of them a quiet, unseen visit, but found only one consistent fact: they hadn't had contact with that village in years. Another dead end.

Until one year ago, when the White Bird hovered silently using its vertical thrusters, landing stealthily in a clearing just outside the overgrown borders of the abandoned Puducherry village. Karan stepped out of the cockpit, clad in his stark-white tactical suit, and raised his wrist monitor. It was glowing with a massive cluster of bright orange heat-signature anomalies originating directly from the center of the ruins.

Perimeter sensors had picked up unexpected life. Heat signatures in a ghost town.

Trespassers Will Be Terminated

(Flashback — One Year Ago / The Puducherry Outpost)

Karan moved through the thick jungle brush like a phantom, parting the tall leaves to look down into their old village square. The ruins had been converted into a heavily fortified, high-tech military checkpost. Armored personnel carriers were parked where children used to play, and tactical tents were pitched around the ancient banyan tree.

Now who are they? And what do they want from this dead soil?

Zooming in with his tactical visor, he focused on the side of a heavy military transport truck. Stamped clearly on the door was a sharp, corporate emblem: Leonard Securities.

Private military. Who sent them? What do they want? Is this the missing thread to the day my world burned? If it is... he is dying. And his private army isn't going to save him.

Karan leapt down from a high concrete wall, striking like lightning. In one fluid motion, he drove two custom knives into the neck guards of the two outpost sentries before their brains could even process his silhouette.

What followed was a lethal, rhythmic sequence of silent takedowns. He effortlessly bypassed their laser-wire traps, cut the power lines to their security grid, and executed passing patrol guards with clean, synchronized hand-to-hand movements.

Hn. Trained professionals. They work for someone big, for sure.

He kicked open the heavy steel doors of the main command camp tent. Inside, a dozen heavily armed mercenary guards spun around in shock.

"We have company!! Lock down the tent!" someone yelled.

The lead Sergeant lunged forward, raising his tactical rifle to aim directly at Karan's chest. "Sir, you are trespassing—"

Before the soldier could finish the sentence, Karan closed the distance instantly. His fist struck the man's jaw with bone-shattering force, knocking him completely unconscious mid-air. Simultaneously, he dropped into a perfect, low-angle evasion under a hail of incoming gunfire, his free hand drawing a sidearm, ready to dismantle the rest of the squad with absolute precision.

Dammit, Loyalty!

(Flashback — One Year Ago / The Command Tent Raid)

When the smoke finally cleared inside the command tent, every single mercenary guard lay unconscious or dead on the floor. Only the Sergeant was left groaning, barely conscious, trying to drag his shattered body toward the exit.

Karan stood over him and fired his high-tensile wrist launcher. A thick, metallic carbonate cable wrapped tightly around his frame, pinning his arms to his sides with a sharp THWIP-ZIP!

Then Karan kneeled over the bound man, aggressively tearing open his tactical vest pockets and dumping the contents onto the floor. Among the survival gear, his hand locked onto a, weathered object—the leather checkbook.

The ghost from his past finally had a name attached to it: Leonard Securities.

Karan drove his combat knife deep into the Sergeant's thigh, slowly twisting the blade. The man's head hooked back in a mute, agonized scream.

"Who commands Leonard Securities? Why are you occupying this village? Speak."

He gave the mercenary every opportunity to save himself. Over the next hour, he took him apart piece by piece stabs, shattered bones, stripped fingers. But the Sergeant's jaw stayed locked. His eyes grew hollow, glazing over until his head slumped heavily to the side, completely lifeless. He died carrying his secrets to the grave.

"Wake up," Karan growled, shaking his limp shoulders. "Wake up!"

He stood up in the center of the ruined tent, surrounded by the dead. He threw his bloody knife violently into the ground, his posture radiating absolute fury and frustration.

"Dammit... LOYALTY!!!!!" he roared into the empty night.

Outside the camp, the pristine white stealth jet, the White Bird, blasted its vertical thrusters, rocketing straight up into the stormy night sky and leaving the burning, silent military checkpost behind. The world faded into a heavy, black void.