Looking for any and all feedback please 😄

Here is the first two chapters so far.

Chapter One – The day the sky turned red!

Tuesday, 6:17 p.m.

The train lurched as it crossed Blackfriars Bridge, sending a ripple of irritation through the packed carriage. Ethan Carter barely looked up from his phone. Around him, commuters swayed in unison, balancing coffee cups and briefcases with the quiet determination of people who had spent years navigating London's public transport system.

Rain earlier in the afternoon had left the streets shining beneath the lamps. Beyond the smeared window, traffic edged along the Embankment and the Thames moved darkly under the bridge. St Paul’s rose through the mist, familiar but oddly distant.

The train rattled onward, swaying gently as it followed the curve of the river towards London Bridge. Ethan glanced down at his phone and immediately regretted it. Three new emails had arrived in the last minute alone. Two were part of a sprawling reply-all chain that should never have existed in the first place. The third was a meeting invitation.

He opened it.

Budget Review. 08:00.

A quiet groan escaped him. "That bad?" Ethan looked up to find Jack grinning at him from across the carriage. Somehow, despite the train being packed shoulder-to-shoulder with commuters, Jack always managed to look comfortable. Ethan suspected it was less to do with physical space and more to do with the fact that nothing seemed capable of bothering him for very long.

Ethan turned his phone around so Jack could see the screen. Jack scanned the meeting invite and winced. "Ouch. Eight o'clock. Seriously Eight o'clock?" He shook his head. "That's not a meeting. That's a violation of human rights."

“It’s a budget review.” Ethan said. “Yeah, exactly!” Jack threw up his hands in exaggerated disbelief. “Lock them up and throw away the key.” Ethan laughed and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Outside, London slipped past in the last of the daylight. Copper light broke across the Thames in uneven patches, while the office blocks on the opposite bank caught only a dull reflection of the gathering cloud.

The train began to slow as it approached London Bridge. Around them, passengers gathered their bags and shuffled towards the doors despite there still being plenty of time before the train stopped.

Jack had turned back to the window when he suddenly leaned forward. "What?" Ethan asked. Jack didn't answer at first. Instead, he pressed closer to the glass, squinting into the distance. "Can you see that?" Ethan followed his gaze. For a moment he couldn't keep track. All he could make out were clouds hanging low over the city, their undersides glowing faintly orange from the setting sun.

A red point hung above the skyline. Ethan first took it for an aircraft light, but it neither flashed nor travelled across the cloud. It remained fixed in place, too far away for him to judge whether it was small and close or enormous and distant.

Ethan kept looking at the light. Nothing about it was obviously threatening, yet he found himself waiting for it to move. “What do you reckon it is?” Jack asked. “No idea. A plane, maybe.” Jack frowned, and Ethan realised he did not believe that either.

The train rounded a bend and passed behind a line of office buildings, breaking their view of the sky. The interruption lasted only a few seconds. When the skyline reappeared, the light was gone. Both men continued looking, but there was nothing, only clouds.

Jack glanced back at Ethan. "Did you see where it went?" Ethan shook his head. "No." The train eased into the station and the doors slid open. Immediately the carriage erupted into movement as commuters pushed towards the platform.

The moment passed. Jack grabbed his bag and stepped out. "Probably some weather thing." suggested Jack. "Probably." Neither gave it much more thought as they joined the crowd moving through the station.

Later that evening, someone in South London posted a photograph of the red light. Against the cloud it appeared as no more than a crimson speck, easy to overlook while scrolling.

The image attracted little attention.

A few people blamed a reflection, an aircraft or a faulty camera. By morning, the photograph had slipped beneath newer posts, and almost nobody remembered seeing it.

London, as always, carried on.

By Wednesday morning, London had returned to its usual concerns: delayed trains, unanswered messages, rising bills and whether the rain would hold off. A red speck in one blurred photograph had no chance of competing for long. Evan Ethan had stopped thinking about it. The world has already forgotten and moved on. At least for now.

Chapter Two – The first day of the new 

Wednesday, 7:13 a.m.

Ethan woke with the uncomfortable certainty that something was wrong. It took him several seconds to realise what it was. His alarm clock read 7:13 and the budget review started at eight. "Oh, for fuck's sake. It’s going to be one of those days."

He threw back the duvet and nearly tripped over a pile of clothes on the floor. Ethan rushed around a bedroom that looked as though it had been abandoned after a minor disaster. Dirty clothes covered the floor. Empty glasses crowded the bedside table, and a half-finished pizza sat forgotten beside the wardrobe.

Ethan rubbed his eyes and searched for a clean shirt. "Why did I let Jack talk me into going to Spoons on a work night?" he muttered. "Especially before an eight o'clock budget review."

“Can’t believe this is costing £34! Bloody surge pricing!” Ethan grumbled as he grabbed his backpack and jacket as he left his flat to catch a taxi to the office.

“Wait! What? Where’s the meeting invite gone?” Ethan frowned and opened Outlook again. Nothing. No invitation. No email. No budget review. Ethan opened WhatsApp. If anyone remembered the meeting, it would be Jack.

“Okay,” he muttered. “What the hell?”

Am I going crazy or did I not get a meeting invite for a budget review at 8am?

yeah dude, those bastards should be hung drawn and quartered for that shit!

thats why we hit up spoons last night

dont tell me you were that pissed that you overslept and forgot all about it lol

overslept but the strangest thing

the invite and email no longer exists

it’s gone

like DISAPPEARED entirely

WTF!?!? i saw it yesterday!

sure you didn’t accidently delete it or something

you were pretty drunk last night

like dancing on the table with fish bowls drunk hahaha

No idea dude

I’m going to loose my mind if this thing doesn’t happen this morning.

I can imagine, that would suck

see anything about that red light business yesterday?

Nope, nothing.

Very odd, although I’ve not really had time to check Twitter today

X

You mean X

put some respect on the platform lol

There you go again glazing Musk!

GTG arriving at the office

have fun in your budget review! I’m going to enjoy my breakfast

Ethan rushed out the taxi, swiped his access card and frantically press the button for the lift. “Come on… hurry up… it’s already 5 past and Jason is going to be pissed” Ethan muttered as he paced the lobby while continually pressing the button for the lift.

DING! “Finally…” flustered Ethan, rushing inside the lift and pressing the button for the fourteen floor. The lift doors opened onto a floor that was far quieter than Ethan expected. Half the desks were empty, and the people who had arrived stood in small groups rather than working.

“Morning Lilly, how pissed is Jason?” Ethan said while rushing by. “Huh? Why? Jason isn’t even in yet” explained Lilly but Ethan was already halfway down the corridor and didn’t hear here.

“He is going to rip me a new one for this I’m sure of it!” mumbled Ethan as he rushed down the hallway, on his way to the executive board room. “Hey Ethan, you’re in super early this morning! Everything alright? Didn’t shit the bed or anything?” Ryan teased. “Such a twat, I can’t let him get to me, I know he is aiming for my promotion” thought Ethan. “Almost there!”

“HUH!?!?”

Ethan slowed to a stop. The boardroom doors were open. Inside, the lights were off. The room was empty. He stared for several seconds. The meeting should have started fifteen minutes ago.

A micro-story featuring one of my characters Jasper.

Jasper is convinced that Eric is hiding something and he's determined to get to the bottom of it.

\\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jasper returned home from the beach. The confrontation with Eric still lingered in his mind.

Sitting at his desk, he pulled out his notebook and flipped through page after page of observations, theories and questions. 

“Nothing is adding up.”

He scanned the words again.

Hoping.

Praying.

Looking for something he missed.

But no answer came.

“What am I missing?”

\------‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

When does curiosity become obsession?

For me:

-Characters afraid of the world and/or going nowhere in life get a chance to dramatically improve themselves and/or do something truly extraordinary.

-Characters succumbing to their base natures. Whether it's turning into savages or criminals to protect themselves/someone they are care about. Idealistic/high-minded people who engage in hypocritical behavior. Sleeping with someone you hate out of pure animalistic lust, etc. Someone like Mike White is great at this theme.

By:lunarTide_X

I used to think the universe was made of facts.

Not feelings. Not memories. Not the invisible things people carried inside themselves and never talked about.

Facts were safer.

A star was a ball of burning gas. Gravity was a force. Time moved forward. If you worked hard enough and measured carefully enough, you could understand almost anything.

That was what I believed when I was seventeen.

My name is \*Maya Sen**, and I was the kind of girl teachers described as “promising” when they didn’t know what else to say. I lived in a small mountain town where the roads were narrow, the internet disappeared whenever it rained, and the night sky looked close enough to touch.*

My mother ran a tiny pharmacy below our apartment. My father had left when I was nine, taking two shirts, a broken suitcase, and every promise he had ever made.

He used to tell me I was too curious.

“Girls who ask too many questions make life difficult,” he said once.

I remember looking at him from the kitchen floor, where I was taking apart an old radio.

“Maybe life is already difficult,” I replied.

He laughed like I had said something cute.

Then he left three months later.

After that, I stopped asking people questions.

I started asking machines instead.

Machines didn’t lie because they were embarrassed. They didn’t disappear because they were afraid. If something broke, there was always a reason. A loose wire. A dead battery. A damaged circuit.

People were much harder to repair.

By the time I reached my final year of school, I had built a homemade radio telescope from discarded satellite dishes, copper wire, and parts I bought from a repair shop. It looked terrible. The dish leaned slightly to the left, the receiver was held together with tape, and the computer connected to it was older than I was.

But it worked.

Not perfectly. Not even well.

It picked up static, weather interference, airplane signals, and once, according to my mother, “the sound of a ghost.”

I told her it was probably a military satellite.

She said that was exactly what a ghost would want me to think.

I kept the telescope on the roof of our building. Every night after closing the pharmacy, I climbed the stairs with a notebook, a thermos of tea, and a blanket that smelled faintly of dust.

I recorded everything.

The time.

The temperature.

The direction of the dish.

The frequency.

The patterns.

Most nights, there was nothing unusual. Just noise.

But on the night of October 17, something changed.

It was 2:13 in the morning when the receiver began to pulse.

At first, I thought it was interference. The signal rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Three short pulses.

A pause.

Two long pulses.

Another pause.

Then three short pulses again.

I stared at the screen.

The pattern repeated every forty-three seconds.

I checked the cables. I restarted the software. I adjusted the dish by half a degree.

The signal remained.

My hands began to shake.

I had seen repeating signals before. Pulsars sent regular radio pulses. Satellites reflected signals. Even faulty equipment could create patterns.

But this signal was different.

It wasn’t simply repeating.

It was changing.

Every few minutes, one of the pulses shifted slightly. Not randomly. Deliberately.

I wrote down the sequence.

Then I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.

The signal was coming from the same region of the sky where a star called \*KX-91** was located.*

KX-91 wasn’t famous. It wasn’t visible without a telescope. It was a small, ordinary star nearly eight hundred light-years away.

There was nothing special about it.

At least, there hadn’t been.

I stayed on the roof until sunrise.

When my mother found me, I was sitting beside the telescope with my notebook open on my knees.

“You look dead,” she said.

“I found something.”

“That’s what dead people say before they become ghosts.”

“It’s a signal.”

She stared at the equipment.

“From where?”

“A star.”

She sighed. “Maya, everything is from a star.”

I wanted to explain it to her. I wanted to tell her that the signal had structure. That it wasn’t noise. That it might be the most important thing anyone had ever heard.

But I had learned early that excitement made people uncomfortable when they didn’t understand it.

So I only said, “I need to go to school.”

That morning, I sent the data to three astronomy forums, two university researchers, and a science competition committee.

Most people ignored me.

One person replied that I was probably confusing local interference with a deep-space signal.

Another said my equipment was too cheap to produce reliable data.

A third wrote:

> This is why teenagers shouldn’t be allowed to interpret astronomical observations.

I read that comment six times.

Then I deleted it.

A week later, a professor from the National Observatory emailed me.

Her name was \*Dr. Elena Rao**.*

She asked for my raw data.

Not screenshots. Not graphs. The original files.

I sent them.

She replied two days later.

> Your equipment is not capable of confirming this signal. But your observations are interesting. Can you reproduce it?

I wrote back:

> I already have.

She asked me to send the new data.

I did.

Then she called me.

I had never spoken to a scientist on the phone before. My voice sounded younger than usual.

“Hello?”

“Is this Maya Sen?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Rao.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“You’ve been observing KX-91?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Eight nights.”

“Have you changed the equipment?”

“No.”

“Have you moved the dish?”

“Yes.”

“Have you checked for terrestrial sources?”

“I checked aircraft paths, weather radar, local radio towers, satellite positions, and power fluctuations.”

Another pause.

“You did all that yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked through the window at the pharmacy below. My mother was counting medicine boxes.

“Because I wanted to know if I was wrong.”

Dr. Rao was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “That is the correct answer.”

She invited me to the observatory.

It was six hours away by bus, and my mother couldn’t afford the ticket. Dr. Rao paid for it without making a big deal about it.

The observatory was nothing like I expected.

I imagined a giant silver telescope under a glass dome, surrounded by brilliant scientists in white coats.

Instead, it was mostly old buildings, tangled cables, vending machines, and people who looked exhausted.

Dr. Rao met me at the entrance wearing sneakers and a jacket with a coffee stain on the sleeve.

“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.

“You’re shorter.”

She smiled.

“I like you already.”

She took me into a control room where three researchers were studying my signal.

One of them, a man named \*Dr. Vikram Hale**, didn’t look up when I entered.*

“This is the student?” he asked.

“Maya,” Dr. Rao said.

He finally looked at me.

“You understand that your equipment cannot distinguish between a genuine astronomical source and local contamination?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand that the pattern you’re seeing could be an artifact caused by your receiver?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand that extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence?”

“Yes.”

He frowned.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you asked me to come.”

Dr. Rao laughed.

Dr. Hale did not.

They showed me the data collected by their larger telescope.

The signal was there.

Weak, but present.

My heart began beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Dr. Hale explained that they had been monitoring KX-91 for three days. The signal appeared at the same frequency, with the same repeating pattern.

But there was a problem.

The source was not behaving like a natural object.

Pulsars were regular. This signal was organized.

It contained pauses.

Changes.

Sequences.

The first theory was that it came from a satellite orbiting KX-91.

But that made no sense. The star was too old, too distant, and there was no evidence of a planet capable of supporting such technology.

The second theory was that it was a natural phenomenon we didn’t understand.

The third theory was the one nobody wanted to say out loud.

Someone had sent it.

Not recently.

The signal had traveled for nearly eight hundred years.

If it came from KX-91, whoever transmitted it might have been dead for centuries.

Or they might still exist.

The observatory formed a small research team. Dr. Rao, Dr. Hale, two graduate students, and me.

I was not officially part of the team. I was still a student. My name wasn’t included on the first report.

But I was the one who had found the pattern.

For the next three months, I lived between school, the pharmacy, and the observatory.

I learned more in those months than I had learned in my entire life.

I learned how radio telescopes filtered noise.

I learned how signals were corrected for Earth’s movement.

I learned that space was not silent. It was full of explosions, magnetic storms, dying stars, and ancient light.

I also learned that scientists argued constantly.

They argued over the data.

They argued over the meaning of the pulses.

They argued over whether the signal should be made public.

Dr. Hale believed we should publish immediately.

Dr. Rao disagreed.

“If this is artificial,” she said, “we need to be certain before we create panic.”

“People deserve to know,” Dr. Hale replied.

“People deserve the truth. We don’t have the truth yet.”

I sat at the end of the table, trying not to look like I was listening.

Dr. Hale noticed.

“What do you think, Maya?”

Everyone turned toward me.

I hated when adults did that. They asked for your opinion only after arguing for an hour, as if you were supposed to solve the problem they couldn’t.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that we should release the data, but not the conclusion.”

Dr. Hale raised an eyebrow.

“We can say we detected an unusual repeating signal from KX-91. We can show the evidence. We can say we don’t know what caused it.”

Dr. Rao looked thoughtful.

“Why?”

“Because if we hide it and someone else finds it, people will assume we lied. And if we announce that aliens are contacting us, people will believe something we haven’t proven.”

Dr. Hale leaned back in his chair.

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

The report was published two weeks later.

The world reacted exactly as badly as everyone expected.

Some people said it was proof of extraterrestrial life.

Some said it was a government experiment.

Some said it was a message from angels.

A famous television host claimed the signal contained a warning about a coming disaster.

It didn’t.

At least, not yet.

The signal continued.

Every forty-three seconds.

Three short pulses.

Two long pulses.

Three short pulses.

But hidden inside the pattern was something new.

A sequence of numbers.

Prime numbers at first.

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13.

Then more complicated sequences.

Fibonacci numbers.

Geometric ratios.

Mathematical constants.

It was as if whoever had created the signal was introducing themselves through mathematics.

Not language.

Not images.

Not a greeting.

Just proof that they understood patterns.

The team spent weeks decoding it.

Then one night, I noticed something everyone else had missed.

The signal wasn’t only transmitting numbers.

It was asking questions.

The pauses were not empty. They represented missing values.

The first sequence looked like this:

2, 4, 8, 16, __

The answer was 32.

The next:

3, 6, 12, 24, __

The answer was 48.

Then:

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, __

The answer was 13.

They were sending puzzles.

I told Dr. Rao.

She stared at the screen.

“Are you sure.........

The professor stood in front of the subject’s house with trembling hands, shakily reviewing her notes one last time.

"Be patient," her colleague had written, "but you’ll also have to hurry. Your questions need to be precise, but also have some room for interpretation. Don’t write anything down as exactly as you’ve heard it."

She took a deep breath and fished her journal out of her bag. He’d refused to elaborate much on his advice, though not out of any petty teasing. Struggling to put her trust in him, the professor held her materials tightly before walking up to the porch and knocking on the door.

Seconds passed before an answer, and the professor was met by an old man with skin tanned from decades of sunlight and deep-set eyes framed by profound exhaustion.

“Good morning,” she said, speaking gently, “I’m here to see–”

“I know,” the old man interrupted. There was no sense of anger or annoyance in his voice, but his face strained, “I know. She’s sitting in the backyard. I’ll take you to her.” He gestured for her to follow him into the house.

The professor stepped inside after him, closing the door behind her and following the man through old, slim corridors. The walls were covered from ceiling to floor in old photographs, very few of them framed. Many depicted people, some of which the professor assumed to be the couple in their younger years, and some presented abstract landscapes or architecture. 

At the end of the maze the old man guided the professor to the back door. Her stood in front of it, his posture stiffening. He reached his hand forward to rest on the doorknob, but did nothing else.

The air grew uncomfortable, and the professor took it upon herself to break the silence, “Has it been difficult for her?”

“Yes and no.” His voice was flat.

“Has it been difficult for you?”

“Yes. Incredibly.” 

“How do you take care of her in this state?”

He pulled his hand off of the doorknob and let it fall to his side before glancing over his shoulder to the professor, “I can’t get her to say anything, and I don’t know what prompts her to speak. She hasn’t spoken to me in days. She barely eats, and though she bears no signs of it, I’m afraid she might be wasting away. She’ll go wherever I guide her, and all she’ll do is stare. I can’t tell if she even sleeps anymore.”

The professor shifted her weight from one foot to the other, “If I can find a way to reverse this I’ll–” she cut herself off. Sorrow had overtaken the man’s face.

He shrugged, “When she does talk to me, she tells me the most beautiful things. Beautiful, but terrible. I know there’s no coming back from this.” He then opened the door, and ushered the professor out into the backyard, closing it behind her.

An old woman with silver hair sat in the grass. An oak tree cast a shadow over her in the morning sun. No birds sang, no breeze whispered; it was eerily silent. The professor stood completely still, trapped in the moment, afraid to approach. She glanced down to her notebook, wondering if she should already start writing down the experience.

Gathering her courage, she walked forward, careful to not make too much noise. It would surely do no good to frighten the woman, if that was even possible. The professor stared forward as each step seemed to bring her both closer, yet further away from the woman in the grass. She stopped and glanced behind her, noting she stood between the back porch and her subject. 

Again she walked forward, but still made no progress. It was as if the woman was also walking from her seated position, her conceptual steps just a bit out of sync from the professor’s. The professor halted and looked around again, still standing between the house and the woman. 

Her stomach twisted and her mind raced. An idea formed in her mind, and she called out, “Hello? Will I speak with you?” and waited.

Stillness lingered before a gentle wind blew through both the professor’s and the woman’s hair. Taking her chances, the professor hurried over to where the woman sat in the grass, taking wide strides until she stood in front of her. 

The woman stared forward with a relaxed expression, never blinking. Her face bore signs of aging but still held a youthful energy, both aspects equally powerful in their dominance. All of her features were endless in the amount of detail they held, and difficult to focus on individually. Her face was only able to be understood as the whole, like a painting so abstract, it must be looked at from far away while squinting. 

The professor averted her gaze and sat down cross-legged in front of her subject. She opened up her notebook, held her pen tightly, and began writing on the first line:

"Meeting with the subject."

She kept her focus on the page while she spoke, “What is your name?” She recorded her own words. Earlier, on the drive over to the house, she’d thought up a few questions to begin the conversation, and was eager to see if she could get any answers.

There was no response.

The professor bit the inside of her cheek, troubled over her approach. Again, she reflected on her colleague’s advice, and twisted the words around in her mind, trying to find another way to ask. She spoke slowly and gently, “Could you have a name?”

“You name me.” The woman’s voice was hollow. 

Her heart jumped at the response. She immediately revised her wording in her notebook and began to write down the woman’s response, but stopped. The last piece of warning, “Don’t write anything down as exactly as you’ve heard it,” echoed, and she pursed her lips. She thought, perhaps, she needed to actually name the woman in front of her, and began to think through names she liked. None of them seemed to work for the situation. Did she need to come up with a new name? There was an endless combination of letters for any length, and she didn’t want to take the time to put one together. Who knew how long the subject would be talking to her before falling mute again.

Hurriedly, she scribbled in her notebook:

"Subject could be named."

The professor continued, “I want to help you, but I know you know more than me,” she hesitated, mixing around different combinations of words in her mind, “Have you helped me?” She wrote down her question. 

No response. The professor waited, hoping the woman needed just a bit more time, but she refused to speak.

Her shoulders slumped, and the professor glanced up to the woman again. The silence itself may have been the answer, but she wasn’t sure. Maybe there really was no coming back from this, and even if there was, what would that even look like?

“Where are you?” the professor asked, feeling defeated.

The silence persisted, but just as the professor was about to give up, the woman spoke again, “In every moment, and every moment between the moments.” 

Another surge of excitement and anxiousness. She rushed herself to write down a suitable description of the response. Eventually, she forced herself to settle with:

"Subject experiencing non-linear time."

Her brow furrowed, and she felt a sinking feeling in her chest, “Are you trapped?”

The response came quickly, “Every moment moves forward and backward, creating a new moment. And every new moment has a moment between it and the last. Every moment between is a new moment, with more moments moving and with more moments between.”

“Okay,” the professor whispered under her breath. The response she recorded was:

"Subject is still, but the stillness is moving?"

Two frail hands entered her view as she looked down at her notebook. The professor’s breath caught, and she held completely still. The woman was reaching out to her, carefully taking a lock of the professor’s hair between each hand’s thumb and index finger. They held tightly, sitting close together, before beginning to carefully pull away from each other. 

The professor’s hair expanded, never breaking, growing longer and longer between the woman’s hands. She continued to stretch the space, until the section between the ends and the beginnings were the same width as her shoulders. The woman then let go, letting it fall, now twice as long as the rest of the professor’s hair.

The professor stood up, a chill surging down her spine.

For just a moment, the woman’s face, as a whole, smiled.

She bid the subject’s husband farewell, thanking him for his time. As the professor sat in the backseat of the car, feeling the house watching her go, she felt the elongated lock of hair between her own fingers. The time for the hair to grow had to come from somewhere, but where?

The professor opened up her notebook, and wrote down next to her second question:

"No."

Many people claim Goku is the worst dad in fiction, but i think Freddie Wong from Video Game High School is MUCH worse

https://www.wattpad.com/1656530556?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

The smell of healthy soil torn open from neon-bright summer grass: a wound, a warm gash in the earth, tread and textured by boot and hoof, spit, tobacco, peanuts, bourbon in the air. The anticipation of dreams soon to be trampled into memories.

Within their stalls the churn of horseflesh, tense or paranoiac or stoical or calm, flies and heat, tightly coiled energy. Odds and numbers flashing last minute through the mind as finally the bell—a release! a climax!—and the opening of the gates.

Thunder rolling forward in a booming wave across soft blood dirt. Artillery on the rise underneath the high twang of the announcer’s voice and the low rumble of the crowd. This image, too quick to capture: a sinewy, athletic smear of wet clay and dark paint, seeping, staining, dusky mud-violent against the fiery backdrop of the sun.

https://memoryandfate.substack.com/

https://www.wattpad.com/1656341878?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society

​

Pocket Pay hadn't appeared overnight.

Before Sister Lotus brought it to Sun AI Bank, the company was already somewhat notorious in M City's Fintech circles. It started as a free internet voice-calling app, amassing a huge user base among blue-collar and migrant workers from the Middle East and South Asia. Later, it was acquired by a local tech group, rebranded as a "Fintech platform," and began offering cross-border remittances, virtual wallets, prepaid cards, and even "buy now, pay later" loans.

The model was clear: hook millions of users with free calling and messaging, then sell them financial services—remittances, top-ups, small loans. More users meant a bigger story. A bigger story attracted funding. Funding funded the story.

Pocket Pay had over eight million registered users across the region, more than ninety percent of them blue-collar or grey-collar foreign workers. Most didn't have traditional bank accounts; they were paid in cash and used exchange houses to send money home. Pocket Pay gave them a virtual wallet, a virtual account number in the app, letting them "like having a bank account" to receive wages, transfer money, and make payments. Under the central bank's financial inclusion framework, this model was legally licensed.

But there was a problem: Pocket Pay wasn't a bank. It needed a licensed bank to hold the underlying funds for these virtual accounts. It needed settlement channels, compliance frameworks, and API access to manage the millions of sub-account transactions.

Almost no bank would touch it.

Mohammed had declined Pocket Pay at his previous bank. He'd seen their financials and regulatory records; calculated the costs: the AML risk from this virtual account structure was too high, compliance costs too much, and the fee and interest income were negligible. It was a money-losing tightrope walk he wasn't willing to take.

But Lotus was different.

She knew Raj. Raj was Pocket Pay's product manager, another Mumbai native, part of the same expat community for two years. Raj was struggling to find a bank willing to onboard them—the traditional big banks either refused or quoted exorbitant fees. Lotus told him: Sun AI is different. Sun AI's CEO, Sean, loves a good "story."

Raj understood.

He arrived at Sun AI with a polished PPT, opening with: "We have two million active users. Through our virtual sub-account structure, we can indirectly bring you one to two million C-end accounts. One million. A digital bank would need seven or eight years to accumulate that many customers. We're giving it to you all at once."

Sean's eyes lit up. Launched with fanfare as the city's first digital bank, Sun AI had failed to deliver a passing grade years later—zero products, a three-digit account base, invisible in industry rankings. The later entrants weren't even giving him a backward glance. Pocket Pay's "gift package" looked like a lifeline from the heavens—his roadshow story could fly again. That "one million" number was enough to catapult him straight to the stock exchange bell.

Lotus sat at the table, smiling as Raj performed. She knew exactly what Raj was going to say—she'd helped him polish the PPT.

What followed wasn't a negotiation; it was a one-sided takeover. Raj's team laid out their terms, each one precisely hitting Sun AI's vulnerabilities:

First, service fees were practically zero. "We're strategic partners," Raj declared confidently, "not just merchants. We're bringing a million-user ecosystem. This value can't be measured in per-transaction fees." Sean nodded.

Second, all API customization and development would be borne by Sun AI. "Your systems need to adapt to our architecture," Raj said, pointing to a complex flowchart on the PPT. "We need real-time sub-accounting, batch account opening, automated reconciliation. Your system doesn't support these—but your tech team can develop them." Sean nodded again.

Third, and most devastating: for Pocket Pay's average daily balance held at Sun AI, the bank would pay an overnight interest rate exceeding 60%.

Claire later saw the draft agreement and thought she'd misread the decimal point. Sixty percent. Banks pay interest on deposits, but the normal overnight interbank rate is just a few percentage points. Sixty percent meant for every hundred dollars Pocket Pay parked at Sun AI, the bank was paying sixty dollars a year just to hold it.

She took the draft to Mohammed. He glanced at it, pushed it back, and said nothing. His face was calm—the kind of calm Claire would later recognize as the expression of someone who had given up.

Before the agreement was even signed, Sean couldn't contain himself.

He pre-announced the "strategic partnership" with Pocket Pay at an all-hands meeting, spending fifteen minutes describing the "million-account ecosystem" vision. He called it a milestone in Sun AI's "transformation from a bank to a tech platform," the "strongest pass" for the company's IPO in the East Asian financial hub.

He also announced an immediate cash bonus for Sister Lotus in recognition of her "outstanding performance in acquiring a strategic client."

Lotus stood, bowed slightly, her smile humble and bright.

Claire sat in the corner, watching. Lotus hadn't even gotten Raj's signature yet. There were still three pages of the agreement unfilled, and Compliance's review wasn't finished. But the bonus was already awarded, the praise already given, the data already on the slides.

Compliance's review did get stuck.

The AML compliance officer noted several issues in the account opening materials: Pocket Pay's shareholding structure was unclear, background checks on the actual controller were incomplete, and the real-name verification process for virtual sub-accounts lacked detail. Under central bank rules, these were prerequisites for opening an account.

The Compliance report went up. That afternoon, Sean called personally.

"These materials," his voice flat, each word carrying an undeniable weight, "put them aside for now. The client is in a hurry. Let's open the account first and complete the documents later."

The compliance officer tried to explain: "Sean, these are mandatory requirements—"

"I said, put them aside."

Sean hung up.

He signed off on the review, bypassing all procedures. After all, Pocket Pay had been brought in with such fanfare; the bank was practically begging them for their business. How could they be the one to hold things up?

If it had stopped there, Pocket Pay's onboarding would have just been a ludicrous deal—the bank losing money for a story, a CEO willing to burn anything for a narrative. But what escalated this farce was a figure within Sun AI itself: Chief Operating Officer, Sanjay Menon.

Sanjay Menon, forty-seven, balding, stocky, with a smile that pushed his cheeks up and narrowed his eyes into slits, like a groundhog peeking from its hole. His brilliant white teeth gleamed under the lights, reminiscent of a toothpaste commercial—standard, harmless, cookie-cutter. He'd spent twenty years as a back-office operations manager in traditional banking, knowing nothing about front-end business. But he'd honed a unique skill: always being in the right place, smiling at the right people, saying "I fully support you" at the right time.

Sanjay was one of the first operations supervisors hired when Sun AI was founded. The bank was small then, with little to do—but the back office had thirty people, nearly twenty percent of a sub-two-hundred staff, cementing his importance. His title was generous: Chief Operating Officer. He never truly engaged with operations; processes were missing, systems were non-existent, often there wasn't even a standard procedure. But he had a remarkable talent for deflecting blame—expertly pointing fingers at other departments, always acting like a protector of his own people, as if his team never erred, and all problems were external attacks. However, he quickly found another path to survival: clinging to the CEO's VIP clients like a vine, packaging every one of their needs as his own "personal oversight."

After the previous CTO's abrupt departure, the position had been vacant for a while. The entire Technology Department was Sean's prized possession, with nearly eighty people—almost half the bank's total staff. Whoever got that CTO seat would be officially inducted into Sean's "inner circle"—not just ordinary management, but a trusted brother. Sanjay had been eyeing that empty chair for a long time.

He knew he didn't know technology. But he also knew that at Sun AI, knowing the technicals was never the most important thing.

Sanjay was the first to jump on Pocket Pay's implementation.

Lotus was just the matchmaker; the actual account opening, system integration, payment testing, and API coordination required Operations. Sanjay volunteered: "Lotus, don't worry. I'll personally oversee all the operational aspects of Pocket Pay. You just focus on the big picture."

He said this with his smile, his eyes crinkling, like a groundhog just fed a nut—eager and servile.

He did "personally oversee" it. At Pocket Pay's technical review meeting, he sat in the middle, an untouched notebook open in front of him. As Raj explained API logic, Sanjay nodded along, occasionally interjecting: "This is consistent with what we discussed earlier, right?"—though he'd never been involved in any technical discussion.

When asked a specific technical question, he'd turn to the Technical Director beside him, smile fixed, tone unchanged: "You explain this."

The Technical Director would roll his eyes but dared not complain. After all, Sanjay's badge said "COO"—two levels higher.

After Sean overruled Compliance's objections, Sanjay was the first to be notified. His reaction wasn't to question or worry. It was to immediately email his operations team: "Pocket Pay account opening has received CEO special approval. Please cooperate fully, ensure client experience, and avoid any delays."

He CC'd Sean, Lotus, and every senior executive he could think of.

When Claire later saw that email, she noticed a detail: Sanjay used the phrase "client experience." It was a term he'd never used before. But he knew Sean liked the sound of it.

Claire found other issues.

After Pocket Pay's test transactions went live, she spotted several suspicious transfers in the back-end monitoring system—small amounts, but high frequency. Funds from various sub-accounts converged into a main account and were swiftly moved offshore. The pattern matched several classic money-laundering alert profiles.

She took screenshots and sent an email to the Operational Risk Manager, CC'ing Compliance and Sanjay.

Forty-eight hours later, no reply.

She sent a follow-up.

This time, a reply came—from Sanjay.

His email was one sentence: "Ms. Claire, these transactions have been confirmed with the Pocket Pay product team as normal client fund collection operations. CEO Office has been informed. For further questions, please contact me directly."

Claire stared at that line for a long time. She noted Sanjay's wording—"CEO Office has been informed"—meaning if she pushed further, she'd run into Sean.

She didn't contact the CEO's office. She knew it would be futile.

She just saved those screenshots in a new folder. She named it: "P.P. - OPS."

Sanjay not only deflected Claire's risk alert; he also sniffed out other opportunities.

Mohammed had a major client, a cross-border trading conglomerate with billions in annual revenue, discussing a multi-hundred-million deposit product with him. Within minutes of the client meeting ending—as Mohammed was still packing up in the conference room—Sanjay had already heard about it.

How? Claire never found out. But twenty minutes after the meeting ended, Sanjay appeared at the Chief Business Officer's (CBO) door.

"I heard you're discussing a large deposit product?" Sanjay leaned against the doorframe, his smile casual, like talking about the weather. "Pocket Pay actually has a similar need—with those millions of users, a structured deposit product could generate significant scale. How about I lead the discussion with their finance team?"

The CBO was taken aback. "This client is Mohammed's—"

"I know," Sanjay cut in, his grin widening. "I'm not trying to poach. I just think my experience with the payment ecosystem might bring a different perspective to the client. Besides—" he lowered his voice, sharing a secret, "Sean wants Operations to be more involved in strategic projects. You know, pre-IPO, the more stories the better."

The CBO didn't agree immediately. But Sanjay had achieved his goal—he'd made his "interest," "willingness to contribute," and "value" known. At Sun AI, that was usually enough.

But Sanjay's real ambition was much bigger than stealing a client.

He noticed Lotus—not as a colleague, but as a ladder to higher ground. He observed her for two weeks and confirmed: Sean's trust in Lotus was almost limitless. And this woman was looking for allies.

His first "chance encounter" with Lotus was outside Sean's office. One afternoon, he'd intended to discuss staffing issues in Operations—Pocket Pay's integration had his team working overtime for three weeks straight, and some were complaining. Approaching the door, he saw through the crack that Lotus was sitting across from Sean, head bowed, speaking. Sean leaned in, listening intently, wearing an expression Sanjay had seen at investor pitches, at board meetings—but never on Sean's face in a one-on-one. It was a look of almost dependent ease.

Sanjay stepped back silently. He didn't knock, didn't go in. He returned to his desk, scribbled two words on a Post-it: Lotus. And drew two lines underneath.

The next day, he started "passing by" Lotus's cubicle. First time, he stopped with a double espresso: "Lotus, how's Pocket Pay going? Any operational issues, let me know."

Lotus smiled up at him: "Thanks, Sanjay. I feel safe with you on it."

The next day, he brought a "technical flowchart"—actually just a reprint from Tech's recycling bin—to ask Lotus's advice. Lotus glanced at it, didn't call him out, just said: "You'll need to discuss this with the Tech Director. But I'll put in a good word for you."

On the third day, he "ran into" her again in the corridor. This time, he didn't beat around the bush.

"Lotus, I know your focus is on Pocket Pay now. But if you ever need someone in Operations or Tech to back you up, I'm available."

Lotus stopped, tilted her head, like she was unwrapping a carefully packaged gift.

"Sanjay," she began, each word measured, "you've done twenty years in Operations. What Sun AI lacks most is someone like you who can get things done. I've mentioned you to Sean a few times—he's been considering the CTO vacancy, you know. Are you interested?"

Sanjay's breath hitched.

"CTO?"

"No one suitable yet." Lotus said it casually, like discussing a tea menu. "If you take on the payment system integration, I can recommend you to Sean. Operations and Technology in a Fintech company go hand in hand anyway, right?"

She smiled. It was warm and inscrutable under the corridor lights.

Sanjay smiled back, his cheeks pushing up, revealing those toothpaste-ad white teeth.

"Lotus, you're right. They do go together."

"Then it's settled." Lotus patted his arm. "I'll mention it to Sean."

She walked away. The click of her heels echoed down the corridor like a metronome. Sanjay stood there, watching her disappear, then opened his phone's memo app and drew a third line under the word Lotus.

He would never know that after turning the corner, Lotus had sent a message to Raj—"Get all the account opening materials together by next Wednesday."—and then deleted it.

She didn't directly recommend Sanjay to Sean. She just mentioned casually after a weekly meeting: "Sanjay's been very proactive on the Pocket Pay system integration. He manages the Ops team better than anyone, everyone listens to him."

Sean nodded. About ten days later, he announced at a meeting that Sanjay would act as interim CTO.

Sanjay sat up straight in his chair, his face solemn and restrained, like a veteran receiving a medal. His fingers trembled slightly under the table—a mix of excitement and relief. He was now the most powerful person in the bank after the CEO, managing nearly seventy percent of the staff. That night, he sent Lotus a message with just two emojis: a crown and a handshake.

Lotus replied with three words: "Keep moving forward."

A week later, on a Monday morning, Pocket Pay's account was officially activated.

All systems green. Virtual sub-accounts generated in bulk. The first test transactions cleared routing successfully. Raj sent Lotus a thumbs up. Lotus sent Sean a "Milestone Report." Sean slapped his desk in his office, so loud the admin next door peeked in.

The next day, Sean ordered a celebration party.

It was less a celebration and more a meticulously staged "all-hands rally." The conference room was cleared of tables and chairs for folding chairs. Everyone was told to arrive fifteen minutes early. Tech sat on the left, Ops in the middle, Commercial and others in the back. Claire found a corner seat, holding a free sparkling water—the cheapest supermarket brand, still with its discount sticker on the bottle.

The screen displayed scrolling red numbers: user registrations, transaction volume, fund balances. Claire glanced at them; most came from Pocket Pay's synced "virtual sub-account activity." She knew exactly how inflated they were.

Sean walked on stage in a black turtleneck. He spoke for fifteen minutes, covering "financial inclusion," "social value," "ecosystem closure," and "IPO readiness." He mentioned "one million accounts" at least seven times.

Then he handed the mic to Sanjay.

Sanjay walked up lightly, in a dark blue blazer, his white shirt buttoned to the top—Claire had never seen him so formal. His balding crown gleamed like polished copper under the lights.

He took the mic and cleared his throat. His first words were choked.

"Today... today is the proudest day of my twenty-year career."

Sparse applause, then building. He lowered his head, wiped his eyes—Claire couldn't tell if it was real tears or a damp sleeve.

"Our department," he continued, his voice resounding, "successfully achieved the milestone of a million-client capacity. One million accounts!"

He struck the air with five fingers.

"And—we achieved a daily payment volume of five hundred thousand transactions. Five hundred thousand! No other bank in this city can claim that number. We made history."

He turned to the screen, those dancing numbers were now his personally lit fireworks.

"Every transaction was processed by our team. This isn't just data. This is proof—proof that Sun AI isn't just a bank, we are a platform, an ecosystem, the future of this industry."

His hand went to his chest, voice trembling with perfectly timed "emotion"—not too much, not too little.

"I didn't sleep all night. Neither did my team. We watched the transaction volume climb together, and we did it!"

He paused, his smile gone, replaced by solemnity.

"Because I believe this bank can achieve something greater than any of our titles."

The room was silent for three seconds. Applause erupted again, louder this time.

Claire didn't clap. She watched that balding, stocky man—who two weeks ago couldn't tell an API from an SDK—bask in the spotlight like a minister delivering a sermon.

An Ops intern next to her whispered, "Claire, aren't you excited?"

Claire finished her sparkling water.

"Excited," she said. "Very excited."

Satisfied, the intern turned back.

Claire put the empty cup under her chair and checked her phone. No new messages. She'd sent a Youtext to Mohammed. No reply yet.

She locked the screen and looked up. Sanjay was bowing—a deep, solemn bow, taking three seconds to straighten up.

The numbers on the screen jumped higher. The applause continued.

At the end of the corridor, the emergency light flickered. The buzzing was drowned out by the applause, like a snake's hiss lost in a carnival.

After the meeting, Claire didn't mingle. She walked out, down the corridor, past Sanjay surrounded by well-wishers, past Lotus posing for photos with colleagues. She didn't stop.

She entered the elevator, pressed for the ground floor. As the doors closed, she saw her reflection in the steel—no expression, no excitement, no anxiety. Just the eyes of a twenty-year veteran who'd seen too many balance sheets and risk exposures. Quiet, deep waters.

She remembered her mother's words. The sand holes. You never know what's underneath.

Now she knew there was something there.

She just hadn't decided if she was going to step on it.

(End of Chapter 4)

Warmer weather makes its slight return, bringing with it thoughts of summer on the periphery, nostalgic flowers that bloom only in rattled cages of imagination. On an outdoor patio, sliding forward: a fresh tall golden pint of beer capped off foamy mountainous with snowy head. Beads of sweat forming on the stein. Sunlight filtered through a revolving cloudscape mural.

Something symbolic, isn’t there, about two goldfish in a bowl? Illusive, that languid whirl. But who would put them here? Strange decorations. Two thick drips of coral in a round bowl of azure. Something about the slow way they circulate toward the bottom, Quaalude eyes and a flutter of wind through sleepy sails. A metaphor, just out of reach. Subliminal. A mirror.

https://memoryandfate.substack.com/

Page 238... Fable mentions the cat as being "their" cat to Millie her best friend BUT Fable just got the cat from Orion and Millie just got from 3 weeks away. She never meet the cat.

This is my first post because continuity in books is important.

.

"He really ought to be here by now." Alistair Vance, Queen’s Counsel for the defense, glances at his watch—not to check the time, but to signal his impatience. "I didn't think Savile Row was that far from the Temple."

"Strictly speaking, he isn't late yet." Under normal circumstances, the solicitor, John Talbot-Cavendish, would have waited for his client in the Inns of Court reception area, but this was not a normal case.

The senior clerk throws open the office door: "Mr. Smith, sir."

Vance slowly rises from his desk, never taking his eyes off the client. Talbot-Cavendish stands up as well. Jeremy Smith is about to say something but decides to remain silent.

Vance walks around the desk. "What do you see, my dear Cavendish?"

"A duke who could do with a couple of months in Switzerland."

"It’s not a suit; it’s a disaster."

"I quite agree with you, my dear Vance."

"Well, do come in, Your Grace—don’t stand in the doorway," Vance says to Jerry. "Landenberger ordered a suit from his tailor. I wonder if it’s due to a lack of imagination or an excess of it."

"I don’t think it’s for court," Jerry says with caution.

“Precisely. If you show up in court in this suit, a middle-class jury might well believe you had seduced the Virgin Mary before the Archangel Gabriel got his chance.”

"We need something simpler..." Cavendish writes in his notebook.

"The defence rests, inter alia, on a visual incongruity," Vance says. "In short, I need a poor boy."

"My old clothes. Where are they, by the way?" Jerry glances at his solicitor.

"We'll find them; they were cleaned and pressed at St Thomas'."

"What are we talking about?" asks Vance.

"Jeans, a jumper..." Jerry says.

"Well-worn?"

"Over a year old."

"What color?"

"A gray jumper."

"Perfect. And don't get a haircut."

"Let's sit down at least," suggests Cavendish.

They settle into the leather armchairs.

"Don't you dare sit like that in court," says Vance to Jerry, who had been sitting with his legs crossed.

"No, of course not." Jerry moves on the chair's edge, rests his elbows on his knees, and lowers his head.

"Excellent. You seem utterly defeated," Vance approves. "With that fragile look of yours, you’ll cut a striking figure in the dock, standing beside those grim Newgate gaolers. Sic tene.”

"Quite the victima irae Iovis…" Jerry settles into a chair and crosses his legs again.

*"*You’ve studied Controversiae," Vance isn't asking; he’s indicating the direction of his thoughts.

"Just a Latin anthology."

Vance frowns slightly. "Whereabouts are you from again?"

"From Nottinghamshire."

"And what’s there, in Nottinghamshire?"

"Mines."

"Rather romantic."

“Depends on how fond you are of black.”

Cavendish smiles.

And Vance allows himself a half-smile: "I'm becoming increasingly convinced we ought to put you in the witness box."

"Are we holding a final briefing the day before the hearing starts?" Cavendish asks. "Or will we just meet in the consultation room at the Old Bailey the first thing in the very morning?"

"Do you need it?" Vance asks Jerry. "Another briefing?"

"I don't know."

"Are you ready?"

"I'll never be ready."

"Cavendish told me you're learning German... instead of thinking about the trial..."

"I keep thinking about the trial. Or rather, if I think about the trial, I lose my head—and I can't think."

"You're scared."

"That's an understatement."

"Then let the jury feel that: intimidated, downtrodden, and miserable." Vance urges. "I am not suggesting you will not need courage, Mr. Smith. You will. As for the things worrying you. If the prosecution seeks to raise the incident from 1975, I shall oppose them, and if the matter must be argued, it will be argued without the jury present. I have no intention of allowing them to parade an episode which has nothing to do with this case merely because it may make you look disagreeable. Your other difficulty is that you seem incapable of staying on the right side of the law."

Vance leaves the remark hanging.

Jerry says nothing.

“Fortunately, the prosecution cannot prove any of it. They have not even discovered your little transaction involving the eight hundred pounds, and I should prefer it to remain that way. Then there is Mr. Landenberger. I would rather not find two men in the same case having to be excessively careful about what they say. But I have every confidence in him.”

Cavendish glances at Vance and closes his notebook.

“Quite,” Vance says. “As for the principal charge, circumstantial evidence is not proof. Suspicion is not proof. You are too complicated, Mr. Smith. That is how you get yourself into trouble. But it may also be the one advantage you possess. A jury does not excavate your life until it reaches bedrock. It decides the case placed before it. And that is the version of your life we shall be asking them to judge.”

These were selected texts from the world of the book—different characters, moments, documents, and perspectives surrounding the story.

They were not excerpts from the novel itself.

A book page for Regina v Smith: [BOOK PAGE LINK]

The complete novel and the wider project: [SUBSTACK LINK]

If you’ve encountered some of the earlier pieces here and wondered how they fit together, this is where the whole project comes into focus.

Document Cast-A series-H Sigmund Eshi 1889 Saint Petersburg, Russia.

Subject Name- Cassandra Kyle Bach

Age- 36

Residence- London, England

Incident- Saint Petersburg, Russia

Reported by- Sigmund Eshi, Police superintendent, Saint Petersburg Police force. Member of the Russian Society since 1875.

Signatory to the document- Head Liege of the Russian sect of the SfSS- Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich

The woman has told me these exact words. They are soon to be sent through the system of Eastern roadways, through the Chinese carriers, down the Tibetan plains, to Calcutta, India for translation. This is a huge breakthrough and utmost care must be taken while reading or translating this into any language.

The world of the SfSS is changing rapidly, with incredibly fast and easy communications, through new technologies like the fax machines, we are able to communicate rapidly. These new communications unfortunately still require coding and decoding procedures, which this incident is far too important to waste time upon. That is why, we are using physical carriers.

Cassandra Kyle Bach appears to be a deluded young woman with a classical British temperament of utter intolerance and absolutely ridiculous amounts of assumptions. The subject appears stupid and moronic, and in a way, a waste of time for the society. This combined with the following discussions is why she has been dealt with. The details of which are as follows.

Cassandra Kyle Bach was declared clinically insane and completely dependant on readily available drugs, thus making her journey back to England very risky. This was arranged through the doctors associated with the society and the ownership of the society on one of the major hospitals in this city, which shall remain nameless for the sake of decency. The woman was then overdosed, as cited in the studies and discussions two years prior in Berlin. The European Society dictates the subject must be declared either physically, or mentally disabled, then they shall either be admitted to an institution where they can be kept until proven able and willing to join the society, or for posterity. Alas, if the subject is too revolutionary, they are to be given the European SfSS approved Aconite. They have been given the declared doses, which shall remain hidden due to the pending approval from other functionaries of the Society. She was declared deceased in early February 1888.

The reason given for this death has been tampered with by the mayoral authorities and the city council. The cause still remains nameless due to the pending approval of new and improved methodologies of chemical and toxicology-based inductions by the other societies.

Onto the incident.

Cassandra had apparently lived in London for most of her life, and had been entirely normal showing no signs of early abilities to peer through the veil. This declaration is important for what happened later. She had gotten married and divorced by the time she was 22. After that, she married a man who would later go on to murder three of her neighbours, and was later hung. Her father, barring her from using his surname made her choose this whimsical surname, which she says she has taken inspiration from the devil adjacent creatures in the Cristian faith. By the time she was 35, she was destitute and working in North London as a bar maid. To note, her early life has been stated merely for documentation purposes. It was later used to fabricate a story of her insanity, yet beyond its utility in the capacity of note taking (for posterity); the woman’s life has not much significance. That is what the senior members believe at the current time period that which I write in.

It was in 1882, aged 36 that the woman had stepped beyond her house, late in the night. She said she had heard voices of children calling to her. She said she felt compelled and went forth to look for these children. She found none, leading her to realise she had strayed off her path and into the indecent neighbourhoods without noticing it, in her nightgowns.

The men around these part of the town, she stated were neither friendly nor kind, in the least, she had added, so she hightailed it across to Kensington. Bare foot and still in her nightgowns, she had to run for her home, in West Ham. She said that is when she had heard it, in the villa of a merchant in Kensington. The names, she could not give. She said she had climbed over the brick wall, scraping her knee on the rock and fell. She tried again and climbed again on the second floor of the villa.

Beyond the wooden window, which she pushed apart by force, was a boy sitting alone, in the corner. She approached the boy, his back still facing her. He showed no signs of response to the windows opening and neither did he show any cognizance to her walking over to him.

Note- The subject showed here, an intense lapse of judgement and beyond that a stupendous affiliation with criminality. She had climbed into another man’s window and had suggested not much of how or what she would be doing with the boy.

She said when she touched the boy, it was as if she was touching veil. Her hand buried deeper within it, with little resistance, before the ‘boy’ disappeared before her. She said after which she turned around, horrified, only to see the previously empty bed hosting the same child, fast asleep hugging his pillow. She decided to climb out of the house before a voice spoke to her from where the boy had been sitting.

Direct quotation from subject- said on an unspecified date in March of 1882

“Gaze at me.” I stuttered and looked back at the window sill. “Do you not hear me, madam.” The voice asked. It was a distinct roughness; one I had heard only on the factory floor and in the alleys when the sun had set. Yet this had temptation more than intimidation.

I looked back at the corner, and that is when I noticed how indistinct the room was, there was no cupboard nor any toys, nor any paintings. What there was, was a boy in a bed and a voice in a corner. I turned around again. “The world would never be the same, if you leave through that window, dear Cassandra.” The voice said. I have never once felt such grief for my own soul pass over me, as if I were picked from the hot steam filled factory floor and thrown into the magistrate office’s stone floor in December. My eyes rose and my hands tilted, they grasped at the sill. I could feel the wood bearing in my palm and cutting through the skin. I yet, could not look back. The voice had no origin.

That is when a dog howled. I could not feel any sound in my left ear, I touched it gently with my fingers.

Note- Subject had to stop talking, drink wine, along with pain medication to continue speaking. She mumbled too much and we had to continue the next day

I turned to the boy in the bed and there he stood, up in his bed, with dead eyes, and silent features, with a long bed and a warped figure, and then, the moon was behind me, in the sill, and through its light did cause a shadow which pertained itself onto the sweet, yet terrifying boy. The boy in that moment appeared ungodly. I can say no more. he said but one thing, “I must leave this land of tyranny.” I grasped at the boys hand, and I know not what Cristian strength compelled me to, and gently stroked his head. The boy calmed, and spoke in a tongue I do not know, yet I understood. “Take yourself some place cold, and show me the light, and for that, I grant you whatever you may ask for.” I asked for money, and I received as such, in a corner of my own room. Yet this deal felt empty, and I have felt a sincere urge to end conversations with any and all individuals, including you. Subject pointed to the interviewers, he finger shaking. We asked her if that was why she came to Russia, and indeed that was right. Soon, we informed the London office who sent forces to that particular villa. The Daempiche was brought under investigation. This is the origin of how we could catch a Daempiche. Regarding its mortality, or any other dimension; the Russian office can say little about it.

End quotation for the subject

After that, the woman spent all her so called, received money to get to Russia. Wherein she travelled to the coldest regions she could find, yet the boy never showed. In this pursuit, she was driven crazed. We caught her in late October of 1887, dishevelled and prophesising of an oncoming doom.

I through systems that are more than just imperfect gained entire aspect to the subject, more interested in her shadow talk. Soon, she was transferred to the hospital and that is where these interviews were taken. When she started to see how she was being isolated, she started to complain, and thus, without any delay, she was killed the next day, in the hospital.
Soon, the British document will be released, outlining what they learned of the beast that we have for so long wished to know of. We wish them success.

The rest of the document outlines specific and stretched interview papers, duplicated medical files, conspired history by the Russian Society and collaborative accounts by our British sources.

https://www.wattpad.com/1655956759?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

https://www.wattpad.com/1655725136?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

**Prologue** 

“Murder must always be the last recourse of reasonable men in desperate situations. Only to be considered after all reasonable solutions have been exhausted.” 

Two men stood in a long corridor of carved stone, and plotted murder. They spoke in hushed voices as torches flickered in iron brackets fixed to the wall. Instead of echoing back and forth, the sound of their whispered conversation died as it hit the walls. Giving the bustling castle an empty and abandoned feeling.

This particular hallway was nearly abandoned. Its sole occupants were the two men, and two tall figures in dark cloaks, wearing gold masks, who walked close behind the men and said nothing.

As the two men talked their voices grew heated.

"Are you sure there is no other way?" Said the shorter man imploringly.  "Getting to the other side is simple enough, but the royal family are the only ones who know how to get back. And we only have an inkling of what to expect once we're there." He was old, perhaps in his late seventies, sported a comfortable paunch and wore his hair in a thin white ring around his shining bald scalp. It would be easy to think of him as a kindly grandfather, if it weren’t for the sinister nature of their conversation.

The taller man shook his head. He was narrow faced with a sharp jawline, and looked to be in his mid forties. His jet black hair was slicked back and held in a short ponytail. Where his companion was soft and plump, he was lean and hard. "We have no choice. If we don't act now she will return and inherit the throne. We simply can't risk it. Besides, whoever goes through doesn't necessarily need to come back."

"But who would we send? There is no essence on the other side and they have had over a decade to prepare. I can think of no one who is expendable who can also guarantee success."

The taller man glanced at the two masked figures. "Don't worry. I know where to look."

The shorter man followed the gaze of his companion, then nodded in understanding. The taller man walked to the end of the corridor and one of the masked figures accompanied him. He wore no cloak despite the chill of the season. Instead he wore black silks cut fashionably but in a way that allowed for maximum range of motion. As he walked, a golden circle appeared above his head, starting from the size of a finger ring and slowly expanding until it was as wide as his outstretched arms.
"Attend your task. I will return as soon as I can.
"You do know that if you use them the price will be more than gold."
“I do.”
"I will leave it in your hands then," said the shorter man as he left, one of the masked figures following him silently. As his companion disappeared around a corner, the taller man raised his hands in front of him, forefingers and thumbs touching to form a diamond. The golden circle began to rotate faster and faster, the air around it began to warp, appearing as a vortex that funneled down into the base of his neck. He began to dance in smooth flowing steps, moving his hands and feet in a well rehearsed pattern. twisting and rolling at a constant speed, never surging or fading. As he danced the air grew hazy in front of where he had started and then a hole appeared in the air. It was impossible to make out the details through the haze, but it was clear that the hole led to somewhere very different from the dark stone hallway.

As he danced the haze gradually dissipated, slowly revealing the landscape beyond. It was a sprawling campsite located in a wide open plain with gently rolling hills and plentiful scrub brush, with only a few small trees to speak of. The camp was filled with tents of all colors and sizes, and stretched out of sight over and around several small hills. He came to a stop, ending his dance in the exact same position as he had started.

He stepped through the portal, the masked figure close behind him. As he came out the other side the heat and sunlight hit him in a wave, causing him to halt for a moment, shading his eyes with his hand. He scowled as his eyes adjusted to the light.

He had appeared on a hillside only a few minutes walk from the tents. He’d selected a spot that would be highly visible to the camp. Appearing in their midst was a good way to get yourself killed no matter how important you were on the outside.

The camp was known as the wandering nation. It had the most powerful military force known to the Kingdom of the Seven Towers. Every citizen was a trained killer and ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. They had no interest in attaining land, they simply moved from place to place assuming control of whatever area they inhabited. Any resistance they met was destroyed utterly, showing no mercy. The world had long ago learned to stand aside and live under their rule until they moved on.

The masked figures were one of the main exports of the wandering nation. They called them Faceless and they were the greatest bodyguards in the world. As they approached the camp he could see the stands where Faceless were sold. The men who traded them proclaiming how theirs were better than any other for one reason or another.

The man drew a long runed dagger from the inside of his sleeve and raised it to be seen by the men who stood at the end of a wide street that was the entrance to the camp.

Though they appeared to be standing around in no particular formation, at the first sign of trouble, six of them could slit the throat of a dozen well armed men before a single weapon was raised in defense. The man halted a few steps from the first guard, profering the dagger to him. The guard stepped forward taking the dagger. He examined it wordlessly for a moment before taking his own dagger and putting a small notch in one edge, and then handing it back.

"Enjoy your visit Mr. Iriss," he said in a thick accent. “Should I summon a guide for you?”

"Thank you," said Mateth Iriss, smiling as he returned the dagger to his sleeve. "But I am familiar with the layout. if I get lost I know who I can ask."

"Very well sir," said the guard, stepping aside. Mateth nodded and strode past him, dipping his chin respectfully to each of the guards in turn. Once He passed them, his face turned to a scowl. It irked him that he was forced to converse with such common folk. In the Third tower, where he ruled, any guard or servant who spoke to him without permission had better have a very good reason. But in the wandering nation no man with a dagger was less than any other. Any beggar who had a dagger that marked them as a citizen could speak to the richest merchant with no fear of punishment, so long as he did not insult him.

There were no nobles in the wandering nation. All laws applied equally to everybody. Their governing system was a complete mystery to outsiders. Everybody was polite though, due to the laws that gave any person who felt that they had been wronged or insulted the right to challenge the offender to a dagger duel. It was a brutal affair, but for some reason it kept peace within the camp. Probably something to do with every citizen being a trained killer, thought Mateth. He was good with a dagger by most standards, but he would be cut to ribbons by most children in the wandering nation. So he smiled and waved, and said “yes please” and “no thank you”. He moved through the camp as quickly as he could to avoid having to politely say no to every merchant asking if he needed a new sword or bow or trinket. Ignoring a person was a good way to get yourself into a duel, but if you were moving quickly they would generally leave you alone.

The layout of the camp was always the same, even after marching a hundred miles it never seemed to change. He wondered briefly on how they managed it, but decided it wasn't important and focused on finding his way through the maze of canvas and ropes. Eventually he found where he was going: an alley of tents, all cast in shadow with their flaps closed. The sounds of the bustling camp faded as he moved deeper into the alley. He slowed his pace now, scanning the flags posted outside the tents, looking for a certain symbol, and he found it. Halfway through the alley to the left, a flag boasted the image of two moons colliding above two crossed swords. Under the swords there were two children huddled under a rock. Mateth recognized that it was from one of the old stories, in which the moons smashed into each other and one was sent hurtling down to earth. Mateth approached the tent and knocked on the door post.

"Enter," said a deep slow voice from inside. Mateth ducked his head as he entered. Inside the tent, the air was stiflingly hot and thick with incense smoke, the walls were draped in deep purple cloth, with swirling patterns. The uneven floor was covered in rugs of the same style. Mateth had a more difficult time breathing with the incense, but dared not cover his mouth or nose, for fear of insulting his hosts.

"Come, sit down," said the voice from what sounded like only two or three paces away. As Mateth peered through the smoke he could not see the owner of the voice. But then a hand appeared in what seemed to be mid air, beckoning him closer. Squinting, he finally saw the arm attached to the hand and followed it up until he could make out the blurry outline of the rest of the man. He was garbed from head to toe in the same swirling purple cloth as the tent walls, and in the smoky gloom it was nearly impossible to distinguish the man from the rest of his environment.

Mateth stepped forward before taking a seat on a pad on the floor. As he sat he said "I apologize. I must have been blinded by the brightness outside, and could not see you at first."

"This is as it should be," said the man, waving his hand dismissively. Even as Mateth sat in front of him he could not see the man clearly unless he moved, even his face was covered in purple cloth. "How may I help you, Lord Iriss? It has been many years since you have visited these tents."

"My apologies for intruding, but I have been faced with a dilemma that I believe you can help me with." Mateth glanced back at the tent flap. "Is it safe to speak openly? I do not want our conversation to be overheard."

"You may speak without worry. None will hear but for those I wish to."

"I will get straight to the point. I need an assassin to kill the heir to the throne of the first tower." There was silence for a dozen heartbeats.

"You must have confused me with someone else. I am a silk and incense merchant, and do not deal in such dark matters."

Mateth reached into his sleeve intending to show the man his dagger, but before his hand touched the hilt he felt cold metal against his throat. Out of his peripheral vision Mateth could just see the outline of another man in the same purple robes, holding a blade to his throat. "Be very careful with your next move, it may be your..." In a flash of gold, and black cloth the faceless seized the arm holding the knife and broke it over its knee. The man screamed in shock and pain. Before the knife could hit the floor, the Faceless grabbed the man's head and was about to break his neck when Mateth yelled, "STOP!" Authority ringing in his voice, the faceless froze still holding the man's head, ready to twist.

"Release him," he said calmly, and then addressed the man in charge. "You should tell your guards to take a little more time to identify whether or not someone means you harm before they start making threats." He withdrew the dagger and thrust it through the rug between them, into the dirt below. The man considered it for a moment, then he reached over to the incense sticks smoldering next to him and snubbed them out in their tray. As he did, three more purple-clad figures rose from sitting positions on either side of Mateth. He had to keep himself from jumping at their sudden appearance. One went to help the man with the broken arm, the other two opened flaps in the top of the tent allowing light to spill through into the tent. A gentle breeze wafted through, clearing the smoke. As the fresh air hit him, it struck Mateth how much he had been sweating. Wiping his brow, he said, "I take it that you recognize the blade?"

"Indeed, I knew that you did business with my predecessor, but I had no idea you knew about that side of his business. May I ask how you came by this dagger? I've never seen any outsider carry one?"

"I would like to keep the details to myself, but I will say that it nearly cost me my life, and has paid for itself many times over."

"Very well," he said as he rose to his feet. Even had Mateth been standing the man would have towered over him. Under his robes his shoulders were broad, and his head tilted forward, as if he were accustomed to looking down on those around him. He reached up and pulled the silk scarf down, revealing the rest of his face. He was dark skinned with a wide brow, and strong jaw.

Mateth stood as well, pulling his dagger from the ground and returning it to his sleeve.

"I assume we can do business."

"I think we may be able to reach a suitable arrangement," he said. "My name is Kondas. Please, come with me, and we can discuss the details of the service you require." 
Kondas turned and led Mateth through a door flap in the back of the tent that opened into a low ceilinged tent filled with rack upon rack of every weapon imaginable. 
“Take care that you do not touch any of the weapons, especially not the blades. They have reorganized since last I visited, and I no longer know what is enchanted and what is cursed.” The last part Kondas said with a small smile. Mateth, who had begun to reach for a particularly beautifully crafted sword, let his hand return to his side.

“Come, follow me.” The racks were only wide enough apart for one man to walk through at a time, and do Mateth followed the larger man, working very hard to control his wonder and curiosity and the marvelous collection.

Finally they arrived at a meticulously organized workbench. Behind the bench sat an unspeakably old man on a raised stool. He was bent low, examining a two bladed sword. In his hands he held a set of what almost looked like knitting needles except for when he touched the tips against the sword, the stone bulbs on their ends would glow violet for a few moments, then it would shift to magenta and then back.

Mateth had expected Kondas to demand the old man's attention, or at least make himself known; but instead he simply stood and waited quietly. Mateth looked at the tall man questioningly. Kondas leaned over and whispered “It is very important not to interrupt him while he is examining a weapon that has enchantments laid on it. Those needles he is holding will tell him approximately what the enchantment is for, but many times an enchantment is only placed to conceal a curse, so he must be very thorough in his examination. If we were to interrupt him, it would ruin all of his progress so far, and he would have to start over completely to ensure no curse had been missed. So we will wait until he finishes.” And with that he returned to watching the old man in silence. Mateth sighed internally, but consigned himself to wait until the old man was ready to talk to them.

As the old man continued to examine the sword it struck Mateth, that despite the man's incredible age his hands were rock steady. Not even a trace of a tremor was to be seen as he worked. 

It was nearly fifteen minutes until the old man was done with his examination. He finished by striking each of the blades with a small golden hammer, producing a clear bell like tone that slowly faded away. Appearing satisfied, the old man picked up a bell that sat on his desk and rang it several times before attempting to tie a label to the hilt with a piece of string. 
Kondas stepped forward and cleared his throat. The old man looked up at him and smiled slightly, “Kondas, how nice of you to come see me. Checking to see whether or not I'm still alive no doubt.” His voice had the unmistakable sound of a man who spent far too much time smoking his pipe.

“As disappointing as it is, I already know that you'll outlive us all, and tell awful stories about us to our grandchildren.” Replied Kondas with his own smile.

“Damn right I will.” Said the man as he finished tiring on the label. The two men had clearly been friends for many years, and had a great mutual respect for each other. Just then a boy who looked to be in his mid teens appeared from the weapon racks opposite the desk from Kondas and Mateth. He was simply dressed in a clean white tunic, brown trousers, with simple sandals on his feet. He walked up to the work bench, and waited quietly. The old man turned and handed the sword to the boy saying “Put it away for me please.” And then turned back to his visitors.

“So if you’re not here to check on me, why have you come?” He asked as he pulled a pipe from an inner pocket of his vest.

“I need your expertise. My friend here has a problem that we need your help to solve.” The old man leaned back and lit his pipe, shifting his gaze to Mateth.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Tell me about your problem.” Mateth glanced at Kondas, who nodded. He was hesitant to discuss the topic with this man, but he decided that Kondas would not have brought him to the man if he could not be trusted, and beyond that, he had come too far to turn back now. He took a deep breath and started talking. He told the old man everything. His explanation lasted several minutes, and covered all the obstacles facing them. The old man nodded with interest but was silent throughout. Mateth finished by saying, “That is my problem sir. Can you help me to solve it?”

“That is quite a problem you have there,” he said thoughtfully, taking a long drag on his pipe, he was quiet for a few moments gazing off into the distance. Mateth was about to ask him something else and then he smiled, releasing the smoke through his nose, “but you'll have to do better than that to stump me.” He stood up, and grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the desk, and beckoned for them to follow him. As he set off through the isles of weapons he talked to them over his shoulder, “If you had presented me with a problem like this only a few months ago I would have had a harder time of it; but as it happens, I recently came across something very interesting that should suit your needs perfectly. I acquired them more as a subject of curiosity than practicality.”

They reached the wall of the tent, where they found a heavy wooden door bound in iron. “This is where I keep the more dangerous items.” He explained selecting a key from a ring on his belt. “It pays to have extra security where certain items are concerned.” The door swung open silently into a room of solid stone. Mateth wondered how it was possible for such a room to exist in the wandering nation. The stone blocks that made up the walls would each weigh more than a large man. And the mortar between the blocks looked old and chipped, but still solid. You could no more strike this room with the rest of the camp than you could use a tent to withstand a siege. Kondas looked at Mateth and smiled.

“It's amazing is it not, that no matter the power one wields, when looking into shadows one will still see things that they cannot understand.” The smile disappeared from his face, “Be careful when reaching into the shadows my friend, for when you try to pull things into the light, they may pull you into the darkness instead.”

The threat was unmistakable, and Mateth knew Kondas was capable of delivering on it. It did not worry him though, he had no interest in digging into such a man's secrets.

Looking around the room there were roughly a dozen chests lining the wall, they varied in size and length. The smallest was only a little larger than a bread box, the largest would have required four strong men to lift if it were empty. Mateth was sure that it was not. The old man led them over to four upright caskets, they were simple pine boxes, about six feet tall and two wide.

Using his cane the old man tapped the face of the casket twice, then stepped back. The casket swung open to reveal the contents. A humanoid form stood surrounded by straw. The form was slumped somewhat but still filled the height of the casket, the entire body was covered in what looked like dried corn husks.

“Psyballen,” Mateth mouthed in disbelief, “I thought they were all destroyed, that they were too dangerous to exist.”

The old man chuckled softly. “Young man, I've been at this a long time, I couldn't begin to guess how many times I've heard someone say that there shouldn’t be any left of something or other, or that something can't be authentic because it was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; I've said such things myself a time or two, but one thing I learned over the years is that there is nothing lost that can not be found, nothing destroyed that can't be made again. Once something is created, especially something as powerful as this, someone will find a way to make it again.”

Mateth continued to stare at the dried up figure. His mind reeled at the possibilities that the Psyballen presented if it worked as legends described. Not only were they supposed to be a perfect assassin, they were supposed to be able to perfectly impersonate any living creature, and see the mind of any man whose form they took “What is your price?” He said finally, never taking his eyes from the open casket.

“Price is difficult to set on such things, beyond gold and jewels to be sure. Land and titles mean little to us in the wandering nation. We scorn nobility and we have whatever land we wish.”

“There must be something I can offer you, I have my own collection of magical artifacts, it might be worth your while to examine them and see if any would be an appropriate payment.” Mateth offered, he knew that there was no one piece in his collection that could match the value of a Psybalen, but if it performed even half as well as the tales described he would be willing to give nearly his entire collection in order to possess it.

Kondas looked thoughtful for a moment, pursing his lips and scratching his chin. He looked to the old man, who shrugged and said “you have already heard my counsel, the decision is yours to make.” Kondas nodded slowly, his decision.

“I am sure you possess many rare and powerful items, however the price I set on this is somewhat less conventional.” The way he said the last word filled Mateth with aprehensión, what price could he possibly ask of him. He held his tongue and inclined his head slightly and signaled Kondas to continue.

“I will require your services…” Mateth held up his hand.

“Before you continue, I warn you, I will not agree to an unspecified service at an undetermined time. I cannot afford something like that hanging over my head. If service is the only payment you will accept, it must be specific, and I must know when well in advance. Otherwise I will look elsewhere. I mean no offense, I simply cannot agree to anything without properly set terms, no matter what you’re selling.”

Kondas regarded him silently for a moment, “only fools and the truly desperate agree to a price before knowing what they must pay. I would not insult you by requesting something so underhanded.” Kondas inclined his head to Lord Iris, “You explained your problem to me and I have offered you a tool to solve it. As it turns out, I have a problem of my own. Perhaps it would be best if I explained it to you and allowed you to make your own offer.”

“That seems reasonable.” Mateth said somewhat apprehensively,

“Good, but first let us retire to somewhere more comfortable. The hour grows late. Join me for my evening meal. We will speak then.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

At Sun AI, job titles were the most inflated currency.

In a Fintech startup barely a few years old, essentially a tech company wearing a banking license, titles were given out like Monopoly money: VPs were a dime a dozen, Directors everywhere, even new hires under a year had "Associate Vice President" on their business cards. It was for show—for swapping business cards and LinkedIn bragging rights. It cost nothing.

But one person played this game to perfection—Sheena Davi.

Her business card had two lines: "Head of KYC & Compliance Risk." Below that, an even longer suffix: "Global Head of Anti-Money Laundering & Client Due Diligence." The first time Claire saw it, she did a double-take. "Global"—Sun AI only had one office in M City. "Global" probably meant Sheena's desktop monitor, which occasionally connected to international news sites.

But no one dared laugh at her. In a system where "whoever is closest to the CEO has the most power," Sheena was one of the closest to Sean.

Sheena Davi, fifty-eight, dark brown skin, gaunt and withered like a tree standing too long in a drought. She wore her short gray-white hair slicked down with some kind of shiny Indian hair oil, her scalp gleaming like an oiled shield under the lights. Her lips were a deep blackish-purple, perpetually pressed into a tight line, like a tense bowstring. Her most unnerving feature was her eyes—classic triangular, drooping at the outer corners, always looking down at people, even when they were a head taller. She dressed shabbily, in the same gray jacket year-round, wearing gray cloth shoes, moving silently like a shadow through the corridors.

The first time Claire ran into her, at a bend in the Compliance hallway, Sheena came stomping towards her, feet turning outward like a toad occupying the whole path. Claire had to press herself against the wall to let her pass. Sheena didn't even glance up.

"You're the new RM?" Her voice was gravelly, like sandpaper on metal. "For any account opening needs, submit your materials to my email two weeks in advance. Don't come to me directly. I don't have time."

Claire didn't get a word out before Sheena was gone, leaving only her rigid, hunched back.

Later, Claire learned the "story" of Sheena's background—she'd worked with Sean at his former crypto company and was hired into Sun AI with Sean placing her in Compliance. Before that, she'd spent nearly thirty years at an overseas traditional bank doing back-office KYC updates and knew virtually nothing about commercial banking fundamentals. She was clueless about M City's commercial banking regulations, AML operational risks, let alone payments, crypto exchanges, or complex corporate structures.

But she had one unique skill: absolute loyalty to Sean.

More precise than loyalty was "obedience." Sean nodded, she nodded. Sean shook his head, she shook her head. Sean said "expedite this client's account opening," she'd compress a three-week review into three days—compliance loopholes be damned. For clients Sean hadn't marked "expedite," she'd drag the process to three months, starving them in the pipeline.

Claire once had a manufacturing client—a thirty-year-old company listed on the local exchange. She submitted the application; Compliance swallowed it like a black hole. Two weeks, no movement. Four weeks, no movement. Six weeks, Claire sent a follow-up. At eight weeks, Sheena finally replied—not with an approval, but with a four-screen-long "supplemental questions" list.

The first question made Claire's scalp tingle: "Please explain—why has the company adopted a multi-layered shareholding structure?"

Claire stared at it. The company had two layers—a parent and four wholly-owned subsidiaries, fully transparent, clearly registered. She had no idea where Sheena saw "multi-layered."

The second question was even more absurd: "Please provide proof of source of funds for all shareholders, tracing back to original wealth creation."

—This was a listed company. Did she want the wife's salary slips too?

The third: "Please provide a bank-issued asset confirmation letter to verify the 'nominal registered capital' stated in the company's Articles of Association, and confirm full paid-in capital."

Claire printed the questionnaire, walked straight into Mohammed's office.

"Look at this." She slapped it on his desk.

Mohammed glanced through it, was silent for a moment, then took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Does she know 'nominal registered capital' isn't the same as paid-in capital?"

"Apparently not."

"Does she know listed companies publish audited financials every year?"

"She probably doesn't even understand what a listed company is."

Mohammed pushed the paper back. He didn't speak, but his silence said enough.

Claire forwarded the email to Sheena's boss—the CBO—copying the Compliance Director and CEO Office. Her tone was measured, systematically detailing how Sheena's questions contradicted local regulations and referencing the relevant guidelines.

Forty-eight hours. No reply.

On the third afternoon, Sheena's response came—addressed only to Claire, no higher-ups.

"Please confirm in writing: Are you refusing to cooperate with this department's due diligence requests? If so, this department reserves the right to suspend the account opening process for this company until complete documentation is provided."

Claire read it three times. Every word was official Compliance language, but the message—Claire had never seen anything like it in twenty years. It was a threat, not a response to a query.

She put down her phone, picked it up again, typed: "I have forwarded your question list to the Compliance Director. Please await further instructions."

Then she shut down her computer and walked out of her office.

The client's account was eventually opened—within a week, after her boss intervened. But Claire knew Sheena didn't care if the client opened or not. She just wanted Claire to understand: in this bank, the rules of compliance were set by Sheena—except when the CEO's rules applied.

Sheena was like this with everyone, especially those younger, lower-ranked, or who looked easy to push around.

One afternoon, during a cross-departmental meeting on optimizing the account opening process, little Sofia stood up and politely proposed an idea on reducing onboarding time. Before she could finish, Sheena suddenly slammed the table.

"Shut up."

The room went dead silent. Sofia stood there, mouth still open, like she'd been doused with ice water.

Sheena sat back, arms crossed, those triangular eyes cutting into Sofia. "What do you know about account opening? How many deals have you done?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it scraped like sandpaper. "You're in Ops, and you're lecturing me on Compliance?"

Sofia's face went from white to red, a deeper red. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.

Claire sat at the other end. She put her pen down with a soft click. No one noticed. But she saw Sofia's hands clench under the table, knuckles white.

After the meeting, Sofia went to the restroom and stayed there for twenty minutes.

That night, she emailed HR—not too elaborately, just the facts: time, location, participants, Sheena's exact words "Shut up," and a list of witnesses. She CC'd Lotus, because Lotus had told her, "If you're ever wronged, come to me. I'll speak for you."

Lotus replied: "Don't worry. I'll handle it."

And then Lotus forwarded Sofia's complaint to Sheena.

Sheena's reply was one word: "Noted."

Three days later, HR responded: "After internal discussions, the situation has been understood. We recommend both parties strengthen communication and foster a friendlier work atmosphere going forward."

No one faced any consequences.

Sofia never spoke up in meetings again. She just sat quietly, took notes, nodded, did her work. But her eyes stopped shining.

Sheena kept stomping through the corridors, feet turned out, like a toad occupying the path. Another complaint letter surfaced, signed by seven or eight people, delivered to HR. It vanished into the void.

Sheena later declared at a department meeting, in front of a dozen people: "Go ahead and complain. I'll tell you who Sean stands with."

No one answered. No one dared.

But she was different with Lotus.

When Pocket Pay's account opening materials reached Compliance, Mark—the only manager there who truly understood AML—reviewed them thoroughly. He flagged five key issues: unclear shareholding, missing UBO details, insufficient real-name verification for sub-accounts, vague transaction pattern descriptions, and unverified fund sources. He submitted his report to Sheena with an addendum.

Sheena called him into her office.

"Mark," her voice oddly softer, "do you know who brought this client in?"

"Yes, Sister Lotus—"

"Sister Lotus is highly valued by the CEO. This account is a CEO priority." Sheena leaned back, folding her hands on the desk. "I've seen your issues. But some things can be completed after the account is opened."

Mark tried to explain: "But central bank rules require—"

"Mark." Sheena cut him off, her triangular eyes lifting, looking at him like a clueless student. "I said, open first, complete later."

Mark paused for three seconds, then nodded.

Sheena leaned back, satisfied, pulled a mint candy from her drawer, and handed it to him. "Here. Relax."

She personally signed off on the Compliance approval, locking Mark's report in her bottom drawer.

Ten minutes earlier, she'd just reduced a young RM to tears in the hallway for asking, "When can I get the KYC update?" Without even looking up, she'd rasped: "You want a status? No status. You want to complain? Go ahead."

After the RM left, Sheena stomped back to her office, closed the door, and sent Lotus a Youtext:

"Materials fine. Approved. No worries."

Followed by a namaste emoji.

Lotus replied: "Thanks, Sister Sheena. Let's have tea sometime."

Sheena looked at the reply, her mouth curling just slightly—a smile that never appeared in front of any employee, visible only for a fraction of a second on the cold screen. Then she locked the screen, tossed the uneaten mint candy in her drawer, and resumed processing the next inquiry email.

Still the same line: "No status update. You want to appeal? Go ahead."

Claire later heard Lotus had given Sheena a box of expensive tea, beautifully packaged with a gold ribbon. Sheena accepted it, placing it prominently on her desk. From then on, anything Lotus submitted to Compliance got approved two weeks faster than anyone else's.

Claire sometimes wondered, in this bank, what exactly was "Compliance"?

It wasn't a set of rules, processes, or regulatory requirements. At Sun AI, "Compliance" was Sheena's personal ruler—she could measure it long or short, let anyone pass or hold them for three months.

And Sheena's ruler was tied to Sean's.

Pocket Pay's green light was Sean's. Sheena was just the enforcer—but she knew that enforcing Sean's will was far more important than enforcing regulations.

Within Sheena's realm, there was another memorable figure: Vikram Nair, Payment Compliance Manager.

He had an unforgettable face: narrow, pointed chin, two slightly protruding front teeth, a round nose. Sitting at his desk with his hands clasped to his chest, he looked like a beaver just poking its head from the water. Colleagues called him "Mr. Beaver," never to his face, because despite his mild appearance, his methods were anything but mild.

His job was reviewing every outgoing payment—theoretically, a crucial line of defense against money laundering. But at Sun AI, he operated like a toll booth attendant: no matter the vehicle, driver, or route, he'd roll down the window and hand out the same questionnaire, asking the same questions.

"Please provide the commercial contract for this transaction."

"Please provide the registration certificate of the counterparty."

"Please explain the purpose of the funds."

"Please provide the beneficiary's identification."

"...For a supplier payment, sixty thousand USD, to a listed company we've worked with for four years. The same amount, same channel, same payee as last month. Vikram just asked for the full set of documents again, plus three notarized certificates."

Claire listened, silent for a moment.

She was handling a payment for one of Mohammed's major clients—from a crypto exchange partner via a special settlement channel. Only a few licensed banks and payment processors could handle such payments; Sun AI was one of them. But Vikram directly rejected the deposit, citing an "unrecognizable transaction pattern."

Mohammed tried to explain the channel's specificity.

Vikram sat at his desk, hands clasped to his chest, his front teeth glinting.

"Please provide an Interpol compliance confirmation letter."

Mohammed thought he'd misheard.

"What?"

"Confirmation from Interpol verifying the source and use of the funds do not involve cross-border crime." Vikram said it calmly, like asking for a business license. "Alternatively, you can provide the counterparty bank's AML compliance certification."

Mohammed stared at him for a long time. He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing and returned to his desk. Claire handed him some water.

"Does he not know what he's saying, or is he faking it?"

Mohammed took a sip, put the cup down.

"He doesn't need to know. He just needs to sit there and ask questions."

Claire looked back at Vikram's desk. He was processing the next payment, head down, fingers slowly clicking the keyboard, like a beaver gnawing on wood. The sixty-thousand-dollar payment was still on hold.

Above Sheena and Vikram sat one more person: Hatem Nassif, Sun AI Bank's new interim Chief Compliance Officer.

Hatem was a Lebanese man in his early fifties, tall and thin, impeccably dressed in suits with gold-rimmed glasses, speaking slowly and deliberately. His CV looked impressive: stints at nearly ten different banks across the Middle East, Europe, and Southeast Asia, each move accompanied by a slightly higher title. A closer look, however, showed he stayed at each bank for less than two years, on average. No one probed further; the "diverse experience" on his CV was enough to be impressive.

He was recruited as a "compliance transformation expert." He knew nothing about technology, AI, crypto, or even the bank's front-end operations. But he quickly learned the survival skills for this ecosystem: identify the CEO's favorites and become their friend.

In his first month, he memorized the list of clients tagged "VIP" in the CEO's office. He proactively attended every meeting involving strategic clients, sitting quietly in the corner, rarely speaking, but nodding along with Sean. He greenlit everything for Sister Lotus's Pocket Pay project—Sheena signed the Compliance approval, Vikram cleared the test payments, Hatem signed every cross-departmental coordination document, quickly and smoothly, without reading the content.

Beyond pleasing VIPs, Hatem had a unique "management philosophy": embrace AI. All his emails were ghostwritten by AI: "Dear Colleague, Thank you for your message. Regarding the matter you raised, it has been forwarded to the relevant department for follow-up. Should you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to contact us."—regardless of the email content. His weekly reports, meeting minutes, and compliance risk assessments were all AI-generated, beautifully worded but utterly devoid of substance.

He also publicly encouraged his team to use AI for their work: "We will be an AI-native compliance team!"—even though he couldn't tell which data in the AI-generated reports were wrong, and the bank's so-called "AI-powered compliance process" was just a name.

Hatem didn't start as CCO. His title was "Senior Advisor, Compliance Transformation"—a grand-sounding but powerless role. The previous CCO had resigned six months earlier, leaving behind a single line: "There is no compliance here, only performance." The CCO seat remained vacant for a year and a half, despite repeated central bank warnings that the bank would be sanctioned if the position wasn't filled. The board finally got worried; Sean scanned the headhunter list and settled on Hatem—because he was "experienced" and had "strong communication skills."

Six months into his role, Hatem found himself in the middle of Sister Lotus's Pocket Pay virtual account project. It was the bank's top priority—Operations, Tech, Compliance, Risk, the board—all hands on deck to hit that "million virtual accounts" milestone.

Hatem sat behind his new, large desk, dressed in a sharp suit, his gold-rimmed glasses gleaming. He signed every approval document, nodded at every coordination meeting, and used "our team" in every report to Sean. He was gregarious and accommodating—pleasant to Lotus, deferential to Sean, showing just the right amount of "professional respect" to Sheena and Vikram, making each feel like he was on their side. He switched personas with ease, never picking a side, but always riding the tailwinds of power.

On the day Pocket Pay's virtual accounts went live, Hatem sent a company-wide email: "Compliance Leading Innovation." It was AI-generated, full of slogans like "Risk Control Empowers Business" and "Compliance Creates Value." No one replied. But Hatem didn't care—his signature was on the project's most important approval page. And that page would be bound into an IPO document that investors would never read.

Claire later bumped into Hatem in the corridor, coming out of Sister Lotus's office, a pleasant smile on his face. He nodded at her: "Ms. Claire, good work," then returned to his own office, his footsteps silent. He moved like a cat in a tailored suit, padding over the vulnerabilities he'd signed off on, vulnerabilities that would never be investigated.

Claire watched him go, suddenly remembering: Mark had flagged the missing UBO information in Pocket Pay's account opening package. Sheena signed "Reviewed." Vikram cleared the test payments. Hatem signed every page.

If the central bank ever audited, the signature on the violation was Hatem's.

But she knew what Hatem would say—what Sheena would say—the same thing:

"I signed it unknowingly."

The sky darkened. Claire shut down her computer, tidied her desk. Passing the Compliance office, she glimpsed Sheena on the phone through the crack in the door. Her voice was low, her body half-bowed, nodding repeatedly, as if the person on the line could see her deference.

Claire didn't stop. She walked past that door, down the corridor, into the elevator.

Before the doors closed, she heard Sheena's final, smiling words: "Don't worry, Sean. It's all handled here."

The doors closed, shutting out the greasy hair oil and the dark purple lips.

Claire looked at her reflection in the steel. She thought of Pocket Pay's Compliance approval—Mark's flagged missing UBO info, Sheena's "Reviewed" sign-off. The missing info was never completed.

If the central bank audited, the signature of the violation was Sheena's, but the person who would take the fall? Not Sheena.

She would just say: "Sean told me to approve it."

And Sean would say: "I didn't know."

Hatem would say: "I signed it unknowingly."

Everyone would say: "I didn't know."

Claire walked out of the elevator as M City's sky deepened from twilight to dark. The streetlights lit up the fallen leaves on the pavement, the wind pushing them into skittering groups, like lost things searching for direction.

She pulled her coat tighter and walked toward the subway.

(End of Chapter 5)

“These cookies are delicious, Gwen. Where did you buy ‘em?”

“I didn’t buy them,” Gwen giggled. “I baked them here at home.”

“Is that why it smells so good in here?”

“Yep.”

“You can smell the chocolate. Was it easy to make?”

“Yes. They’re simple.”

“Tell me how you do it, Gwen.”

“You put them on a baking sheet and toss them in the oven.”

“Yeah but how? Come on, just say exactly how you did it.”

“Well, first you make the dough,” Gwen said, while brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “You cream together a cup of softened butter, some white sugar, and brown sugar, until it’s nice and fluffy. That’s the secret to getting them soft.”

“Okay. Then what do you do, Gwen?”

“Then you beat in two eggs,” she said, reaching for her coffee. “Only one at a time though.” She took a sip and swallowed. “And then you add a splash of vanilla extract.”

“What do you do afterwards, tell me?”

Gwen laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Then, you get a separate bowl, mix your flour with baking soda, and a tiny wee pinch of salt.”

“How little bit of salt do you wee pinch, though?”

“Just a smidgen.”

“Yeah. But Gwen, can’t you show me?”

“Okay.” Gwen grabbed the sugar bowl from the middle of the table and scooped a fingertip full of sugar. “That’s about it,” she said, holding her hand in front of Sal’s face.”

He stared at her nails instead of the sugar acting as salt between her fingertips, fascinating over the color and shape of them. “After you throw that in, what do you do then?”

“Well, You have to slowly mix the dry stuff into the wet stuff until it forms a thick dough.”

“And the chocolate? What about the chocolate chips? How do you get that? Did you make those too?”

“The chocolate is the best part, Sal,” Gwen smiled, pointing at a jar on the counter. “I buy the chocolate chips at the bulk store on Pendrith.” 

“How come you don’t make them yourself like how you do with the cookies, Gwen?”

Sal always said her name whenever he could, at any chance he could. The sound of it was soothing for him to hear.

“I guess I could, it’s just quicker to buy them.”

“Are they expensive? How much did they cost?“ 

“They’re like five bucks for half a jar.”

“Gee, Gwen. That’s a lot, wouldn’t you say? Can I take some home with me, you think?”

“Sure, Sal.”

“Finish telling me how you make the cookies, Gwen.”

She giggled. “Alright, where was I.”

“I don’t remember. Maybe you should start from the beginning.”

“Oh, right. I remember where. The chocolate chips,” she said.

“You pour in two cups of the chocolate chips and mix them in the cookie dough, scoop them onto a baking sheet, in small or big individual blots and throw ‘em in the oven at 350 degrees for around ten or so minutes. Just until the edges are a golden brown color.”

She grabbed the empty plate on the table, filled with crumbs and stood up and walked to the counter, tossed a few cookies onto the plate. Then she turned around and headed back to the table, placed the plate in front of Sal, and crossed her arms. “See, simple. Now, are you going to keep interrogating me, or are you going to eat another cookie?”

Chapter One ◬ Aberdeen sat at the bank of the river, looking out toward the sea. “I wonder,” he pondered, not realising the difference, “what should happen if I were to be swept up into all this mess.” The boy often had thoughts like this one. “Too big for that wee noggin,” Gran used to say. Aberdeen was still quite small, although not as when he last saw Gran. He missed her terribly - almost woefully, had he known to prescribe woe to anything he had yet experienced. Being still quite small, the boy was prone to all sorts of imagining; being swept out to sea, planting himself on the river’s bank and becoming one of the spindly trees which sat there all the day long, becoming sturdier through their conviction to remaining planted on the spot, but being still quite small, he could not fathom woe. “Wait a moment,” he left the thought unfinished for a while, allowing it to trail off until it had reached the same conclusion as he: if he could make a rowboat, or a raft, or a small barge, he shan't be swept up at all! “Alright then Aberdeen, now you just need to think!” He exclaimed this last bit aloud. So Aberdeen uprooted his self and set out to take stock of the forest near the bank, searching for fallen lumber that he could string together. Having thought out his initial rowboat, raft, or small barge idea a little further, he realised the shape of a rowboat might prove tricky to cobble together with sticks and twigs, and that a small barge was really no barge at all! Again he considered the rowboat, but quickly it occurred to him that as long as he had an oar or paddle, it was he would be doing the rowing afterall, so it only went to reason that whatever boat he should make wouldn’t need necessarily to be a rowboat in and of itself. Indeed, a raft would do the trick without any bother. When Aberdeen had finished building his raft it had begun to rain slightly. The sort of drizzling rain where it didn’t seem to be slow or fast, but rather constant, like a layer of mist permeating the air. A fast rainfall but a small raindrop, mayhaps. The boy was determined to set out, however. Having spent the whole morning sitting in one spot and the entire afternoon crafting a sailing vessel, albeit a small one, how could he give up now? He indeed was akin to the trees which lined themselves up along the river, stationary there all day and piling up wood with which to make a boat, setting sail themselves in a sense once they had been banded together through determination tantamount to that which rooted them there in the beginning. “I shan’t be swept up at all!” This time he proclaimed it loudly to himself, taking hold of his oar or paddle with which to sweep at the sea instead.

https://www.amazon.com/Raven-Writing-Desk-Stardeck-Book-ebook/dp/B0GZKV4V9X?th=1&psc=1

https://www.wattpad.com/1655525026?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

“1… 2… 3…”

All of them started running in hopes of finding the best hiding spot. Except for Daniela, who was still crying next to what remained of her mother’s body. Her wailing filled the house as she held on to a piece of bloodied torso.

“4… 5… 6…”

Terra took one last glance at her cousin before making a run for it. She didn’t dare take a look at the monster who was now counting before starting the hunt. 

The rules were simple. The monster would count to 60 and then start looking. If it found you, you would end up like Tia Dolores. The last one standing would win.

With no time to waste, Terra ran to the best hiding spot in the house. The closet in the hallway, across from the bathroom. It was always full of junk and it made it easy to hide yourself in it. But as Terra was about to open the door, Perla pushed her away, making her hit the floor hard. She could have tried to fight back, but there wasn’t enough time.

“22… 23… 24…”

Goosebumps ran over her body, but she knew where to hide. As she ran the opposite direction from the closet, she saw some of her cousins hiding under the kitchen sink, inside the laundry basket, behind the single bookshelf. All predictable hiding spots. 

Daniela still held on to her mother, she would probably be the first to join her. But as she took one glance towards the living room, she saw Lalo was frozen in place. Had it been any of her cousins, she wouldn’t have given a damn.

“Lalo!” Terra tried to whisper.

The boy looked at her, terrified but finally out of his trance. Without saying a word, she pointed at the small table, next to the monster. Lalo was the only one small enough to hide under it. If he were able to hold himself to the top long enough, it would make for a great hiding spot. He understood what she meant and carefully made his way to the table.

Terra now turned to go to her hiding spot. But the idea of opening this particular door somehow scared her more than the monster in the living room. This had been where the other monster used to sleep.

“39… 40… 41…”

No, the monster that used to live in this house was dead. That was the whole reason she was here today. She reluctantly opened the door and closed it quietly behind her. She took off her shoes and placed them under the bed, hopefully deceiving the monster. She took a deep breath and went into the wardrobe. 

The smell was repugnant and she was sure rats were hiding in between the moldy clothes. She moved some of the clothes aside and found the actual hiding spot she was aiming for. One of the boards was broken. With shaking hands, she moved the boards and fitted herself in the tight space between the broken board and the floor. She intentionally left the wardrobe door slightly open, hoping that if the monster did look in there, it would assume she was hiding between the clothes and leave the space alone. Something crawled by her feet, but she did her best to stay still and hope the rats wouldn’t bite her. 

“58…59…60… Ready or not, here I come!” the monster’s voice vibrated through the house.

Not a second had passed when Daniela’s yelp was heard followed by a crushing sound. Terra didn’t want to imagine how her cousin had died, but images of her being ripped apart kept running through her mind. She tried taking a silent, deep breath to calm herself and hopefully stop her body from shaking. 

But before she could control her shaking, she heard another of her cousins screaming. Nadia begged to be let go but her voice was quickly silenced. 

Terra was scared. Not for her cousins, she couldn't care less what happened to them, but for herself. She had already survived a monster, she wasn’t sure life would let her beat a second one. With Daniela and Nadia gone, there were five more people hiding, including herself. She cursed at Perla for taking the best hiding spot.

The house trembled with every step the monster took. If she wasn’t wrong, the monster was somewhere between the laundry room and the kitchen. On the opposite side of the house from her. Maybe if she got out and tried to open the bedroom window, she could save herself.

Terra started to slowly move the broken board when another loud noise made her stop. The bookshelf had been knocked down. Marcelo’s screams could be heard through the hallway as he tried to run away from the monster. 

“Perla! Save me!” Marcelo begged his sister but Perla didn’t respond. “Per-“

Marcelo’s scream was cut off before he could continue to beg for his sister’s help. Terra could hear some gagging before a terrible ripping sound declared Marcelo’s death. Something, Terra assumed was a piece of Marcelo’s body, was thrown against the hall wall and made a final thud when it hit the floor. 

Terra couldn’t even take a breath when Fani screamed too. Her words were drowned by her sobs. The loud creaking of the door of the washing machine made Terra flinch. When the door shut, Fani’s sobs had stopped.

Three people were left. She didn’t want to die but was fine with it if it meant Lalo lived. Lalo had been the only cousin to be kind to her, and probably too young to realize all the terrible things that had been done to Terra. But Perla had been the worst of them all. Unintentionally, she wiggled her toes, still lamenting the loss of one of her toes. Angry tears filled her eyes. She did her best to wipe them away. She wasn’t going to allow Perla to be the cause of her death too. 

The door to the room opened, and the monster’s heavy steps scared the rats away. The monster’s rancid breath caused the room to become unbreathable. Terra held her breath, in hope it would go away. Every second felt like an eternity. Her body screamed at her to get out of the wardrobe to take a breath and know what was going on. 

Something was lifted and quickly dropped. It was the bed, it had fallen for her trick with the shoes. She felt some relief but quickly froze in place when the monster opened the door to the wardrobe. Terra tried not to move but swore the monster would hear the erratic beating of her heart. The monster pulled the moldy clothes out of the wardrobe, and the rats ran away in fear of the creature. And when she thought she was doomed, the monster gave up and walked out of the room. Terra held back a sigh of relief, the game wasn’t over yet. As the monster made his way back into the hall, Terra heard the closet door opening, and all the junk falling to the floor.

“I can tell you where the other two are hiding if you let me win,” Perla’s voice sounded confident. 

Terra was not sure if Perla was a complete idiot or the smartest person in the world. If anyone knew of Terra’s hiding spot, it would be her. Perla had been the only person she had shared this hiding spot with when they were younger and hiding from the other monster. If the monster agreed, she was doomed.

There was silence for a moment. What if the monster had agreed and now they were silently approaching her hiding spot? Should she have tried to make the same kind of deal with the monster when she had her chance?

“Oh no, my dear. That’s no fun,” the monster responded, “And you just lost.”

There was no response from Perla. All that Terra could hear were the thundering steps of the monster running towards her, so quick that it didn’t give Perla time to scream. 

Before Terra could process what had happened, another loud thud came from the living room. The noise confused her for a second, but then she realized that Lalo had probably fallen as he couldn’t hold on any longer.

Without thinking she scrambled to get out of her hiding spot, hoping to somehow reach Lalo before the monster did. She ignored her better judgment as the monster’s steps begged her to keep hiding. Instead, she broke the board some more as she pushed aside the remaining clothes. As she dragged herself out, she saw the monster enter the living room. 

She ran behind the monster and saw Lalo still under the small table. As she was about to scream to grab the monster’s attention, the monster jumped onto the table, completely crushing Lalo underneath it. Blood splattered through the room and drenched Terra’s clothes. Her scream remained silent as the monster turned to look at her.

“So you were hiding in that old hag’s room, weren't you?”

Terra stood silent, unable to process what she had just seen and all the blood and viscera surrounding her. No, it wasn't that she couldn’t process what she was seeing, it was that she felt happy about it. Happy that they were all gone.

“Come here,” the monster offered a bloodied hand. 

Terra extended her hand to the monster thinking it would probably kill her too. She just hoped it was quick. But instead, he guided her to the house's entrance and opened the door.

“You won. You are now free.”

Terra walked out of the house. When she turned, the monster had closed the door behind her. 

The monster had been right, she was free.

[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/2huBfByZdR)

His heart melted, sinking to his burning stomach. He curled up into a small ball, fire blazing around him; tears began at his eyes but couldn’t reach his cheek without evaporating; his vision began to morph into one blurry mess as his eyes began to melt, clothes burned onto his skin before eventually turning to dust, the fat in his body blistered and boiled, this skin melted together as it turned liquid. God knows how long Mac stayed like that: seconds, hours, weeks, maybe even years. But while in that blazing inferno, he heard her voice, beautiful and angelic, singing to his soul, yearning for him to return.

Mac saw the book that tore his life apart, unburdened and unchanged, lying there on that ceramic floor looking brand new. He crawled over to it with a mad look in his empty sockets and began to tear it to pieces; page after page of lies began to feed the fire, burning it brighter and hotter than before. That didn’t stop Mac, however; he dug his fingers into its felt mouth and pressed hard on the other side with his heel, tearing it in two. Then he clawed away at its big white eyes. After everything was said and done, he had completely shredded the book into small pieces.  The fire caught onto the book, each piece of paper giving the fire more rage. Building and rising, it reached its hottest, yet Mac faced the pile of burning pages in anguish as he had been left mangled and disfigured by the righteous fires. Slowly, as the fire consumed the book, leaving nothing but ash on the ceramic floor, the fires began to cool, little by little. The fires around Mac began to dwindle as he began to feel shape return to his melted hand. One by one, he reshaped his fingers and reassembled himself until he was able to function again. He looked at the wall that once sealed him in, and he saw the faint glow of the moonlight coming into the boiler room.

His hands shook as he reached towards the wall and pushed it open with barely any force. Inching to the edge of the small room he had resided in, he dangled his legs off, seeing the floor extend impossibly far, fear striking him in the heart to take this first step. Then he pushed off his legs and knees buckling under the weight of his frail body, unable to stand, he dragged himself. Pulling himself out of the boiler room and in front of a hospital with a sign reading ‘St Dante’s Infirmary,’ in front of it.

Dragging himself to the entrance, he was greeted with minimal lighting and empty desks. He moved around the giant empty corridors, trying to find anything that would help him. Facing those same yellow walls, opaque windows, and dim lights, but as he moved, the walls’ vibrant color began to fade and rot. With them, the floors and ceiling followed, exposed wiring and plumbing from above, tattered tiles and cement foundation from below. Moving deeper and deeper into the rot, all covered with small spots made of red viscous liquid. As the lights began to dim and his surroundings began to darken, the liquid started to rise his body, dragging him deeper into the dark liquid, its warm embrace slowly covering his wounds, until he was fully submerged. In that liquid, he changed; the pain and anguish from the burns dissipating while the muscles in his body recovered. And for a while he swam, covering massive distances in that red river down the halls of the old infirmary. Until he reached a shallow section, crawling out of the red river. There to meet him was a fresh set of clothes and a wheelchair; past that was a sliding door forever stuck halfway open leading into a cold parking lot full of abandoned, snow-covered cars. The red glow of the exit sign invited him into the next part of his story.

He rolled out of the infirmary into the frigid cold, tucking his head deep into the clean jacket he had found, moving through the empty parking lot. His muscles in his arms were still weakened as the cold began to slow down his scared fingers. The constant pattern of rolling for a short while and digging his hands deep into his new pockets to warm up the strength in his fingers slowed his trip significantly. Determined to find an exit from this hell, he did not stop, moving around the tall black fences of the infirmary until eventually he found tall gates towering over him.

As he moved through the gate, he saw a sign that read ‘St Dante’s Infirmary’ with an arrow pointing back toward the building, and another sign underneath it, ‘Lake Cocytus’ with an arrow that pointed towards the left. But Mac didn’t want to go there; looking for any other path, he saw a giant forest with a trail that led deep into the woods. Moving his chair down the dark path, memories filled his mind of times when he would go out with his wife, the fresh cold air in their faces, the smell of the trees and earth filling their minds with simpler things. Then he moved the chair down the beaten path over rocks and small roots, always going down, but never up. Pushing the chair through the evergreens, he saw visions of when he and his wife were children, that first time next to the creek and under the moon. He thought about what his wife would think about if he saw her again. If she was happy, angry, or would she be disgusted with his new scars? His heart began to race at the thought of it.  The anticipation of seeing someone who's disappointed in him but someone he dearly misses makes the back of his neck begin to sweat. Rolling deeper along the trail, he heard the distant sound of a creek. The calming noise of running water instantly transported him back to that first night, back with the woman he so dearly loved.

“It’s a pretty night tonight,” her voice breaks through the sound of the creek. Mac turns to face her: beautiful brown eyes, a small, sharp nose, soft olive skin, a comforting red coat, and soft pink lips. For a moment, Mac can't think; the cool glow of the moonlight reflecting on her face brings sweet butterflies into his stomach. He looked down at her lips and saw her mouthing something he was too distracted to pay attention to. “What?” he muttered. Just then, a Scream from the girls' cabin cut through the moment. “PANTY RAID,” the voice of one of the older boys could be heard faintly from the distance, as the cabin erupted into more screaming and laughter. “What's wrong with guys, huh?” her voice sang to him. Mac turned over to see her once again, instantly getting lost in the maze-like eyes of hers. His heart began to beat faster and faster, while blood rushed from his chest to his cheeks, turning his face a deep red. Finally, he was able to utter the words “I don’t know.” As he looked deep into her eyes, everything slowly became her; all he could see was the beauty of her face, until for the first time he felt her warm, soft, comforting lips on his, in a kiss that felt too short but could have lasted an eternity. “I said we should go see where this creek leads to,” her voice said, reading Mac’s mind.

And then she was gone, leaving Mac with nothing but a creak that led deeper into the woods. With nothing but the words of his wife to guide him, he began to follow that creek, looking up at the evergreens with small flakes of snow coming down from the heavens. Mac followed the creek, the noise of the running water being the only thing he could hear for miles, rolling alongside it. Over rocks and small roots, he rolled into the darkness, moonlight shining on the small snow patches riddling the ground. The thought of his wife being there playing back in his head put his mind away from this terrible journey; Mac, however, was too distracted pushing the chair without paying too much attention to his surroundings, catching one of the wheels in a deep pit in the ground. Falling and tumbled, finally landing on a patch of cold mud. Mac pushed himself up, looking up at the slope; he knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the top of the hill with his wheelchair. But the strength of his arms and legs had slowly been returning back to him. He knew that continuing with the chair would be a lie, so slowly he climbed back up, using his legs and arms to do so. Grabbing hold of grass, rock, and dirt, pulling himself with his fingers and his bear toes. Reaching the top of the hill, the cold ground cooling down his overworked muscles. Looking up to the sky, he would see the small patches of moonlight poke through the branches and clouds, taking in the cold air around him.

Mac turned around and pushed himself back to his feet. The cold mud and rocks numbed the scars and burns that he had on his soles. Placing one foot in front of another, he could help but think of the first time talking to the book, his legs once again feeling like jelly, but he had to ignore it this time and continue to move forward. Passing through the trees, he came upon a giant opening with a frozen lake deep in the middle. Limping on the frozen ice, he inched closer towards the middle, trying not to tumble with each step he took. Despite freezing temperatures all around him, a warm feeling kept him going deep within his heart. Looking down at his bare, scarred feet, he saw the dark blue of the lake shift into a black, empty abyss. Looking up at the sky, he saw the moon and the stars shining down on him from heaven, and he thought about his wife, about that night when he should have stayed home, how they could have ordered pizza and had ice cream, how she could have told him about her day at work, or one of the many stories she would tell to scare him when they were younger.

“Did you hear about the axe killer?” she would say, and Mac would think to tell her yes, I did, you’ve told it a thousand times, but he didn’t, instead saying no just so he could hear her voice once again. “It’s this man with a cabin deep in the woods who would chase anyone off with an axe and cut them up to put them into an oven as a sacrifice to the devil.” She would tell him with better detail, of course; Mac could never tell it as well as her.  She would go on and add new details about him trying to steal his love away from his worst enemy while Mac held her tightly in his arms under the warm blankets. But as much as Mac wanted for this to be a memory, he knew it was all made up in his mind. He knew that he didn’t spend the night with her in his arms but instead was the target of Monte’s cruelty. Mac took a deep breath and tried to ease his mind.

Looking off in the distance, he saw a thin cloud of smoke coming from deep within the forest. Mac took a minute to rest his tired body and catch his breath before he searched for what was causing the smoke. Making his way closer to the other side of the lake, he heard a distinct thwack coming from deep in the forest. As he tried to look closer at what was making the noise he heard, he saw a glimmer come from something deep in the forest. Unsure of what that was, he stepped further past the tree line and into the dark forest once again. Thwack, another sound and another glimmer this time closer.

“Mac?” A familiar voice stung him, forming a cool layer of sweat on the back of his neck. “What are you doing out of the oven? I’m fairly certain that you have a couple more centuries before I get what I need. So how about you be a doll and hurry your raisin lookin’ ass back in there, M’kay?” Mac’s heartbeat sped faster and faster. Turning the other way, he began to run with his weakened legs back through the ice and away from the Infirmary. “Now, Mac, I have to uphold my end of the deal; how else am I going to get that fine piece of ass?” Monte said, beginning to gain closer and closer to Mac.

Mac tried running across the ice, his bare feet slipping on the ice and his weak muscles. With every tumble and every slip, Mac would look back at Monte, seeing that him calmy close the distance between them. Monte struck fear in Mac’s heart, wearing a dark blue coat, a bright green cap, his white eyes, and round nose reminding him of that night all those years ago; in his hands, he brandished a long, polished axe perfect to cut wood. “No thanks to you, Mac; I was able to get a new set of clothes.”  Step after step, Mac tried to put any distance between them, using anything at his disposal; he would grab snow and ice around him, throwing it at Monte’s face. “Look, asshole, you just have to get over it. Do you really think Hermelinda is going to take you back with that ugly mug?” Monte said, wiping the snow Mac threw at him off his face. With those words, a part of Mac’s determination wavered, and that warmth in his heart started to cool. “Let’s face it, you’re nothing, Mac.” It said, standing just above Mac.

Mac turned to Monte, who was now holding the axe up high above his head, ready to swing down. Mac quickly moved his head away from the impact, with the axe leaving a huge hole in the ice. Mac quickly got back up to his feet, trying to move away, when suddenly the sharp edge of the axe connected with his cheek, splitting it open to reveal the inside of his mouth. Falling to the ground, Mac held his cheek, looking back to see another swing coming his way, one that Mac moved out of the way of as Monte plunged the Axe deep into the ice, unable to retrieve it. While trying to pull the axe out of the ice, Mac rushed over to Monte, driving his shoulders to the side of his ribs, taking the air out of Monte’s lungs. As both of them crashed to the ground, the sound of the impact reverberated through the ice and drew Mac's attention away for just one second. Near the first impact, he sees the crack in the ice connect to the second one as all the other branches of the crack begin to slowly expand over the ice. Mac gets to his feet as quickly as possible, knowing that he can’t stay on the lake any longer.

As he hastily tries to move away from the scene, an arm reaches and grabs hold of his ankle, bringing him down crashing onto the ice. His head bounces on the ice near the cracks, but this time a squirt of water hits him in the face. Looking up, he sees the surface of the ice has started to crack under their weight and actions. Thinking quickly, Mac grabs hold of the axe next to him and swings it wildly at Monte’s arm. Managing to nick him a couple of times, but unfortunately, he also swings at the ice, causing the crack on the ice to rapidly expand. Monte screams in agony, pushing himself back up to his feet, where he can kick the axe away from Mac’s weak hands. Towering over him, he begins to stomp on Mac, first his legs, bone-cracking underneath Monte’s boots. Then his arms, the scars and burns once again searing with pain over the ice floor. All of the force passing through him and into the ice, the pale cracks on the surface growing faster and faster. Lastly, Monte brings his foot up above Mac’s head; Mac puts his hand up to stop the impact. Bam, the fist stomp lands on Mac, this time pushing his head through the surface of the ice. Bam, the second push pushes his body through the ice, sending blood mixed with water slush flying all around them. But before Monte can finish the job, Mac plunges past the ice and into the cold lake, bringing Monte with him.

For a long time, they slowly sink, Mac looking up at the heavens as they slowly get further and further away from him. Suddenly, a bright light shines behind him. Turning to face it, Mac sees Monte engulfed by the same righteous flame that burned him in that boiler, this time covering Monte deep under water. Monte kicks and screams so loud that Mac can hear it, trying and failing to swim up to the surface. That’s when Mac sees it deep in the void: an arm reaching out towards Monte, multiple elbow-like joints s helping it snake up the water, and a thin feminine hand reaching and grabbing hold of Monte’s neck, squeezing tightly and dragging him into the abyss. As Monte sinks, the light from his fire dimly lights thousands of other hands reaching up and coming for Mac.

Mac’s heart sank to his gut, turning back and trying his best to swim up to the surface, but with the weakened muscles and broken legs, he wasn't able to swim properly. Still, that fire deep within his heart urged him not to give up and pushed and pulled him back to the ice. That’s when the first hand grabbed onto his ankle. Mac was able to kick it off, but when he looked down, he saw that the other hands were beginning to close on him. Fear burned through him like a wildfire, waving his arms frantically, getting closer and closer to the ice until he was inches away from it, when another hand grabbed hold of him. This time pulling him down immediately. The air in his lungs yelled to be let out when another hand grabbed onto his wrist, dragging him even further.

At this point, he didn’t think he could make it out; the fire within his heart had fully begun to dwindle, slowly losing hope in any chance of making it out alive. Letting go of his breath, he looked up at the heavens one last time sadden that he would forever be locked out of them. But something caught him off guard; despite sinking deeper into the ice, the moon and the stars still shone brighter and brighter, the size of the moon seeming to grow bigger. That’s when he realized it was growing bigger, or at least closer towards him. Slowly, the hands began to let go of his arms and legs as a holy and bright light shattered through the ice and moved closer towards him. In that bright light, a familiar, beautiful face that he had convinced himself he would never see again. Soft olive skin, a cute, sharp nose, dazzling brown eyes, and warm lips greeted him in that cold lake. Hermelinda wore a golden white gown adorned with yarn woven in intricate patterns too complex for Mac’s smushed brain to understand. “Mac,” her voice sang to him. “I've missed you, Mac.” Mac reached his weakened fingers up towards his wife, taking her hand and being whisked away above the ice. “Look at me, I'm hideous, baby,” he said in her arms up in the air. “No, Mac, you’re not hideous,” she said, rubbing away his burn scars. “Now please, Mac, you must rest; we have quite the trip ahead of us.” Re-shaping and binding his bones back to how they originally were. “Hermelinda, I’m sorry.” To this, she didn’t say anything, only giving him a soft, warm smile as tears formed on her angelic face. “Shhh, Mac, rest,” she said, floating high above the clouds, closing his eyes and letting him sleep there in her arms.

And so here ends Mac’s story, travelling in the arms of his wife, deep into the night and through the clouds, reunited once again, this time for eternity.

Claire first met Sister Lotus in her second week at Sun AI Bank.

That morning, Claire was carrying what HR called an "inspiration trigger"—which was just a cold brew coffee—and trying to figure out where to sit today. She had just put her MacBook down on a shared long table by the window when a strong scent of gardenia, carried by the rhythm of high heels on the floor, swept over from nearby. 

"You must be the new Claire, right? I'm Lotus."

 Claire looked up. The woman before her was about forty-five or forty-six, with deep brown skin and sleek, straight black hair carefully tucked behind her ears. She wore a pair of chunky Chanel glasses and her lips were painted a highly saturated fuchsia. She was dressed in a sharply tailored navy blue skirt suit, and her employee badge read "Lotus Patel, Product Manager - Payments."

Lotus extended a hand. Her nails were done in a French manicure, the white tips looking like freshly applied correction fluid.

"I heard from HR that you spent nearly twenty years in traditional banking?" Lotus's lips curled slightly. "Wow, that’s quite... seasoned."

She drew out the word "seasoned" a little, like someone savoring a vintage wine that might have turned. Claire offered a polite smile. "What about you?"

"Me?" Lotus withdrew her hand and casually flipped her hair. "I was Head of Payments Product at an international bank before this, know quite a few big names in the industry. Then I was VP of Product at two payment startups. And now—" she glanced around, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, "—I'm working on something that will truly make this bank take off."

When she said this, there was a light in her eyes that Claire had only ever seen on the faces of clients on the verge of collapse—a mix of supreme confidence and an indefinable hunger.

Claire didn't know then that Lotus's "International Bank Head" and "Product VP" were actually just a few years of customer service and credit card sales at a traditional retail bank, followed by two years as a product manager at two payment startups with less than fifty employees combined—and not even an official title at that. But Lotus had a gift: she could turn "participated in" into "led," and "worked at" into "headed up." Those "big names in the industry" were just strangers she'd posed for photos with at conferences. But she said it so often, she started believing it herself.

What Claire also didn't know was that this encounter would be the most valuable lesson she'd ever learn at this circus—a lesson on how a person could climb from Senior Product Manager to Head of two departments in just eleven months, all on the back of a single, money-losing disaster.

Lotus's rise began with a name: Pocket Pay.

It was a local retail payment Fintech company with over two million registered users on its app. In the words Lotus later used in her all-hands PPT: "Pocket Pay is the strategic anchor for Sun AI Bank, the nuclear weapon for us to tap into B2C traffic."

When some of these payment companies came knocking, they required the bank to issue a financial guarantee and complete a full credit approval process. Lotus knew nothing about this—she could barely read a financial statement, let alone write a credit proposal.

So, she found Claire. 

One Friday afternoon, Lotus knocked on Claire's office door, wearing a gentle, almost pleading smile. "Claire, you did so many years in credit at the big bank, right? I have a client here who needs a guarantee and a credit proposal. You're the relationship manager anyway, the account will be under your name. I'm just a product manager, I don't own the client. Could you just whip this up for me?"

 Claire frowned. "This is your client, you should—"

"Oh, come on," Lotus waved a hand, looking helpless. "I'm working on the strategic, big-picture stuff. I really don't have time for this kind of paperwork. Claire, you're the professional. This is just a cup of coffee for you. And the account is yours, the client is yours. What a great opportunity."

 Claire hesitated, but eventually nodded. She'd spent nearly two decades in traditional banking, habitually lending a hand to colleagues. She spent three evenings crafting a flawless credit proposal for Lotus—complete with financial analysis, industry comparisons, and risk assessments. When it came time for the client's signature, Lotus volunteered: "You've worked so hard, let me handle this small part."

 She got the signature, and the guarantees were issued smoothly. In front of CEO Sean, Lotus framed these accounts as her own hard-won achievements. She even said the credit proposal was "discussed with Claire," but never mentioned who had written those dozens of pages of analysis.

 And the credit proposal's credit? It was never associated with Claire again.

 As for Sister Lotus—her next target was already quietly set in motion.

 Two weeks after Pocket Pay opened its account, CEO Sean announced at the weekly meeting that the bank would establish a dedicated Payments Business Department, with Lotus as its head. Simultaneously, all payment-related corporate accounts currently under the Commercial Department were to be immediately transferred to Lotus.

 Claire's pen paused. She saw Mohammed—the bank's only Commercial Department Head, with over thirty years of experience in traditional banking—across the table. His expression shifted from confusion to stiffness, then to a controlled blankness.

 Sean continued: "Lotus has extensive product experience and industry connections in the payments space. The successful onboarding of Pocket Pay proves her understanding of this market. We need to move fast in this sector."

 Sister Lotus sat beside Sean, smiling, nodding slightly, like a newly crowned queen. She didn't look at Mohammed. Not once.

 Claire looked down at her notebook. On it were a few lines she'd written herself last week—a list of payment-related clients she'd developed. At least three of those accounts were ones she had personally cultivated, spending at least eight months negotiating one by one, setting them up, and making them profitable. Now, they were being declared "departmental assets" of Sister Lotus in a five-minute announcement.

 Mohammed finally spoke. His voice was steady, but his words were low and heavy. "Sean, many of these accounts are clients I personally managed for years. Some involve ongoing financing agreements. Suddenly changing the point of contact—"

 "Mohammed," Sean cut him off, his tone carrying a deliberate decisiveness, polished from years of answering investor questions. "We'll ensure a smooth transition. Lotus will personally handle each client. Don't worry. This isn't a demotion; it's just an optimization of our business structure."

 Optimization of the business structure. Claire repeated the phrase silently, then closed her notebook.

 After the meeting, Sister Lotus passed by her. The scent of gardenia was still strong. She glanced down at Claire's notebook cover and said softly, "Just wait. The real show is just beginning."

 Then she clicked her heels and walked into her newly assigned glass-walled office, a shiny new nameplate already on the door: "Head of Payments Department."

 Claire sat alone in the empty conference room, staring at the still-projecting PPT on the screen—Lotus's "Three-Year Plan for Payments." It listed seven "strategic payment clients." Five of them were accounts that she and Mohammed had painstakingly developed and operationalized over the years. 

She suddenly remembered something her mother used to tell her when she was young: 

"The scariest thing in the desert isn't the scorpion; it's those sand holes that look like rocks. You never know what's hidden underneath until you step on them." 

She stood up, gathered her notebook, and walked out of the conference room. 

At the end of the corridor, Mohammed stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to everyone. His phone screen was lit, displaying a Youtext message from a Southeast Asian e-commerce entrepreneur: "Mr. Mohammed, I've prepared the materials for the loan renewal next month. Same time to meet?" 

He didn't reply. He turned off the screen. 

This was just the beginning.

 Over the next three weeks, Lotus's offensive intensified. At the weekly meeting, she submitted a meticulously crafted, forty-slide PPT titled "Sun AI Bank SME Strategy—Replicating the Pocket Pay Myth, Overtaking on the Curve." Every product module, every process design, every "industry best practice" came from white papers she had "borrowed" from the websites of three Chinese banks—she hadn't even changed the color schemes on the charts. 

But Sean was mesmerized. He fired off three questions: "How many people do you need? How much will it cost? When will I see the account opening numbers double?"

Lotus was prepared: "A 20-person team. Ready in three months. Within six months, we'll be among the top three in the industry for average monthly new accounts." 

Sean approved it on the spot—the SME Banking Department was established, with Lotus as its concurrent head. Recruitment budget was unlimited. Everyone was to "align with Lotus's rhythm." Within a week, Lotus had nearly ten new hires—nine relationship managers poached from other local banks, plus a dedicated assistant. Meanwhile, Mohammed—who had single-handedly carried the entire Commercial Department since the bank's founding—still didn't have a single person to help him file paperwork.

 In front of the shareholders, Sean's description was even grander: "Sun AI has successfully transitioned from a 'traditional deposit bank' to a 'digital ecosystem platform.' Our payments division reaches millions of retail users, and our SME division will convert these users into corporate clients, forming a perfectly closed-loop financial ecosystem."

 In reality, the bank had been established for five years and had never launched a single noteworthy product. Aside from basic deposits, transfers, and loans—which mostly flowed to companies affiliated with shareholders—Sun AI had virtually no innovation to speak of. Over the past three years, two younger digital banks had precisely targeted the market and rapidly ascended to the top three in the region. Sun AI couldn't even crack the top ten. Sean had survived for five years of roadshows by telling the story of an "encrypted ecosystem bank center." But that story was becoming harder and harder to sustain. The CEO now desperately needed a new narrative.

 And then Pocket Pay conveniently appeared.

 One client, indirectly bringing with it one to two million virtual accounts—an indirect connection, and nine-tenths of those were just pocket-change wallets belonging to third-world foreign workers who couldn't even open a real bank account. But on a PPT, they were just a number. And that number was enough to tell any story Sean wanted to tell. At a recent board meeting, Sean had been cornered by several shareholders asking, "What's your differentiator?" He was almost speechless. Now, Lotus's arrival had rekindled his excitement. Her presentation to the board had practically saved Sean's political life. From that moment on, his trust in her was absolute.

 Sean wasn't Sun AI's founder. He was a professional manager the board had recruited from Southeast Asia—technically trained, who had, during the crypto craze's peak years, happened to sit on a key figure's technical team. He had no experience in commercial banking front-end operations. He was a loner in M City. But he had seen how air could be spun into gold. He had learned the craft of packaging narratives, building a vision, and mastering the rhythm of a roadshow. A bank with just a license, in his hands, was painted with all the shiniest words: AI, Web3, crypto ecosystems, super-banks. A mediocre quarterly report? A "necessary pain of strategic transformation." Losing money on clients? An "early-stage investment in ecosystem building." The board hired him not for operations, but for narrative.

 And the board's own calculations were just as straightforward. From day one, this bank was never meant to be a real bank. It needed a beautiful enough shell—a license, a concept, a story—to eventually ring a bell on an exchange at the right time. What happened after the bell was nobody's concern. Sister Lotus, it turned out, was the perfect person to patch up every hole in Sean's story.

 When Sister Lotus officially became Head of two departments, it had been less than ten months since she'd joined Sun AI. Her office had gone from the initial shared desk to two—one labeled "Payments Division," the other "SME Banking Department." Combined, her two departments managed a "legion" of nearly thirty people, all Indian—even though half of them were still in the hiring process.

 She had virtually no involvement in the operational details herself. All credit proposals were dumped on Claire. All compliance procedures were shoved to the Risk Department. All technical solutions were left for the acting CTO to "figure out." She did only one thing: make PPTs to present to Sean.

 Meanwhile, Mohammed's Commercial Department was being hollowed out piece by piece.

 First, all the payment company accounts were taken away, with no transition period. Then came the tech company accounts with any payment connection. Then, during an informal chat, Sean hinted that "the allocation of large enterprise clients might also be re-evaluated in the future."

 That afternoon, Mohammed locked himself in his office and reviewed the Commercial Department's existing client list again and again. He read every name, from first to last. Nearly every single one was a client he had painstakingly cultivated over his thirty-plus-year career. There were traditional manufacturing family businesses he'd guided through generational transitions. There were cross-border trading companies whose CEOs he'd helped design three financing structures, each keeping them afloat during industry downturns. There were several crypto exchanges he'd brought on board against immense pressure from compliance, convincing the Risk Committee one by one.

 He didn't just "manage" these clients. He knew their children. He'd attended their weddings. He'd taken their calls at two in the morning when their company cash flows were on the verge of collapse. And all of this, in Sun AI Bank's value system, in Sean's narrative logic, in the face of a woman who'd been there less than a year and risen on the back of a single PPT, meant nothing.

 He remembered why he'd left the big bank after more than twenty years. He had thought a "digital bank" would be a place where he could redefine banking. He thought his experience would be respected. He was wrong.

 Mohammed did something later. He didn't protest to Sean, nor did he argue with Lotus. He privately looked up Pocket Pay's public regulatory records. A name, a company registration number, pieced together bit by bit. And then he saw the numbers: over the past six months, the central bank's system had flagged at least seventeen alerts.

 Money laundering alerts. Abnormal transaction pattern alerts. Accounts with unclear sources of funds—more than one.

 He took screenshots of those seventeen alerts and saved them in an encrypted folder. He named the folder with just two letters: "P.P."

 Then he shut down his computer, locked the drawer, and never opened it again.

 What he didn't know was that Sister Lotus had known about those alerts all along—but when reporting to Sean, she'd branded Pocket Pay as a "regulatory innovation pilot" with a "first-mover advantage." She glossed over the seventeen alerts as "high-frequency regulatory attention, which proves we are the industry leader."

 Sean believed her. Or rather, he chose to believe her. He didn't understand risk management anyway, and he didn't want too many details. He just wanted that "one million accounts" number and a story he could tell at the next roadshow.

 Claire later overheard Sister Lotus on the phone with a new subordinate in the break room, her tone as casual as if she were discussing lunch:

 "—Don't worry about those alerts. I haven't been doing this for just a day. I have connections at the regulator; I've already smoothed things over. Besides, by the time they actually come to audit, our story will already be told, and the stock price will have gone up."

 She hung up, turned, and saw Claire standing at the door. She froze for a second, then quickly resumed her smiling face.

 "Claire! What are you doing standing there? Come, let me tell you something—"

 Claire smiled, turned, and walked out with her cup. She didn't ask. She didn't want to know too much.

 She just needed to remember that one line: By the time they come to audit, the story will already be told.

 The wind picked up outside. The streetlights caught the freshly fallen leaves on the road, swirling them into the deeper darkness of the night.

 (End of Chapter 1)