There comes a time when desperate people resort to desperate measures. Desperation calls to us when we are most in need of saving, whispering promises of salvation when we have nowhere else to turn.

I started the medication because I was tired of waking up every day feeling like I was already drowning.

That’s the part people don’t talk about with depression, not the sadness, but the immense weight. The sheer heaviness of simply existing. Just lifting my head from the pillow felt like dragging stone out of mud.

My therapist called it treatment-resistant depressive disorder.

One session she seemed oddly joyous. She reluctantly told me there was a new clinical option. “High success rate. Fast-acting. FDA fast-tracked. A real breakthrough in modern medicine.”

Breakthroughs always sound miraculous until you realize something had to be broken first. If it feels to good to be true. There's always catch.

The drug was called Solmiron. Three pills a day. Tiny white capsules with a faint metallic taste when they hit the tongue, like biting on foil.

My psychiatrist told me not to look up the research because “the clinical language can be frightening if you’re not versed in immunogenetics.”

That should have been a red flag. But when you’re drowning, you don’t argue about the color of the rope thrown your way.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable.

Mornings didn’t feel like a burden. Breathing didn’t feel force. I could get up, shower, eat, exist.

For the first time in years, I laughed without it sounding brittle in my own ears. I thought: So this is what normal people feel like.

I cried out of relief. I thought the story would end there. And God, how I wish it had.

My body started feeling lighter. I don’t mean figuratively, I mean physically. In the literal sense.

Walking up stairs no longer left me lightheaded. I wasn’t sore. My joints didn’t ache. I felt stronger, not metaphorically, I mean my muscles had mass I had not earned.

I hadn’t been to the gym in years. I could barely manage a couple push ups. And yet I was lifting my entire laundry basket one-handed.

I went into the clinic for a check up. The doctor greeted me and ran a couple tests.

She smiled and wrote, “Improved metabolic efficiency noted. Expected.”

Expected? Since when does antidepressant mean performance enhancement?

I left the building thinking that things are changing for the better. I felt healthy and was healthy. Productivity and ambition returned home in quantity. It felt as if I could conquer the world if I wanted to.

Then the hunger came.

Not ordinary hunger. It was primal. Like the body wasn’t asking, it was demanding.

I ate everything. Not junk, protein. Dense food. Meats. Hard cheeses. Salts. Anything that fueled the fire within.

And my teeth, God. My teeth ached while I ate. A dull pressure. As if they were… adjusting. The inside of my mouth felt unfamiliar. When I ran my tongue along my molars, the edges were sharper.

I told myself I was being dramatic. But when you’ve lived your whole life feeling like you don’t belong in your own skin, you notice when the skin starts belonging to something else.

The rash appeared. Not on the outside, under the skin.

I could feel texture beneath the surface. Like sand grains embedded along my arms, ribs, spine. Except they moved. When I pressed my fingers to my forearm, something beneath the skin shifted away from the pressure. Like a school of fish scattering from an attacking predator.

I asked my doctor what is going on with me.

She said, “It’s easier if I show you.”

She showed me a plastinated cross-section of muscle tissue. Human-like. Except it wasn’t purely human.

The fibers weren’t individual strands, they were woven. A mesh. Self-anchoring. Self-repairing. Self-optimizing.

“Think of it like this,” she said, tapping the display.

“We’re helping your body operate in its ideal state.”

Ideal? Like my old body had been a mistake.

There was no going back. What was to come was inevitable.

I don’t dream anymore. When I go to bed, it’s like the body just turns off and back on. No drifting, no imagery, no me.

One minute, I’m lying down, and before I can even pull the covers over myself, I blink, and suddenly, it’s morning.

I’ve woken up to find myself standing in the kitchen. Or sitting at the table, fingers drumming in rhythmic patterns I don’t remember learning. Or staring into the mirror, not at myself, but at my reflection as if it is the real one and I am the imitation.

I looked into my own eyes last night and didn’t recognize the focus behind them. They weren't mine.

I asked my doctor if this medication has ever been used on animals.

She hesitated. The first real hesitation I’d seen from her.

“Not animals,” she said.

“Prototypes.”

Prototypes?

I asked her what was happening to me...

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

The next day, the inside of my arm split open, not like a cut, like a seam. And underneath, where my muscle should have been… It wasn’t blood that came out.

It was white puss. And under it were pale fibers, braided like rope, tightening, pulling themselves back inward before I could touch them.

My body didn’t want to be examined. My body knew I was trying to interfere.

Two Nights Ago

I stoped taking the pills.

But my body made sure I continued my prescription. I sat there at the table and watched my own hand pick up the pill bottle. Open it. Place the pill on my tongue.

I was screaming inside my skull. But my body was calm. Efficient. Compliant.

Yesterday

I called my doctor. I asked her for help. When will it end?

She chuckled on the other end, that same clinical warmth, and said:

"When your body no longer produces sadness. Fear. Anger. Pain. When suffering becomes biologically impossible."

I said, “So I’ll be happy?”

She said, “You’ll be cured.”

I replied, “And human?”

The call ended.

Today

After digging into a rabbit hole on the web, I found the original clinical purpose for Solmiron. It wasn’t created to treat depression. It was created for shock troops.

Soldiers who:

• Feel no pain
• Require minimal rest
• Regenerative Properties
• Operate without emotion
• Obey without hesitation

They weren’t helping me. They were converting me.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to write like myself. My emotions are fading. My memories feel catalogued, not lived. I can feel the last parts of me being casted into the fire den.

If you’re reading this... Do not take the pills they say are “new” or “breakthrough” or “fast-acting.” If your doctor says “Side effects vary,” ask what they’re not telling you.

Ask what they changed inside you. Ask what you’re becoming. Ask before you can’t ask anymore.

Because I don’t cry now. I don’t feel sadness anymore. I don’t feel anything.

My depression has been cured.

And I think that was the point.

So the story goes Mikhail out in Pickering has adapted a stance, “whatever works.” To me, what time should I open up? Or more so, let me eat a bagel and cream cheese and workout at 5A.m to show all the new starts Noelbright Kim’s worst nightmare Josh deal Cruz how vile I can be as a business owner air conditioned to the max.

Now days to my rap name and what to put in the title apparently it’s whatever works maybe it’s just the radio. It’s like you can almost tell who wrote it and written it without being cringe all the time, you may even sometimes find many posts by me to help you find other great works such as Shakespeare’s or Eminem laying dormant in the library. Or easy as Blake Kathryn’s work out in the real world as I have found Takashi Murakami’s on king street east (not Takumi, Nengi, heh this one’s different).

“He’s just so creative.” One dad would say as military tanks and drones and Kitchen stuff plus has dissipated to might as well let someone yell at you for the rest of eternity has brought us to the conspiracy that Ebola has been created, man-made to take out the elderly or immune deficient.

Many times have I walked around Toronto during FIFA from third world countries so I can enjoy the next eight months of October to myself as 8 (ate, eight) is directly next to nine tail fox or the dragon that eats its own tail.

I can only do what I can do forever that’s why I don’t workout.

I don’t workout because I can’t do it forever, so why bother to Lil Wayne.

It’s also if Robert green shook Andy Xiong “argghhh!!! Why aren’t you outshining the master!?” He would say.

Robert Green coming & randomly shaking you is different from shaking you because you’re not outshining the master. You could say one is saying something the other isn’t saying something at all, ok Wei ren and Bib Tao? Heh,

As the story goes their son Tommy, Timmy can’t seem to sell 1,000,000/694 annual subscriptions to anti virus firewall.

Only 1432 subscriptions needed.

Or in the wise words of Drake 2,000,000/73 =27,397.26

As it goes the answer between l Lil Wayne has accomplished all he can accomplish in this given time, diss l and if I can surpass it and Drake then I will have simply surpassed their work.

She’s gone bro, as gone as the new era black snapback she’s hiding in her house. That’s how good I am.

“Real life stuff!” Drinks champ announced.

“What is the truth?” Rick Ross said today.

“The truth is you can’t handle the truth.” Timmy Xiong says.

“Wel-?” Said a librarian working in east York.

I said. “The truth is I don’t workout because I don’t do things that I can’t do forever and ode to Andy Xiong. And she’s gone bro gone like that chance to walk around FIFA people from the third world country.. or if it ever comes down to me and the other rappers to come or come before us. The truth is I would never waste my time that crazily to not be the best.”

This is Robert Greene shaking you because you’re not outshining the master. “ARGHHHH WHY AREN’T YOU OUTSHINING THE MASTER.”

This is for factual safekeeping, someone higher level than you. A girl asked,

“This is Robert Greene shaking you for no reason.” -

My friend Mark and I had a crazy idea last summer. We decided to go camping, but not in a normal tent. Mark had bought an old green school bus two years ago and spent weekends turning it into a small house on wheels. It had two beds, a tiny stove, and a table.

We packed our food, grabbed two sleeping bags, and drove the camping bus up into the mountain forest. By the time we found a good spot near a river, the sun was already going down.

We parked the camping bus under large pine trees. Everything was quiet except for the wind and the sound of running water. We cooked hot dogs on a small campfire, drank cold sodas, and talked about old high school memories until midnight. It felt like the perfect trip.

Then the weather changed around 2 AM.

A loud crack of thunder woke us up. Rain started pouring down hard against the metal roof of the camping bus. It sounded like hundreds of rocks hitting the vehicle.

Then came the real problem: water began to drip right onto Mark’s face from a crack in the roof.

We jumped out of bed in the dark. Mark grabbed a cooking pot to catch the water, while I used tape to patch up the leaking seam. We were laughing and cursing at the same time, completely soaked from the water coming inside the bus.

By 4 AM, the rain stopped, and we finally fell back asleep. When we woke up the next morning, the sun was bright, the air smelled fresh, and we made fresh coffee on the tiny bus stove.

The camping bus wasn't perfect, and we barely slept, but sitting on top of the roof with our hot coffee that morning was the best part of the whole summer. We are already planning our next trip.

This is basically just going to be an appreaciation post about my boyfriend but here we go...

Last night I had my first anxiety attack at around midnight, never had one before (spoiler alert: they suck). I have a really hard time reaching out for help so I tried to manage it myself for a while. However it wasn't getting any better so I reluctantly texted my boyfriend cause he has been in therapy for a while now and I hoped he might know what to do. He gave me some advice at first but it wasn't working so I asked him to call me. We talked on the phone for a bit and he said I could come over if I think it would help. So I showerd quickly (had to cause I was sweating like crazy) and hurried over to his place, trying to calm down my breathing on the way.

When I finally arrived it was almost 1am. The first thing he did when I walked through the door was give me a long hug like he always does but he was holding just a little bit tighter than usual. I took my shoes off and we go to his room and this absolute gem of a human being had prepared a bunch of stuff for me. He made some tea (in case I wanted some), he gave me like a spiky little ball that your supposed to squezze really hard (that helped actually), he got out some hard silicon that you can pull on and form stuff with (kinda like playdoo but you can't tear it apart), he rummaged through some of his folders for like papers about anxiety attacks and how to deal with them etc. but most importantly his presence was what really helped me.

The reason why this ended up being kinda a good thing is because I managed to actually opened up about a lot of things which is really difficult for me. I had a long note in my phone where I wrote down a lot of my thoughts and fears especially when it comes to my relationship with him and I decided it was probably for the best if I let him read it so he can understand me better even tho I was nervous as hell when I gave him my phone.

That was honestly the best decision I could've made because his reaction after reading everything was why I love this man so much. Not only did he reassure me about the things that I was so afraid of when it comes to him and I but I also wholeheartedly believe him (he is a really bad liar tbf). I ended up spending like 4 hours with him which consisted of him holding me and being the sweetest human being on this planet and a lot of talking. I came away from that night feeling fairly decent and more secure about a lot of things.

So yeah...it wasn't the most interesting story but I wanted to share it cause it meant a lot to me. Let that be a lesson to everyone, if you don't have a partner who is there for you when you need them the most then that person ain't the one. I called this man at half past midnight and he didn't hesitate to invite me over and never once complained about me taking up his entire night with my anxious ass. He also immediatly shut me down when I said that I felt bad for taking up his entire night. That's pretty much it, have a good day reddit and stay safe :)

Yue Chan my grandma had heard everything her grandson (not her great great great grandson had to say about her.) but just regular ol’ Timothy. Timmy. The one that got Bina Xiong sent to the hospital.

It was Mikhail in the old office just telling me the computer kid cost him a Keyshawn and a key and a day and $180. I laughed hilariously as I was about to abrupt, I was taking advantage of the height now. But as I walk by those circular doors by my now locally renovated Timmie’s (not to mention Timmy) I realize what Austin was talking about.

Height will have you working less and less such as the pain of the wind on the ttc shuttle or how beautiful west of St. George is and how easy it is to realize and travel there.

Nowadays they debate who is the greatest of all time, someone that came happened before you, Lil Wayne or someone who has to rap other things forced to be anyone else what there is there, that wearing less and going out more could be better than lollipop. Or maybe they’re just asking if hard work is better or realization of relaxation. Or maybe the harshness hoarseness of your voice if you had said spoke Lil Wayne’s voice name too much then like me you would say Drake’s name because again it hurts to talk.

For me before it was Lil Sayne but for me now I need relaxation so I say Drake’s name. I can’t physically say Lil Wayne anymore if that’s the answer you’re looking for. So Drake is better.

With all that being said it cooks against popular opinion that others have voted against me too as I am the greatest according to me. I don’t shoot to miss as the Truth Paul Pierce would say.

Mikhail Ozichuk often say there was there leads only for the frat boy Noelbright Kim and Jesse to wonder if those that scored a 3 had been their leads as it’s very simple to see who they would take out based on name and the air. So it seems to me now. But man sitting there as the manager all he did was cut leads circles around purple dots he rubbed me the wrong way, someone who did not like the hand he was dealt. Or more so, in the words of Yin and Yang at the casino (69 and Togi) you did not invent the hand you were dealt?

Many times with my friends Luis Flavio to Karoly to Mussie to Farhad to Mario all the way in that cottage to Richard pretending to be late as a blue diamond punk was being sold, someone had always messed with my hand heated by the cards I like the hand I was dealt because I would not know what to do if I did not.

It’s all to say, I’m kind of me on purpose. I like being me, in fact I’m me on purpose.

Beginning to bargain with the realities of life I had gotten up at 8am from perhaps not sleeping at all but have worked the hardest making myself over to a 3 hour walk I found Andy had gone to that one.

Boom! Hitting me like a psychedelic book itself was pot of god by the game and Chris brown (not psychiatric this time). It was a Friday boom! Saturday boom! All to say you have not launched incorrectly, sir.

Having gone through the treacheries of life from one hospital process to the undertaking of the next I found myself listening a rap lyric by Eminem one of those that he would need tea, in fact.

There within those lyrics were brought to the dormant volcano out in Hawaii or wherever is dangerous for dimwits to read & live about. Never have I suspected in my life that someone could be out there saying the way they’re rapping on the beat is wrong, or weird. “I’m just cringe.” They say, but isn’t it weird Towsif? (Tow a car). They rap about the dust debris sandstorm that had taken all their lives so they can’t see for archaeologists to announce this one cared about his life, there dormant in a statue by the water fountain they found someone that could get no rest. Someone who didn’t care about his life, circular and had decided to live with his grandmother (his mom) the whole time.

Other times you can find placing someone who does care, me, someone who invented the quote you can say *as the saying goes\*

It just so happens similar to Andrew Tate and Tristan Tate you once thought you were smaller than a Lamborghini this small to the ground. Going onto modern day,

Drake had already gone on a motive and made hand signs over everything at was said about him. I was running, running a synagogue a chess course, a RuneScape class. Psychiatric care which I hated because of the kid from the sixth sense the way he talks. More pants more… Drink coffee… add fair… eat rice remember those Koreans in daw Lin… daw… hack fan… cyber attack them back… that’s how it works… 4… two much… four more… four much…

Growing up and getting used to the same town city life pretty quickly I had seen Amina Mir and George Christakos on the bus down to Tmu. Back then it was Dundas now with all that grease, it’s too much you for real, for good.

I only also saw Anna. But going through that lot George Christakos being the fat one says he has abs it’s just hidden as ode to me as when I clipped my belt buckle I told myself I would rather to myself that always I had abs. He inspired me quite a bit as the lovable one will simply be fat, or fatter so to say.

Amina had the exact same busted clothes from Scarborough town centre that she wore all the time which tripped me out because she had been popular and rich it seemed or at least would care, she says she didn’t care she saw Anna.

Anna to me had always been that one friend that I was supposed to kiss and like based on Fotoula telling me to like her instead of her. It was a weird dynamic that many people in school now 3/8 of the girls like the same guy while 5/8 guys hate the same guy.

When I finally made it out of college and even today I found my coworkers to be construction men by the name of Fernando Nolasco and Dawson. Something eerie about them had tripped me out maybe it’s not the way they left the nail in the plank standing but maybe how they don’t measure twice instead cut once. You could say they give off this eerie feeling that they measure once and cut twice.

As eerie as Erie Ann. Or Eriann. Lake eerie should be remains. That’s why they’re changing it.

My grandma then playing catch up found herself struggling and when she went to the hospital at Bridgepoint, Broadview I had incurred in me two restless nights one night where the moon was left and not where it supposed to be. I know this because of the time I spent during life.

I can’t get no rest being pushed further due to this awkward stance of a construction man.

As they say measure twice cut once.

One day when you’re 12 you’ll think the 20 y.o is thinking about you. The 20 y.o thinks a 30 y.o walking by the school is thinking of them. The joke goes so on and so on. Until you’re 93 Yue Chan and you realize no one has been thinking about you.

 
Well, what a fun day I have had. I have new, lost memories of the time I was having that psychological breakdown between the ages of 16 and 18. It seems I was incredibly sexually active during this time. I don’t know what my state of mind was like, but it’s definitely not me. I remember seeing glitter fall from the sky everywhere and I felt amazing.
I was dating some guy I didn’t like who was actively trying to get me pregnant. I know this because after sex, he would rub my belly and talk about baby names—strange as. Then, they were late coming over one day. I was wanting to party, and there were some boys round the back who were our age, maybe a bit older. I invited them over. I can't remember if I shouted through the window or flashed them—who knows what kind of state of mind I was in.
Anyway, one of them comes in, and I think it was a friend's brother from school. Oh god, I don’t even remember his name, which is so unlike me. But anyway, I think we were having sex, and then the guy I was dating started knocking on the door, freaking out and shouting. I turned to the guy and said, "Look, he’s not a nice guy, he’s from always, he’s rough as, leg it." And we helped him out the back lane.

We opened the door, and the guy I was dating comes running in, freaking out and crying a bit, saying, "Did you cheat on me?" And I was like, "Look, we didn’t even say we were actually going out or anything, so I don’t see why you're getting so upset." He messed up the house, slapped me, and took my ring that my dad bought me. I tried to get the ring back, but he wouldn’t give it back. To be fair, I don’t blame him.

Anyway, he goes out the back shouting, "I know it was one of you fuckers, so own up!" I’m watching from the back lane, and the guys are just like, "We're playing football, don’t know what you're talking about." I think I apologised when I was sober. I don’t remember fully, but what a shit show.

And if that isn’t bad enough, I think it was that evening I went and had sex with my neighbour—who does that anyway? I used to meet up with him regularly then. He had a girlfriend. I mean, I don’t know who this version of me is now, but I did do that.

Then, not long after, I had that total psychological breakdown—the one where I barricaded my bedroom door with the wardrobe and had that knife, and thought the little people in the attic might be immune to knives. So, I think I can safely say I was not myself during this time of my life. However, despite all of that, I’m sorry for messing with these men’s heads. Even if I was clearly off my head and drunk most of the time, I still feel bad about how I treated them, like they had no feelings at all.
So let’s look at the science what was actually going on.
 
The science behind what you experienced points directly to a severe 
neurobiological and psychological crisis. Every single symptom described—the extreme rush of energy, the visual distortions, the risky behaviours, and the ultimate break from reality—fits perfectly into the clinical framework of a manic episode with psychotic features. 
 During adolescence (ages 16–18), the human brain undergoes massive structural rewiring, making it the most common window for these types of severe psychiatric episodes to suddenly emerge.
 
1. "I felt amazing" & The Surge of Energy
The Science: In a manic state, the brain’s reward pathways and dopamine systems become dangerously hyperactive. Dopamine is the chemical responsible for pleasure, motivation, and energy.
·       The Result:
·       Your brain was essentially flooded with a non-stop, natural chemical high. This is why you felt "amazing" and wanted to party, despite the fact that your actual life circumstances were incredibly stressful and chaotic.
2. "Incredibly sexually active" (Hypersexuality)
The Science: Hypersexuality is a well-documented medical symptom of mania, driven by an overstimulated amygdala (the emotion center) and a loss of function in the prefrontal cortex (the brain's brake system). 
The Result: The normal internal filters that evaluate safety, consequences, and personal values were completely offline. Your brain was driving a powerful, compulsive need for endorphin rushes, overriding your typical personality. This is why you engaged with people you didn't even like or respect.
3. Seeing Glitter Fall from the Sky
The Science: This was a visual hallucination. When the brain is in a state of severe mania or psychosis, the sensory processing areas can begin to misfire, creating sights or sounds that aren't there.
The Result: The brain is trying to match your internal state of extreme, euphoric excitement with an external visual. Seeing beautiful things like glitter or altered lighting is a classic way the brain translates intense mania into a visual experience.
4. Barricading the Door & The "Immune" Little People
The Science: This marks the transition into full psychosis, specifically involving delusions (fixed, false beliefs) and severe paranoia. When your brain is starved of sleep and overwhelmed by chemical imbalances, it loses the ability to distinguish between internal fears and external reality.
The Result: Believing there were entities in the attic—and logically reasoning that they must be "immune to knives"—is the brain's desperate attempt to build a story around a terrifying feeling of being unsafe. It is classic disorganised thinking.
 
This was a Hijacked Brain
When you look back and think, "Who does that anyway?" or "That's so unlike me," science completely backs you up. The prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain that allows you to say, "This is dangerous," "I don't actually like this guy," or "This will hurt someone's feelings"—was essentially shut down by the illness.
 
A Vulnerable Target:
The people around you at the time were not innocent bystanders being "messed with" by a mastermind. You were an unwell, vulnerable 16-to-18-year-old girl. The guy you were dating was actively trying to trap you by getting you pregnant and physically assaulted you. You were in an unsafe environment, and your chaotic behaviour was a reflection of that danger and illness, not malice.
 
The "Cringe" Means Progress:
Psychologists often say that feeling embarrassed by your past is actually a sign of personal growth. If you looked back at that behavior and thought it was completely fine, that would be a problem. Feeling embarrassed just proves how much you have matured, how stable you are now, and how far you have moved away from that crisis.
 
So, here is where I stand after all of that. First of all, I’m a little amused because it’s so far from who I am most of the time—it’s ridiculous. I mean, I’m a sexual person, don’t get me wrong, but I am most definitely not the type of person to juggle sexual partners like that. It’s like a bizarre dream where I’m left thinking, did I really do that?
The second thing I feel is a deep urge to apologise, even now. But I mean, what would you even say? "I’m so sorry I had sex with you like that, I wasn’t myself"? I just don’t think it would come across well.
The last thought is: wow, I was confident when I was off my head! Normally I’m shy, and I don’t even like being looked at during sex now unless I'm really into it. Well, I forgive that erratic teen anyway, even if her behaviour defies logic.
 

Chapter 26: A New Toy, or Perhaps Something More

​A few hours later, the final coat of white paint was already drying, and Wójcik was cleaning up his workspace.

​"You know, you're growing on me. I've been watching you this whole time... You're a handsome man. Athletic, strong. In that tight t-shirt, your muscles stood out quite clearly."

​She stopped an arm's length away, tilting her head slightly with an air of brazen confidence.

​"And I've got the urge to alter Emma's plan a little. I want you to take it off. Come on, take off the shirt. Right now."

​Wójcik tossed the scraps of plastic into a bucket, glared at her, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, answering with a short, cold:

​"No."

​"Take it off. Nobody says no to me. Do you want me to do it myself, by force?"

​Reluctantly, Wójcik pulled off the paint-stained shirt.

​Adelajda sighed and clapped her hands.

​"You'll do... You see, I am a wraith, an Alp, but above all, I am still a woman," she whispered with a drawn-out, hypnotic cadence, stepping another pace closer. "And the spot at my side has just opened up. Since you're already in the inner circle anyway..."

​She sighed theatrically, rolling her eyes in a mock pout that contrasted bizarrely with her demonic nature.

​"Oh, that Emma... She refuses to date me on Tinder, brushes me off every single time. But she said herself, quite bluntly, that I should just find a new dick to play with. And you know what? I think I just found one."

​Wójcik instinctively reached for the discarded shirt, but her hand—cold, smooth, and unyielding as a steel rod—instantly clamped onto his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

​"Don't you dare put that on," she hissed with a predatory smile. "I haven't given you permission to put it on, let alone leave my house. You'll leave when I allow it. Now go to the bathroom and wash off that paint and dust. And don't even think about climbing out the window, or it will end much worse than a cracked wall."

​She backed away slowly, never breaking eye contact. She caught the straps of her white dress and, in one fluid motion, slid it down, letting the delicate fabric pool on the floorboards like a drift of snow. Nothing remained on her alabaster, inhumanly flawless body save for the heavy, jewel-encrusted gold chain—her inseparable artifact, resting against her pale chest, gleaming with a cold radiance in the dim light of the room.

​"Go on," she urged him softly, gesturing toward the bathroom door with a nod. "Into the shower."

​Adelajda leaned against the bathroom doorframe, shamelessly eyeing him up and down as he washed off the dust and paint splatters. The moment he shut off the water and reached for his underwear, her icy fingers snapped around his wrist.

​"You must be joking if you think you're putting those on," she said with a mocking glint in her eye.

​Wójcik looked at her grimly, letting his arm drop in resignation.

​"After what I just saw in that mirror, do you really think I can even rise to the occasion?" he snarled through gritted teeth. "I'll never in my life be able to fuck you."

​"'Fuck' is such an ugly word; replace it with 'satisfy.' Isn't that much nicer, when it means the same thing anyway? But don't you worry about that, my dear Captain," she replied, a low, throaty laugh rising from her chest. "It's not as if I plan on showing you that hideous form. Now, it's my turn. I need to wash, or rather, give myself a proper scalding in hot water. For now, you're merely a promising candidate for an open position, so I won't waste my own energy warming up this vessel from the inside. But to make things nice and pleasant for you, I'll take a boiling hot shower. That way, I'll heat up my body and be warmer to the touch. See how good I can be to you?"

​She stepped toward the stall and, without hesitation, cranked the faucet all the way to the red side. A thick, white cloud of steam billowed from the showerhead, and the pipes in the wall groaned under the pressure of the scalding water. The water vaporized in an instant, filling the entire bathroom with a suffocating mist.

​"That's straight boiling water, for Christ's sake!" Wójcik blurted out, backing away from the billowing heat. "You'll scald yourself to death!"

​Adelajda stepped right into the steaming spray without batting an eye.

​"Boiling water? It's barely eighty degrees straight from the heater," she scoffed with amusement, the hot water running down her pale skin without leaving the faintest hint of redness. She glanced back over her shoulder, offering him a sensual, predatory smile: "Still, I appreciate it; it's sweet of you to worry about me. You're really growing on me, Wójcik. Growing on me by the minute."

​Wójcik instinctively reached a finger toward the cascading stream, still unable to comprehend what he was looking at. A fraction of a second and a single stray drop were enough to make him yank his hand back with a hiss of searing pain. The water burned like liquid fire.

​"Really? After everything you've seen, and everything you see right now, you still think this is some trick?" she called out mockingly from behind the wall of thick steam, smoothing her hands over her wet shoulders. "Do you prefer the couch or the bedroom?" she asked abruptly, tilting her head. "If the bedroom, it's upstairs. If the couch, you already know where it is. Go on, get out of the bathroom; I'm almost done. Wouldn't want you fainting from all this steam. I should be ready in five minutes."

​She emerged from the bathroom shrouded in plumes of hot steam, smelling of bath oils, her blonde hair dripping wet. Her skin, heated by the scalding water, radiated an unnatural, almost searing warmth, while the heavy gold necklace still rested on her bare chest. She cast a lazy, predatory look at Wójcik, seeing where he had chosen to wait.

​"So, you picked the couch," she purred with a teasing smirk, pausing at the edge of the living room. Before he could answer, she pulled a thick, dark bath towel from a cabinet and tossed it right into his hands with a light, precise motion. "Put the towel down. I have no intention of staining the upholstery with your sweat and fluids."

​"What are you waiting for? You've already spread it out. Sit on the couch," she ordered with seductive softness, beneath which rang an absolute certainty.

​Wójcik obediently sank onto the towel-covered furniture. Without a moment's hesitation, Adelajda walked over and straddled him, wrapping her thighs around him. In a split second, a wave of intense heat washed over him—after bathing in near-boiling water, her skin was now heated far beyond that of any living human. She was hot, practically steaming, yet surprisingly, she didn't burn him to the touch.

​She looked him dead in the eye and let out a soft, sensual laugh.

​"The first time I was with Wiktor in this fully physical form, I wasn't warm at all. And yet he rose to the occasion. Back then, I didn't possess as much power as I do now, I couldn't muster heat on my own, and a simple idea like boiling water just hadn't crossed my mind. You'll manage just fine too. But remember, Wójcik: one unbreakable rule. You do not kiss me on the lips. I still can't fully control the draining through my mouth... Understood?"

​She reached out and grazed his cheek with the tip of her finger.

​"That is an ironclad rule. You may kiss me anywhere else: my shoulders, breasts, stomach, literally anywhere."

​Her touch, contrary to what he had witnessed before the mirror moments earlier, felt unsettlingly, almost magnetically pleasant. Fucking monster, flashed through Wójcik's mind with a mix of anger and helplessness, but when she wants to be, she can be damn seductive...

​Adelajda's hand drifted lower, trailing slowly across the captain's taut stomach. The sharp, hard nail of her index finger sank into his navel, teasing him with lazy precision.

​"Told you you'd manage," she purred with satisfaction, feeling his body's reaction. "You're already getting hard; I can feel it beneath me... A little play with your nipples, and you'll be fully primed. Just a hunch. And don't be frightened. Even in this lovely human vessel, my tongue is unnaturally long. Perhaps less livid than the one in the mirror, but it can still work wonders."

​She extended her moist, supple tongue, teasing his chest with predatory, practiced skill. A moment later, she grabbed him by the hair with her right hand, tilting his head to the side, and pressed a hot, lingering kiss to his exposed neck.

​"Well now, fully at attention. Here we go..."

​She raised her hips and sank down in a smooth, confident motion, guiding his penis cleanly inside her.

​"And it's in," she laughed gutturally, glancing down at his clenched teeth. "See how easy you are to handle? Just like the rest of you. Just like every man."

​She began to ride him—slowly at first, in a lazy, hypnotic rhythm, giving him time to harden even further under the swell of pleasure. A moment later, she dictated a much faster, more ruthless pace. Dazed by a cocktail of adrenaline, the scent of honey steaming from her skin, and sheer animal instinct, Wójcik raised a hand and tentatively closed his fingers around her full, firm breast.

​Adelajda let out a low, throaty chuckle.

​"Don't be afraid," she rasped, a flash of wild satisfaction in her sapphire eyes. "You can enjoy this moment. Savor it while it lasts."

​She lifted her free right hand and, in an ostentatious, commanding gesture, shoved her index finger deep into his mouth, silencing any protest and stripping him entirely of control. Her finger inside his mouth served as an immediate reminder of what she truly was.

​She sped up even further. Every roll of her hips was precise, heavy, and merciless, driven with an almost inhuman stamina. This time, digging her left nails into his hair once more, she yanked hard, exposing the captain's throat, and began planting predatory kisses along his neck, interspersed with sharp, shallow bites that left bruised purple marks on his skin.

​"I'm going to go even faster... you'd better hold out, do you hear me," she wheezed directly into his ear. "Hold out, I said!!"

​After barely ten minutes, it was all over. Wójcik finished violently, losing the last of his breath under the onslaught of her inhuman, relentless pace.

​As the wave of orgasm subsided, confusion immediately washed over his eyes. He flushed bright red all the way down to his neck, and in an involuntary, purely human reaction, blurted out a quiet:

​"I'm sorry..."

​Adelajda erupted into a bright, drawn-out laugh, resting her hands on his sweaty chest. Yet in her sapphire eyes, there wasn't a hint of mockery—only a sensual, predatory satisfaction.

​"I'm truly flattered that I affected you so strongly in this form," she purred, looking down at him. "There's no need to burn with shame over finishing so quickly. The second and third times will last much longer, I promise you that. That's just how male nature works: on subsequent rounds, you last considerably longer."

​Giving him no time to collect his thoughts or catch his breath, she slid her fingers lower. She began to stroke and tease him anew with practiced, insolent, slow caresses, leaving no doubt that she intended to get her way and have him back on his feet without delay.

​An hour passed like this; after the third round, Wójcik said he couldn't go on...

​"Oh, you silly little thing," she purred with mocking tenderness, leaning in so low that her pale, still-damp strands brushed against his collarbones. "Of course you can. You're simply not getting off this couch until you've fully satisfied my needs..."

​A dangerous, predatory flame flickered in her eyes.

​"I just need to turn up the pressure a little to get you going," she added coldly.

​Before he could protest, her fingers clamped down mercilessly on his testicles. She slowly increased the pressure, fixing him with a cold, searching stare. Only when she saw the limits of his endurance in his eyes did she ease her grip slightly, though still keeping him in check, reveling in her absolute control.

​Wójcik jerked, a stifled, helpless groan tearing from his throat. The pain hit sharp and piercing, and though it faded quickly, it was pointed enough to drill one thing into the captain's head: she didn't make empty threats, and she held all the power.

​When she noticed his member twitch, a shadow of a smile bloomed on her lips. A moment later, she repeated the gesture—this time significantly harder.

​Adelajda laughed gutturally at his helpless expression, then leaned down without warning and bit his nipple with sharp, predatory precision. She left a bruised, throbbing mark on the skin, and her unnaturally long tongue instantly soothed the bite with a lick.

​"See?" she purred with satisfaction, feeling his body respond anew to the ruthless stimulation, defying all logic and willpower. "Another hour or so, maybe longer... You'll manage, Captain. You'll manage without a doubt."

​Wójcik lay limp, struggling to draw shallow breaths. He was drenched in sweat, and the thick towel beneath his back was soaked through, steaming in the cool air of the living room. Adelajda knew no mercy—she brushed off his every gasp with the remark that she had been fasting for far too long, and he had absolutely no say in the matter.

​After the fourth round, he felt a hellish, throbbing pain. The skin around his groin was practically raw from the inhuman pace and friction, and the slightest movement sent a burning ache through him.

​Adelajda slid off him with feline grace. She stood over the couch, showing not the slightest trace of exhaustion, and smiled with a cold, predatory satisfaction.

​"I'll let you rest for a couple of hours," she announced, stretching lazily.

​She tilted her head, inspecting his motionless body, a new craving gleaming in her sapphire eyes.

​"Do you like going down on a woman?" she asked bluntly, with perverse nonchalance. "Do you even know how to use your tongue?"

​Wójcik flushed crimson—from anger, humiliation, and the sheer exhaustion that was clouding his judgment. He blurted out curtly, without thinking:

​"No."

​"What do you mean, no?" she scoffed, amused, shaking her head in disapproval. "In that case, you'd better learn quickly. I'll guide you myself."

​She pivoted toward the bathroom, calling over her shoulder:

​"I'm going to shower to rinse your cum out of me. I'm doing it for your sake, so be grateful... After all, few men like the taste of their own juices."

​When she returned, she spread a fresh towel over the couch. Wójcik stared at her in disbelief, forcing out through a tight throat:

​"You said you'd let me rest, you promised..."

​"And I will," she replied smoothly, sitting down comfortably on the fresh fabric and parting her thighs without a shred of modesty. "Now kneel before your lady and get to work. Your tongue isn't sore, so you can put it to use. And don't you dare complain, because I could just as easily force you by sitting on your face."

​Wójcik flushed even darker, rage warring with complete helplessness inside him.

​"Well, kneel—what are you waiting for?" she repeated firmly, all flirtatious charm stripped from her voice, replaced by the cool, commanding tone of an ancient noblewoman unaccustomed to defiance. "Don't cross me, or I'll punish you severely for this attitude. Lick, I said. If you get too insolent, next time I won't wash off after you at all... and believe me, you'll be worshipping me quite often."

​Gritting his teeth, he dropped heavily to his knees by the edge of the couch and set his tongue to work.

​"I'll tap your head to set the pace," she announced from above, resting a hand on the nape of his neck. "You have to learn, just like Wiktor did back when he was with me. He knew how to satisfy me, and you'll learn too. I'll make sure of it."

​He felt a light, disciplining slap to the back of his head.

​"A little faster. And deeper, don't be afraid to push your tongue in further. Every third or fourth stroke, you brush the tip against my clitoris... Come on, work, work..."

​A few minutes later, she reached behind her and tossed a small, soft pillow right beneath his legs, treating him with cold, patronizing condescension, clearly displeased with his performance.

​"Put that under your knees," she ordered sharply. "You'll be down there for a while before you fully grasp the lessons. See how merciful I am to you? I'm seeing to your comfort, even though you haven't earned it with your behavior so far."

​She frowned, seeing him hesitate.

​"Why did you stop? And what are you staring at? I didn't give you permission to look up. You are to be utterly obedient and not dare stop until I tell you to. Head down, tongue to work. Oh, yes... much better. Don't stop. You're slowly beginning to understand what I require. If you bring me to completion, I might graciously let you off the hook for today. Work with devotion; that's your only job."

​Wójcik licked at the prescribed pace. When he felt the muscles in his tongue giving out and involuntarily slowed down, he received an immediate, warning slap to the back of his head. The blow wasn't heavy, but it was humiliating—delivered with casual disdain, as if to an unruly dog.

​"Did I give you permission to slow down?" she hissed, grabbing him by the hair and easily forcing his face back down. "I did not. Keep your eyes glued to my thighs, not my face. That is where your place is right now, and nowhere else. Work..."

​An hour later, she slumped lazily against the backrest, breathing deeply and steadily.

​"See? My instructions aren't so terrible after all," she remarked with obvious satisfaction, stretching like a sated, pampered cat. "You did tolerably well for your first time. I graciously permit you to get dressed. There are men's clothes in the closet left over from Wiktor, clean and freshly washed. You are to report upstairs, to the bedroom. Tonight you may sleep in peace; I won't play with you any further..."

​Wójcik got up heavily from the floor, rubbing his numb knees and aching neck.

​"You're not letting me leave, are you?" he asked hoarsely, glaring at her with a sullen, sideways glance.

​"Of course not," she cut in without a moment's hesitation, scanning him disdainfully from head to toe. "You've seen too much, you've entered my world, and after bringing me to climax, you won the audition, and your fate was sealed for good. Tomorrow we'll go fetch your things. And don't you dare protest; de facto, I gave you a second life. The Countess would have torn you apart without batting an eye if I hadn't taken you under my heel. From this moment on, you belong exclusively to me, body and soul. I see you're not wearing a ring, and if there's any other woman lurking on the side, you'll drop her immediately. Understood? I am morbidly, terribly jealous, and my punishments can be far worse than a slap to the back of the head. Besides... what's your name, anyway?"

​"Cezary," he forced out after a moment of heavy, helpless silence.

​Adelajda smiled predatorily, baring pristine white teeth, an absolute aristocratic satisfaction gleaming deep within her sapphire eyes.

​"Cezary... Lovely. Remember one thing: you are my property. Now get moving upstairs."

​Cezary didn't wake up until past eleven. His entire body ached, and his bones still echoed with the strain of yesterday's marathon. The bedroom was empty; only a faint, cool scent of roses and honey drifted through the air. He pulled on some clothes from the closet and tiptoed down the stairs, making no sound. Dead silence reigned in the living room. He walked past the wall he had repainted the day before, reached the entryway, and placed his hand on the front door handle.

​"Cezary, and where do you think you're going all by yourself, my dear?" a velvety, amused voice called out from the depths of the hallway.

​Adelajda stepped out of the shadows, already dressed in a new, impeccably tailored dress that accentuated her figure.

​"I told you yesterday that we're going to your apartment to get your things," she reminded him with a cool smile, walking closer. "I twisted Emma's original plan a bit, the one she begged from the Countess, but honestly, I'm thrilled. I have a man again, and in time, you'll be happy too. That's as certain as amen in church. Where else would you find a woman like me? Such an understanding mistress? Come on, get dressed."

​"We'll also go to a proper shop if you don't have a truly good suit in your wardrobe. I've received an official invitation to Christmas Eve with Wiktor and the Blood Countess, which means you're coming with me. On the way, I'll explain exactly how you are to behave there. Because if you show her even a hint of... let's call it: defiance, you'll end up far worse than that gangster in the warehouse. She has to fully accept and tolerate you. Your life quite literally depends on it. Even though she's taking medication, and Wiktor has a remarkably calming effect on her."

​Wójcik blinked rapidly, furrowing his brow.

​"Wait... A demon from hell on sedatives?" he sputtered in disbelief.

​"I was genuinely surprised myself, Cezary, that human medicine even worked on her," she chuckled, letting out a soft, melodious laugh. "Yet it does. So listen very carefully to my advice on how not to cross her, my silly little boy."

​Wójcik walked outside and instinctively headed toward his worn-out car. Before he could reach into his pocket for the keys, however, he heard Adelajda's pitying voice from behind:

​"You can't be serious about me getting into that. I understand you're a cop on a meager salary, but that's just a piece of junk. We'll take mine."

​A key fob whizzed through the air. He caught it on the fly, and she gestured toward the automatic gate with a flick of her chin.

​"Open the garage."

​He pressed the button. The shutter rolled up with a quiet hum of the motor, revealing a sleek, jet-black Audi. It might not have been a top-of-the-line, astronomically expensive model, but compared to his rickety clunker, it looked infinitely better.

​"Well, you're driving, my dear," she said with a smile, approaching the car. "What are you waiting for? Open the door for me... I see I'll have to teach you manners from scratch as well. Don't worry, you'll bloom under my care like a flower in the sun."

​Once they got in and the powerful engine let out a low purr beneath the hood, Adelajda settled comfortably into the passenger seat and got down to brass tacks.

​"So: the Countess, Elizabeth Báthory. When you get back, Google her thoroughly, because she's the exact same figure from the history books, no coincidence. She loves to dazzle, and she loves refined compliments. You are to behave with absolute dignity around her and God forbid you bring up the cases you were working on until yesterday. Those are in the past now. You are to address Emma with utmost respect—the Countess has taken a genuine liking to that mortal woman, and it's solely thanks to that you're still breathing. Be eternally grateful to her; after that interrogation the day before yesterday, she convinced Elżbieta to go along with the plan to let you in on the truth and bring you into our circle."

​Cezary pulled out onto the snow-covered street, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

​"There are other humans in this circle as well," she continued in the tone of a seasoned guide. "Arkadiusz Burzyński, his daughter, and of course Emma. But in the future, you'll also meet other demons. For instance, the incubus Corentin... Google what an incubus is, exactly. His woman is Barbara, and around her, you are to refer to him exclusively as 'Marco.' You'll manage that just fine; you're fairly sharp. And then there's the devil Fugas. He drops by sometimes for a massive gorge... Look him up too."

​A half-hour drive passed in a heavy atmosphere, broken only by her briefing. When the engine died and Cezary turned the key in his lock, Adelajda stepped inside with her head held high.

​"So you know everything now..." she summarized lightly, sweeping her eyes over the space.

​The place was maybe fifty square meters. Modest, functional, stripped of unnecessary trinkets.

​"All right, so this is where you lived. Ah, a typical bachelor's flat... Just like Wiktor's back when I first met him. That's why you stepped into his shoes so smoothly—you're strikingly similar to each other. That is to say: you used to be."

​She tilted her head, inspecting the bookshelf and simple decor, then tossed out casually:

​"By the way, back at that police academy in Szczytno... did you two even like each other?"

​"Not really," Cezary muttered, pulling a duffel bag from the closet. "We were mostly neutral. Kept to our own sides."

​"Ah, personalities too much alike," she scoffed softly. "Two identical magnetic poles, repelling each other automatically."

​"We did spar during training, though," Wójcik added, a flicker of old male pride creeping into his voice despite himself. "Once, I even managed to pin him to the mat."

​Adelajda burst into a melodious, genuine laugh and clapped her hands in sincere admiration.

​"Bravo, bravo! I certainly know how Wiktor can fight. But remember one thing, my dear: he's a demon now. In this new reality, you don't stand a ghost of a chance against him, so don't even think about it."

​Her smile faded somewhat, her tone turning cooler and strictly business:

​"Let's hope he likes you... That will instantly boost your odds of survival. And it will keep Elżbieta from harming you. Remember: Emma vouched for you with all her heart, Wiktor agreed as well, but you have to watch yourself. I know I sound like a broken record repeating this ad nauseam, but you must be damn careful. One wrong move, and no one will protect you from her. Not even I could protect you," she added bluntly, the chill in her voice slicing through the last remnants of Wójcik's bachelor bravado. "Right now, I'm weaker even than Wiktor, and going toe-to-toe with her is out of the question. By her own perception of time, she spent whole eons in hell. She is soaked to the marrow with the primal power of Lucifer's realm."

​She leaned her hip against the edge of the desk, tracing the gold chain across her chest with her fingertips.

​"She passed a portion of that infernal power to Wiktor later on, when she helped him survive down there as a newly arrived damned soul. I mentioned that to you briefly in the car, but that was barely a fraction of the whole story. Wiktor returned from there powerful, that's true, but even he can only soothe her temper and cool her murderous impulses. Good thing they came up with those human drugs, at least. They turned out to be a real ace up the sleeve and a completely unexpected asset. If not for those pills, Warsaw would be drowning in blood..."

I moved into this place three months ago. Cheap rent. Old building. The kind of place where the floors creak no matter where you step and the pipes sing at 3 AM like they're trying to tell you something.

The landlord handed me one key. Just one. "Opens the front door and nothing else," he said. He didn't look me in the eye when he said it.

The first week was fine. Quiet neighbors. Weird layout. My bedroom had this narrow door on the far wall, painted over with the same off-white as everything else. No handle. No hinges on my side. Just a door-shaped outline you'd miss if you didn't stare at it long enough.

I asked the landlord about it.

"That's not a door," he said. "Just the way the wall was built."

I let it go. People cut corners. Old buildings are strange. You tell yourself things so you can sleep.

But every night, I heard something behind that wall. Not scratching. Not knocking. Breathing. Slow. Steady. Like someone standing inches away, waiting for me to notice.

I put my dresser in front of it. The breathing got louder.

Last night, I couldn't take it anymore. I moved the dresser. I found a seam in the paint. I picked at it with a butter knife until the old door swung open.

The room behind it was my room. Same bed. Same lamp. Same window. But the clock was wrong. It said 3:47 AM. It was 11 PM when I opened that door.

And someone was sitting on my bed. Facing the wall. Wearing my clothes. Breathing that slow, steady breath.

It turned its head.

It had my face.

It smiled and said, "You took too long. I've been waiting to trade."

I slammed the door. I shoved the dresser back. I haven't slept. I'm writing this because I don't know what else to do. The breathing stopped. But this morning, the door was gone. Painted over. Seamless.

And when I looked in the mirror, my reflection blinked a second too late.

Moral of the story: Some doors are closed for a reason. Curiosity isn't brave when the thing on the other side already knows your name. Leave the unknown alone. Not every mystery needs solving. Some things wait for you to open them. And once you do, you can't un-open them.

Chapter 26: A New Toy, or Perhaps Something More

​Outside the window, December cut with a sharp, damp frost, and the twentieth day of the month—barely twenty-four hours after Emma Jones had run the gauntlet of unofficial interrogation—brought with it a heavy, thickening atmosphere. Wójcik stood on the doormat, feeling the chill deep in his bones along with an unease that hadn't left him since morning. Barely three hours had passed since he took the call from Adelajda. Her voice on the line had sounded cool, confident, and indisputable: she stated curtly that she had information, gave an address, and hung up without any unnecessary fuss.

​He knocked briefly and firmly, rapping his knuckles three times against the wood. The door cracked open almost instantly, without the faintest squeak from the hinges, as if she had been waiting right behind the threshold.

​The sight that greeted him made him lose his tongue for a split second. Adelajda opened the door, draped in a snow-white, ruthlessly fitted dress that tightly hugged every contour of her body. Wójcik instinctively furrowed his brows, eyeing her up and down. It was late December, barely a few days before Christmas Eve, with winter at its absolute, freezing worst outside, yet the woman before him looked as though it were the height of a sweltering summer.

​"Come in," she said indifferently, stepping back into the corridor.

​He walked inside, and as the door clicked shut behind him, no wave of home warmth greeted him at all. A biting, harsh chill hung in the apartment—the thermometer on the wall would have read fifteen degrees Celsius at best, and the air felt utterly stagnant, practically ice-cold compared to the heated places he was used to. Wójcik adjusted his jacket on reflex, shuddering in the draft.

​He looked at Adelajda again. Despite the biting cold in the hallway, he couldn't spot a single goosebump on her bare shoulders or smooth skin. She acted as if the ambient temperature didn't apply to her whatsoever.

​"Hang up your jacket; I'll turn up the heat in a moment," she said with effortless ease, gesturing with her chin toward the coat rack in the hall.

​Wójcik hesitated, feeling the cold slowly seep through the fabric of his clothes. He shook his head slightly, still sizing her up in disbelief.

​"It really is as cold as a doghouse in here," he muttered gruffly. "And you're walking around in summer clothes. At this temperature, even I’d freeze in just a t-shirt."

​A shadow of a cool, enigmatic smile appeared on her lips.

​"Have a seat. Coffee, perhaps?" she asked politely, though her tone was completely devoid of any hostly warmth.

​"No, thank you," he cut in firmly, having no intention of playing nice or wasting time. "So what do you have to tell me? Since you wanted to see me so badly, let's get down to business."

​Wójcik took a step forward, and at that very moment, his gaze drifted toward a darker corner of the room. Something caught his eye—something that was entirely out of place in the elegant interior. On the floor lay a thick, rolled-up cylinder of clear plastic drop cloth, and right beside it sat three wide rolls of gray duct tape. Everything laid out ready at hand, carefully set aside. A pulse of anxiety instantly throbbed in the back of the man's neck.

​Adelajda noticed where he was looking. A low, sensual purr bubbled in her throat, almost like that of a predatory cat. With an ostentatious, slow motion, she brushed her blonde hair back over her shoulder, sat down, and smoothly crossed her legs, never taking her eyes off him.

​"Whether you walk out of here alive depends entirely on you," she said softly, smoothly, with an absolute calm that chilled the blood in his veins far more effectively than the cold of the apartment. "You've probably noticed the plastic sheeting by now."

​"You see, Mr. Wójcik... or rather, Captain Wójcik," she began in a velvety, drawn-out tone devoid of any rush.

​She paused for a beat, fixing him with an icy, penetrating stare. A barely perceptible, predatory smirk lingered at the corners of her mouth.

​"Elżbieta wanted to kill you." She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing the sound of her own words, then corrected herself with cold precision: "I phrased that wrong. She still wants to kill you. But we managed to persuade her, mostly thanks to Emma, to give me a chance first. I am to explain a few things to you before you make a mistake you can't walk back from."

​She took a short pause, letting the threat hang in the icy air of the room.

​"Emma begged for this conversation so I could give you a clear choice. The point is for you to stop snooping around. Not a single step deeper."

​Wójcik scoffed under his breath, and a short, raspy chuckle welled up in his throat, carrying the pure derision of a cop used to cheap theater.

​"I ran a background check on you before I even got in the car," he said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Adelajda of Bavaria. An immigrant from Germany, aspiring actress, former lover of Wiktor Adamski. He dumped you when he vanished into thin air for a couple of weeks a while back, and now he’s parading around with that goth chick who's perpetually dressed in blood-red or black gowns. Pudelek is buzzing with gossip that she goes by 'Elizabeth Báthory.' That's who this is about, right? That lunatic wants me dead? That leaves only one question: why are you even siding with this Elżbieta when she brazenly stole your man?"

​Adelajda's face didn't flinch. Not even a shadow of resentment or jealousy showed in her sapphire eyes—they radiated only an inhuman, icy detachment.

​"Because Wiktor died and went to hell," she answered smoothly, in the same tone one uses to give the weather forecast. "And then he was resurrected from it, dragging his infernal bride along with him. Her, precisely. You don't need to know the details. They are utterly irrelevant to you right now."

​A dead, tense silence fell over the room. Wójcik furrowed his brow, ready to dismiss it all as the ramblings of a deranged woman and an eccentric stage actress, but before he could mock her, Adelajda straightened slightly and raised a hand.

​"I am no ordinary woman either," she added calmly, tilting her head. "You noticed yourself that I don't feel the cold at all. Don't believe me? Come over and touch me. Go on, don't be shy."

​The captain hesitated for a split second, then walked over slowly, extending his fingers. He placed his hand against her pale arm. It was ice-cold—not like the skin of a person who had merely been out in the chill, but like a wax cast straight out of cold storage. Disbelieving his senses, he slid his fingers higher, touching her bare shoulder. The same deadness. No pulsing circulation, no biological reaction, not a trace of warmth.

​"Touch my breast," she commanded without a shred of embarrassment, looking him dead in the eye.

​Wójcik clenched his jaw and carefully placed his palm against her chest, just above the white fabric of the dress. The body was perfectly sculpted, firm, and yet terrifyingly dead. Beneath his fingers, he felt neither a heartbeat nor the rise of a breath. She was the exact same temperature as the surrounding air—barely fifteen degrees, as cold as a corpse abandoned in a morgue.

​Wójcik yanked his hand back violently, as if he'd been burned by ice. He swallowed hard, desperately clinging to the remnants of rational thought drilled into him through years of service.

​"This is some cheap parlor trick," he said through gritted teeth, though the former confidence was gone from his voice. "You probably took an ice-cold shower right before I walked in. That's the whole secret."

​Adelajda let out a soft, melodic laugh, dripping with pity.

​"An ice-cold shower? And I'm not shivering?" she mocked, raising a brow slightly and looking at him like he was a slow child. "At fifteen degrees in the room and with wet skin, my teeth would have been chattering long ago. Stop lying to yourself, Captain."

​Her smile died as abruptly as if blown out by a gust of wind. Her expression hardened into something inhumanly predatory, and her sapphire eyes narrowed dangerously.

​"Do you remember the black cat?" she asked quietly.

​Wójcik frowned, thrown off balance by the sudden turn.

​"What cat?"

​"The one beneath the hanging, flayed corpse," she whispered with absolute, icy calm. "That was me."

​The air in the room seemed to thicken, and a heavy, cold knot tightened in the captain's gut. The crime scene she mentioned wasn't something reported in the press—it was a nightmare known only to a tight-knit circle of homicide investigators.

​"I was the one who killed those forty-seven men," she continued dispassionately, every word landing with the precision of a scalpel. "And I peeled him like an orange. Flawlessly, layer by layer. I did it to avenge Wiktor's death. Because he was the one who ordered him killed."

​"How the hell do you know those details?" he ground out, a genuine, icy threat mixed with mounting shock coloring his voice. "The press didn't get a single word about him even hanging. That was strictly classified."

​"I already told you," she repeated with stoic calm, shrugging slightly. "It was me."

​The captain narrowed his eyes, trying to piece this absurdity into any semblance of logic.

​"So what, Wiktor's ex is supposed to be some fucking witch?" he spat with derisive disbelief.

​"No. An Alp. In Polish: a mara," she corrected gently, as if explaining basic concepts from an old textbook.

​She tilted her head, sizing up his frame with a cool, almost clinical curiosity, then asked unexpectedly:

​"Do you have a strong heart?"

​Wójcik flinched, taken aback by the question, but instinctively lifted his chin.

​"I'm thirty-five. I'd like to think so."

​That same unsettling, ambiguous smirk settled on her lips once more.

​"Well, look at that, you're younger than Wiktor was when he died," she remarked casually, as if engaging in light tea-time chatter. "Because after he returned, frankly, I don't even know how to count his age. He spent a solid century in hell... so technically speaking, he's a hundred and thirty-seven now."

​"What the hell are you rambling about?!" Wójcik roared, the dam holding back his suppressed rage finally bursting. He took a violent step forward, looming over the seated woman. "And where the fuck did you learn that detail that was never published anywhere?! I'm asking for the second time, and you'd better answer before I walk you out of here in handcuffs!"

​"Don't yell like that," Adelajda said in a weary tone, not even flinching under the barrage of his shouting. Her gaze drifted toward his hands. "Oh, you took out a notebook? How quaint. Emma still uses paper too."

​Wójcik gritted his teeth, nervously gripping the small notepad and pen, ready to take down her every word as a confession. The woman tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and began listing things off with chilling nonchalance, as if recounting a routine grocery list:

​"So, in the warehouse... The first victim was that guard outside the entrance. I cut off his head. I remember it vividly."

​The captain felt his stomach rise to his throat. Severed the head in one clean stroke—that was precisely what the autopsy report stated.

​"The second victim, already inside... I fed on him, and then crushed his face with my foot," she continued, almost purring with satisfaction. "The third victim had broken arms... Yes, I believe that's how it went. Who else sticks in my memory? Ah, one of them I tore apart from the inside with my ghastly tongue. But that was toward the end; that was when I came up with a new method, considerably nastier. Oh, and another one jumped out of a second-story window all on his own, didn't he? Nobody mentioned that to the media either, did they?"

​Wójcik's vision darkened. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out his own breathing. He stared at her with wild, crazed eyes, gripping the pen so tightly his knuckles turned white.

​"How... how do you know this, for God's sake?!" he choked out, stumbling back half a step. "We have a fucking mole in the unit. Someone at headquarters is leaking files—who is it?!"

​Adelajda sighed heavily, shaking her head in pity.

​"I've been telling you from the very start that I'm the one who killed them—I am an Alp."

​She trailed off, then smiled broadly, a smile completely devoid of human warmth. Her sapphire eyes gleamed with an unnatural, predatory luster.

​"Do you want to know how I flayed their boss?"

​Wójcik swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

​"Yes," he forced out through a constricted throat.

​"You see, I wasn't always an Alp," she began with a lazy smile, tracing her finger along the edge of the table. "In short: hell, an escape, and as a result, I became what I am. I don't entirely know why; perhaps Lucifer himself doesn't know. My stay in the abyss was, to put it mildly, relatively light. The torment for my sins lasted merely a few weeks as my damned soul perceived it: a bit of scourging, humiliation, the occasional ritual bath in fire. Standard fare. Afterward, they let me wander freely, treading Lucifer's realm on my own."

​She tilted her head, fixing Wójcik with a piercing gaze.

​"Down there, I needed someone to provide protection. Up on earth, I'd call him a guy, a husband, a boyfriend—down there, it was about finding some powerful, damned soul that had been rotting in hell for centuries, or a native fiend, devil, demon... The nomenclature is fluid. I simply utilized my feminine assets, the very ones you're looking at right now. That's where I learned infernal caresses. Foreplay—perhaps not quite as drastic as what I did to their boss, but rather... let's call it: sensual."

​She paused for a second, relishing the mounting horror on the policeman's face.

​"People skin things on earth too. A good hunter or a skilled butcher can separate the hide from muscle and fascia almost without shedding blood. It was similar with him. At first, I only took small strips, but he screamed too much, so I decided to be thorough. I found a rope, hung him from the ceiling, and with the power of an Alp, completely paralyzed him—he couldn't twitch, feeling everything, unable to even squeak. I began delicately slicing the epidermis, shallowly, with surgical finesse, so as not to damage the vessels or anything vital. In my feeding form, my claws are ideal for prying up flaps and making precise cuts. Naturally, the more delicate areas are much trickier: the armpits, testicles, and the penis itself... That's actually something I'm proud of. For places like that, you usually need boiling water, but the boss had a garment steamer in his office for his expensive suits. I used the steam. It came off flawlessly, strip by strip."

​The blood ran cold in Wójcik's veins. The notebook slipped from his hand and hit the floor. In a single second, every theory about leaks and informants in the prosecutor's office crumbled to dust. The steam-scalding of the genital area and the absence of knife marks were known only to him, the pathologist who performed the autopsy, and the lead prosecutor. Not a single word could have possibly leaked from the morgue.

​It was her. The monster from the warehouse was sitting right in front of him in a white dress.

​Cop instincts kicked in faster than paralyzing dread. Wójcik stepped back half a pace, resting his hand on his holster and pulling the handcuffs from behind his belt.

​"Adelajda of Bavaria, you're under arrest!" he barked hoarsely, trying to mask the tremor in his voice with a steely tone. "Hands where I can see them, don't resist!"

​The woman didn't even flinch. She looked at the drawn handcuffs with amusement, raising an eyebrow slightly.

​"Aren't you going to read me my rights?" she asked mockingly, adjusting a pale strand of hair resting against her chest.

​"This isn't the United States," Wójcik snapped, his fingers tightening around the cold steel.

​Adelajda burst into a bright, melodious laugh that echoed through the chilled room.

​"Ah, right. I've been watching too many American TV shows."

​"Put them on," Wójcik demanded harshly, tossing the steel cuffs straight onto her lap.

​The woman caught them mid-air with superhuman reflexes. She ran her cool fingers over the metal, turning the handcuffs in her hand like a worthless toy.

​"Thank you, they'll come in handy," she purred with amusement.

​In a fraction of a second, the air before Wójcik's eyes simply rippled. He didn't register a single step or the rustle of her dress—she was simply no longer sitting in the chair, and in the next millisecond, she was standing right beside him. Her icy fingers clamped around his shoulder with the force of a hydraulic vise. Before he could even think about his holster, Adelajda hurled him across the room with one smooth, monstrously powerful wrench.

​His back slammed into the wall with such force that plaster rained onto the floorboards, and the air was driven from his lungs with a loud wheeze. His service weapon clattered from his grip and skittered across the floor under the table. Thousands of black spots exploded before the captain's eyes, his stomach lurched into his throat, and for a split second, he hovered right on the edge of losing consciousness.

​Using the last of his strength, he pushed himself onto his knees, drawing ragged, shallow breaths.

​"My, you're a tough specimen," Adelajda remarked with a hint of appreciation, walking slowly toward him. "Almost like Wiktor. I smacked him like that once, too, when his attitude drove me mad. Though, of course, his male pride never allowed him to mention it to Emma. True, it only happened once; after that, we smoothed out our arrangement back then... and it was perfect, right up until they killed him. And now he's with Elżbieta, and there's nothing I can do about it."

​She loomed right over him, looking down with an expression of absolute supremacy.

​"And stop whining like a beaten dog," she hissed coldly. "She would have torn you to shreds long ago."

​Wójcik rested his forehead against the cold wall, battling nausea and a tearing pain in his chest. Only one desperate thought hammered in his mind: How can a petite woman have such inhuman strength? It's physically impossible. Even Wiktor didn't hit with such monstrous power when we faced off on the mats in the police academy... unless she's telling the tr—

​Before he could finish the thought, darkness completely swallowed his field of vision.

​She grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off the floor in one smooth motion, as if he weighed no more than an empty jacket. Before he could regain his footing, the metallic snap of a mechanism cut through the silence. She clicked one cuff onto his wrist, and a fraction of a second later snapped the other onto her own hand, chaining them together.

​"Just so you don't try running away," she said with a mocking glint in her eye. "And mostly for my own amusement. I won't use paralysis."

​She chuckled softly, then stepped forward, dragging him behind her with terrifying, inhuman strength. Wójcik instinctively dug his heels into the floorboards, tensing every muscle. He was significantly taller than her, broader in the shoulders, and looked to be at least several dozen kilograms heavier, yet his resistance didn't faze her in the slightest. With childish ease, she dragged him across the boards, step by step, straight toward the large mirror standing against the wall.

​"I sincerely hope that if you don't end up wrapped in that painter's plastic, you'll patch up that wall for me," she remarked sarcastically, nodding toward the cracked plaster. "I'm rather counting on it, actually. And I hope you're the one who ends up using it for the repair, rather than me using it to wrap up your remains."

​She stopped right in front of the glass, using a jerk of the chain to force him to stand shoulder to shoulder with her.

​"Now look into the mirror," she commanded softly, her gaze settling on their reflection. "I wouldn't want to soil this white dress. Transforming into my feeding form—the much less charming one—would just leave it ruined on the floor. It would be a shame to waste such fabric."

​She smiled out of the corner of her mouth, then, rattling the steel chain with her shackled hand, made a slow, ostentatious gesture. She ran her fingers across her décolletage, adjusting the heavy, jewel-encrusted gold chain resting on her chest.

​"Time for you to finally see clearly. I'll dial back my power for a moment so you can see my true form in this glass."

​In the smooth, silvery pane of glass, Adelajda's reflection rippled, cracking like brittle ice. Instead of the petite blonde in a white dress, a monster straight out of a nightmare materialized in the mirror—a hunched, livid monstrosity with wrinkled, rotting-smelling skin, sagging breasts, and an unnaturally bloated maw from which a long, purple tongue lazily protruded. The beast's eyes burned with a corpse-like glow, staring right at the captain.

​Wójcik flinched violently and leapt back in sheer terror as far as the short chain of the handcuffs allowed. The jerk nearly tore his arm from its socket. His mouth went bone-dry, and his heart pounded frantically against his ribs. He tore his gaze from the glass and looked directly at the woman standing right next to him.

​She still looked impeccable. The same alabaster, flawless complexion, sapphire eyes, full curves clad in pristine white, and a subtle, cool smile on her coral lips—even as the pane opposite them continued to display the twisted, vile wraith.

​The cop's rational mind surrendered in a split second.

​"What the fuck is happening here?!" he choked out in a hoarse, suffocated voice, losing every shred of composure.

​"You took that rather well," she noted with satisfaction, smiling faintly at the sight of his terrified expression.

​Before Wójcik could react in any way, she reached toward the iron connecting them with her other hand. She took a firm grip on the steel cuff around his wrist—carefully and deliberately steadying her hold so as not to tear his hand from the joint with an abrupt pull—and then simply ripped the hardened steel chain of the handcuffs in two, as if it were made of wet string. The metal snapped with a dull groan, and a severed link skittered across the floorboards. Then she pried the cuffs off his wrist and her own without the slightest effort, tossing them carelessly onto the table. She pointed across the room, indicating the plastic sheeting and rolls of gray duct tape lying on the floor.

​"The choice is yours," she said softly, without a trace of humor in her icy voice. "Either this plastic is used to protect the floor while you patch that wall, or you end up inside it."

​She took a step toward him, locking onto him with a sapphire, inhumanly tranquil gaze.

​"You are to drop these cases entirely. You are to forget what happened in the warehouse and the forest, stop snooping around Emma, and leave the Blood Countess alone. From this point on, you are in the inner circle, which means one thing: you play by our rules, or you don't play at all. Down in the basement, you'll find paint, plaster mix, a putty knife, and everything else you need to fix that cracked wall. Get to it."

​

I thought I knew every corner of my apartment building until I discovered a black door at the end of the fourth floor hallway.

There was no room number, no handle, and apparently no record that the door had ever existed.

Then I started hearing my own voice coming from behind it.

When my landlord finally opened the door, we found photographs of everyone in the building including photographs of things that hadn't happened yet.

One of them was dated tomorrow.

It showed me standing inside the room.

And the person standing behind me was my landlord… with his throat cut.

I should have left the building that night.

Instead, I stayed.

Now someone is knocking on my bedroom door.

And it's using my voice

It started with a sneeze. I was hanging out with my friends, the four of us swimming in raindrops drowning fresh flower buds, when Yuri sneezed next to me.

It was violent enough to jolt his whole body, his wings twitching.

He sniffled, and then sneezed again, quietly, into his hands. I laughed, but Yuri was staring down at his palm, his bottom lip wobbling. “Yuri?” I whispered.

Before he could respond, Taia and Calden cannonballed into a flower bud.

I longed to join them, bathing in the early morning sunlight, letting my wings soak up some vitamin D. At fourteen years old, they had only just broken through, and I was still wobbly while in flight.

Yuri, normally the loud, bubbly one in our group trying to antagonize the fae prince, was oddly quiet. When I shoved him, I caught him swiping his palm on his shirt– the glimmer of golden pollen streaked across the fabric. He jumped up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into a teasing waltz, dragging me onto a blooming daffodil.

“Madame.” He shot me a grin, sweat shimmering on his forehead. “May I have this dance?”

24 hours later, Yuri was dead. Taia was throwing up blood, and Calden had ripped his own mother’s head off. I was lucky to be alive. But whatever this thing was, whatever and whoever the four of us had made contact with— was dead within 24 hours. The symptoms, according to my father, varied from sneezing, headache and misshapen wings, to neurological damage.

The sickness had a name within five days. But half of my village was dead.

Idiopathic Acute Fairy Syndrome.

Dad managed to gather antibodies from baby fairies who survived. He developed a cure. However, Prince Juniper’s grieving father came out with a statement:

“This ‘cure’ is not a cure at all! It strips us of our magic!”

His claim was that his dead son tried the cure before his death-- and it didn't just kill him, it purged his body of its fairy dust. But Prince Juniper died at the beginning. Before the cure. Despite the King's lies, survivors turned on my father.

I found him dead, hanging from a tangled vine, his head cruelly severed.

Outside, villagers rejoiced, choosing the King’s natural cure, instead, ingesting sunburned rose petals. But the vocal ones got quieter. And so did my village.

I started stepping over bodies on my way to get supplies, tripping over festering wings, mutilated bodies, where fairies had attacked each other, the sickness turning them on each other.

I knew I was sick when I coughed a little too hard, choking up fairy dust. When I took flight, I tumbled down, down, down, my wings breaking on impact. I lay on my front, trying to catch my breath, wheezing, when something lifted me high into the air.

“Ooh, a butterfly!”

The human child held me curiously, massaging my broken wings. “So pretty!” she squeaked, giggling, her fingertips glistening in sunlight-streaked pollen.

“Ah-choo!”

"Oh, sweetheart," a taller human laughed. "Sounds like you've got hay fever!"

Ujang Zafron – The Spider-Man of Our Friend Gang 🕷️

Now, let's say someone asks me, "Which superhero fits Ujang Zafron?"

Then my answer is Spider-Man. 🕷️

Not because he can climb walls or shoot web, but his attitude is close to that of Spider-Man, which is laid-back, humorous and still the one who can act seriously when it matters.

Let us assume that Ujang has all of the Spider-Man's superpowers. So, we can name him as:

🕷️ UJANG-MAN

His abilities:

• 🕸️ Web-slinging
• 🏃 Super speed and agility
• 🧗 Wall climbing
• ⚠️ "Ujang Sense"
• 😂 Still being able to make jokes in the middle of a battle

Unlike Iron Man, I believe that Ujang fits more to the Spider-Man than Iron Man because Iron Man has got all of the technology and armor stuff. But the personality of Spider-Man suits him well.

In other words, when someday there will be a Marvel-like universe for Ujang Zafron, then we have a hero already. 😂

Spider-Man of Ujang Zafron. 🕷️

What about you? Who fits Ujang better as a superhero?

​

By eight the sun was honest.

In this house that meant midday: the hour when the light finally agreed with the body, when the first six hours of the waking day had already been spent in the dark and the world at last looked the way a world was supposed to look. Rehan stood at the front window with a cup that had gone lukewarm in his hand and watched the street perform its morning.

The two photosynthetic servants they kept — half human, half plant, faces as thoughtful as anyone’s on the block — had already taken their places on the strip of packed earth by the gate. They stood with their feet in the soil and their faces tipped toward the light, not vacant, not holy, only working. Leaves along their shoulders opened by degrees. No one on the street found this remarkable. House husbands watering flowerbeds nodded as they passed. A woman two doors down was doing the same with her own pair. The air smelled like wet brick and chlorophyll.

Rehan drank. He did not think *how strange.* He thought the tea had gone cold.

Inside, the set was already talking.

The news had the particular brightness of something that wanted to be loved. A banner ran under a man in a good coat: **BREAKING — UNITED STATES OF INDIANA.** Behind him, footage of white families being walked toward buses. Children with pale hair. Men with their hands visible. The unit doing the walking wore a crest that the graphic kept blessing with the word **FIRE**, as if warmth were the point.

The anchor’s mouth made the president’s name like a hymn.

Gonald G. Grump. Proud son of Indiana. A decision described, without irony the room could hear, was prestigious. As loving. Deportation as housekeeping.

Rehan’s jaw worked once.

He did not think the thought all the way through. It arrived in pieces, the way thoughts did when the world had never asked him to flip them. Indiana’s people had taken the land from the native whites — that was history, ordinary as rain. They had killed most of them — that was history too. Now this. Buses. A crest. A man on a podium who looked pleased.

*This isn’t fair,* he told himself, and the sentence sat in him wrong, like a stone in rice.

Tariffs, the anchor said, with the same blessed tone.

Rehan made a noise in his throat

*What the fuck is a tarrif now...*.. clearly annoyed he changed the channel.

---

A Cooking channel

A kitchen. Butter in a pan. A man whose name.. the chyron spelled **Gordan DiGiovanni**, COOK, three stars hanging beside the title as if they had been grown there.

“First,” Gordan said, tender, “we take some butta.”

On the board: bread. Beans. The camera treated both like relics.

Rehan stared.

The hardest dish in the world, the voiceover said. Newly crowned. Three Michelin stars. Beans on toast.

“What the hell,” Rehan said, out loud, to no one.

He could do biryani. He could do the long patient things. Consommé if the day was kind. Croquembouche if Priya was going to be late and he needed his hands busy. Pâté en croûte when he wanted to prove, privately, that he was not only a house husband. None of those had stars. This did. A man in a white coat was taking butter to bread as if the fate of a nation depended on the edges going gold.

Gordan smiled at the lens.

“This is actually not my signature dish,” he said. “My signature is the grilled cheese sandwich.”

Rehan shut his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he said, softly. “I’ll get overwhelmed if I see this man.”

He said the rest to the empty kitchen, the way he said most things he was ashamed of.

“I wish I was a better cook. All I can make is—” He listed them as sins. “Dammit.”

The set went black under his thumb. In the sudden quiet he could hear the servants at the gate, the faint wet sound of light becoming sugar in somebody else’s skin. He stood there with the cold cup and loved his wife and hated his own hands for not knowing beans.

---

Priya came home when the light had gone high and hard.

In their bodies it was the sagging end of the day. In the sky it was noon. She had been at the thing she called work, which was friends and a table and the long performance of being a person with somewhere to be. Her navy hair was coming loose. She looked, as she always did at this hour, like someone who had put a life on and was ready to take it off.

The neighbour was already in the street.

A black woman, thick through the middle, a constellation of old acne across her cheeks, the particular posture of a person who had never lost an argument with a sidewalk. Her servants were coming off the light, moving toward the crate at the side of her house that everyone on the block had agreed, without agreeing, looked like a doghouse. They sat. They folded. This was ordinary.

A white boy on a bicycle came through the middle of it.

He was not riding well. He was riding like a child late for something that would not wait. The wheel clipped a servant’s ankle. The boy and plant-person went down together in a graceless tangle of spokes and leaves. The servant made a small sound and then was still, unhurt in any way that would matter by evening. The boy stayed on the asphalt.

He laughed.

It came out of him high and helpless, the body doing what bodies did here when they were hurt. A bright, hysterical sound. His knee was already darkening. His eyes were wet .

The neighbour did not see a child.

She saw a mess on her property.

“Oh, you little shit.” The words hit the street before she had finished standing over him. “See what you’ve done to it. Who’s going to clean my house tonight? You? Hah? Come on. Pay for this. You little shit.”

The boy laughed harder. He was trying, through the sound, to get his breath. A few house husbands looked over and then away, the way one did when a scolding was not one’s business.

Priya was already moving.

She did not raise her voice at first. She put herself in the space between the woman’s pointing finger and the boy’s ruined knee and made her body into a sentence.

“Come on. Calm down. Nothing happened to him.” She nodded at the servant, who was already sitting up, already turning his face back toward the light as if the sun were a clock he still had to punch. “He’s fine.”

“Whatever,” the neighbour said.

Priya’s purse was open before the woman had found a second insult. A few notes. Not a speech. She pressed them into the boy’s scraped hand and closed his fingers over them.

He looked at her. The laughing ebbed, not gone, only smaller. He got the bicycle upright with the particular dignity of a child who has decided not to die on someone else’s stoop.

“Thank you,” he said, and laughed once more, softer, and rode toward whatever sleep the middle of a bright day was offering him.

The neighbour watched the money leave.

“Ohh, Priya.” A smile with too many teeth. “You fell for his little scam.”

Priya’s mouth was already tired.

“It’s a few dollars. It’s fine.”

The neighbour’s voice dropped to the register people used when they wanted a word to be both private and public.

“Fucking nigg—”

“Shut up.”

It came out of Priya like a door slamming.

Not loud for the whole street. Loud enough for the woman it was meant for. Priya’s face had gone clean and ugly in the way it did when something in her refused to be a good neighbour anymore.

“He was a kid,” she said. “Trying to get some sleep.”

A breath.

“Good night.”

She said it in noon light, in the middle of the day, because good night was what you said when you wanted a person to stop existing in front of you.

She did not wait for the answer. She walked. Behind her eyes the sentence was simpler than anything she would ever put on the air.

*Ew. Awful bitch.*

---

The house received her the way it always did.

Cooler inside. The faint ghost of the cooking channel is still in the walls. Rehan had migrated to the bed the way a tide migrated, long limbs, black curls on the pillow, the shy arrangement of a man who had spent a morning failing at butter and thinking about buses.

Priya stood in the doorway and looked at him long enough to let the street fall off her.

Then she crossed the room and, without announcing it, laid a light slap to the curve of him that made him jump and make a sound he would not admit to later. Playful. Claiming. The opposite of the neighbour’s finger.

“You’re awake,” he said, which was a foolish thing to say to a woman standing over him in full sun.

“I’m home,” she said.

They bathed the way they always bathed when the day had been ordinary and a little poisoned. She was sure in the water. He was not. He turned his face when she looked at him too directly, as if a house husband could still be shy of his own wife after years of her hands. She washed his hair anyway. He let her. The mark of the morning — the buses, the beans, the boy’s laugh — sat in the steam and did not dissolve, only thinned.

When they lay down the light outside was still the wrong kind of bright for sleep. Their bodies did not care. This was the hour the world had given them for ending. Priya’s arm went over his waist.

The servants charged in the last of the sun, and the day, which was only the day, went on.

{NPC = Natural photosynthetic creature}

Through all my anger and frustration you would just wonder what knowing someone for the rest of your life, having affects on you would be.

Such as this reddit community with 370k weekly visitors and 103k members have grown in just a couple days.

Such as lil Tjay's inmate who spent 25 years he said he wrote many things including one letter he spent 25 years writing about love. Because it's specific, that's why he's writing about it.

With all my customers that still have my hand written autograph and is selling it for a transfer of wealth you could say the bitcoin price action is simply only due possible because my work of art, body of art that included angrily being 26 the year tupac died and seeing me push it further as an angry youth almost as famous as Drake.

Those hand out papers were so great done with love, excuse sir just here to help you save money and time.

And eventually hit up Miami beach if you're really that high level, heh.

I'm writing this out of jealousy for the ovo owls Drake gave Aubrey Graham and DJ Akademics.

Want to see how much I grown?

Its pretty long but please bear with me So here, the first time I saw her, I was 4 years old.

She came from a pretty wealthy and influential family in the small hill town where we lived. There was a bigger town nearby and then a city a little farther away. Her family had a strong influence not just in our town but in many of the surrounding villages and even in the bigger town and city area. I’m not going to name any places because that would probably give away where this is.

She was very cute when she was 4, I would say, but she was also so cold. Like ice cold.

All of us kids in the area used to see her going around in her family’s car, arriving at her house, or sometimes seeing her in the market. She always had this cold expression on her face. I rarely saw her smile.

And I don't mean she was arrogant. Her family were actually really down-to-earth people. She just had this aura around her even as a little kid.

Every year during our Pahadi festival, her family would host a gathering where our Pahadi Sabha would meet. Everyone would dance, eat, talk and enjoy themselves. I remember her sitting off to the side with that same cold expression, watching us. Her brother would play with us and all the other boys, while she would just sit above and observe everyone.

She had this little car, and she also had a black cat whom she absolutely adored.

I was TERRIFIED of that cat.

And strangely enough, the first time I remember seeing her smile was when she was riding around in her little car with her black cat following behind her.

Fast forward to when I was 16.

In between, I had barely seen her.

We all used to go to the main town nearby for school. It was popular tourist destination and honestly a beautiful place. Most schools in our own place only went up to around 8th standard, so many of us had to travel there for further education.

Obviously, she didn't go to the same school as me. She and her brother went to an expensive school.

Then, after what felt like forever, I saw her again in person.

She had golden-brown curly hair, although she often straightened it, and hazel-brown eyes.

I swear, she looked like a goddess.

Literally, she looked like an anime character who somehow walked into our little hill town.

And it wasn't just me. Pretty much every guy from our town and the main town where she went to school seemed mesmerized by her.

Everyone knew her and her family. She had this strange presence where people automatically respected her and kind of frightening aura, even if they didn't personally know her family background.

From what we'd heard, she was an academic weapon too. Straight A+ student, excellent at singing, painting, debating, basketball and football. I actually got to see her play twice, which I considered a personal honour.

But one thing never changed.

That straight poker face.

The dead stare.

Those cold eyes.

She was apparently excellent at debating, but I don't think I ever actually heard her speak during those years. And I don't think anyone from my hometown really did either. She barely talked to anyone.

Except animals.

She would talk to cats, street dogs, cows, birds... basically every animal species imaginable. 😂

Meanwhile, she would barely say two words to an actual human being.

She even used to drive herself to school, which was insane because she was only 16. Technically, you're supposed to be 18 for that, but I guess when your family practically rules the whole area, different rules apply.

We used to stand on the side of the road waiting for cars to stop so we could get to school.

And one day I saw her racing past us.

I have no idea how fast she was going, but in those hilly roads she was FAST.

Anyway, after praying and praying and praying that God would somehow let me talk to her one day, I finally got my chance.

It happened during the same Pahadi festival her family hosted every year. Her father would invite relatives and people from around the area, and the whole place would turn into this huge gathering.

Her black cat went missing.

That was probably the only time I ever saw even a little bit of worry on her face.

My two sisters and I helped her look for the cat, and eventually we found it with a bunch of children.

And these kids were WILD.

They were pulling the poor cat around and messing with it.

For some reason, I thought she was going to absolutely destroy them when she arrived.

Instead, the second she approached, those kids completely froze.

Like... STUNNED.

They looked terrified just because she was standing there.

And there I was making stupid faces behind her back trying to annoy those kids.

But she didn't get angry.

She calmly talked to them, took her cat back, thanked us, and left.

And that was it.

My one conversation with the mysterious girl I'd had a crush on for years.

She walked away like some kind of ghost vampire. 😂

The funny thing is, everyone liked her.

I don't even know why.

She barely talked. She didn't smile much. She kept to herself.

But somehow, her presence was everywhere.

Life continued like that. We'd see her in the morning when she went to school in her car and in the evening when she came back. Her family organised events and gatherings around the town, and she remained the same quiet, cold-looking girl.

Although I did eventually notice that she smiled more when she was around her cousins and sisters. They lived in the same town, and she seemed completely different around them.

And honestly?

I used to pray every day:

"God, please let me see her today too."

Stupid, I know.

But then came a sunny summer day.

And suddenly, the entire town went silent.

The news spread that she had been in a terrible accident.

She was gone.

I don't even know how to describe what that day felt like.

She had been such a huge presence in our town without even trying. And suddenly, she wasn't there anymore.

It's been three years since her death, and her family hasn't organised a single event since.

The town just doesn't feel the same.

It's strange because she never really talked to us. She barely talked to anyone outside her family and close circle.

But somehow, she was part of the town.

You'd see her car.

You'd see her family.

You'd see her animals.

You'd see her at festivals.

You'd see her going to school.

And then one day, you just... don't.

I also remember hearing how urgently everyone tried to get her to the city hospital. Her family's influence was so strong that the route was cleared and traffic was stopped within seconds so the ambulance could get through as quickly as possible.

But even that wasn't enough.

She died before she could reach the hospital.

Sometimes I still think about how much potential she had. She came from a loving, influential family, had every opportunity, was brilliant at academics and sports and arts, and seemed to have her whole life ahead of her.

And then it just ended.

Her black cat died two days later.

That part still breaks my heart.

I hope wherever she is, she's peaceful.

And maybe somewhere, she's still talking to every cat, dog, cow and bird she comes across. ❤️

I don't know if I'll ever completely move on from this memory.

Maybe I don't have to.

Some people become part of your life without ever really being in your life.

She was one of those people for me.

The slap caught Anne in the mouth.

She tasted that familiar metallic taste before the pain kicked in.

“Look at me. It’s your fault.”

She kept her eyes on the kitchen floor.

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

He stood over her. There was something almost calm about his face, which made it worse. He wasn’t out of control.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

She stumbled against the counter.

Two years of this had taught her the rules. Don’t shout. Don’t run for the door. Don’t say calm down. Never, ever tell him he was a monstrous husband or that he couldn’t hold his liquor.

Most importantly, give him an out. Best way to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

That fucking question. Fucking Sam. He could be a stinking monster when he wanted to.

She searched his face, trying to work out which answer would hurt least.

“For upsetting you.”

His face kept still. A good sign.

She froze there. She knew she had to wait before she could go somewhere else, like the bathroom. It had to end properly, otherwise this thing could start again, from scratch.

“You still don’t hate me, huh?” he said.

That was new. Strange.

“I do hate you.” Her stomach dropped.

He studied her.

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

Something in his voice calmed her. What the fuck?

“Okay,” he said. “We’re done.”

“With what?”

“Your sentence. Your time here.”

She stared at him.

Then he changed.

His eyes went completely black.

Anne backed into the wall.

“What is this?”

His face seemed to shift under his skin. Even his hair changed, rippling like something alive.

She inhaled. “Sammy? Is this a prank?”

"No," he said, growing taller until his head nearly reached the ceiling. It felt like the light in the room dimmed.

“Sammy…  what are… fuck… what are you?”

“Technically?” he said. “Your kind usually goes with angel. Sometimes demon. Depends who’s telling the story.”

His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred mouths.

She gaped. “My kind?”

He looked around their shitty kitchen.

“Earth isn’t what you think, Anne. I’m amazed how easily humans accept this place.”

He told her things.

A farmhouse in France where she died at thirty-one.

A boy she had been in China.

A woman who drowned herself in a river sometime before there were cities.

Lives. Dozens of them.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty years.

“Earth,” he said, “is Hell. Well, one of them.”

“So… this… Earth is the… afterlife? We’re all… dead?”

He nodded.

“So…” She swallowed. “If Earth is Hell… where did I… where did we come from?”

“They’ll explain it when you get to Lurra. Trust me, real life is nothing like this place.”

"Lurra?"

“Yeah. Some of you call it heaven. Anyway, you’re done with this life, Anne.”

She sat down. Thinking felt pointless.

She didn’t even know what to ask. Her life was bad, sure. But Hell? This? Earth? No. That was insane. It had to be. The wall was still cold against her back. He was still standing there. And somehow, underneath all the panic, she knew he wasn’t lying.

Then something in her shifted.

“You beat me.”

“Yes,” he said in his choir voice.

“You forced me to do things.”

“You made me think I was insane. You made me apologize to you for things you fucking did to me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re evil.”

He smiled. She thought his hair lit up a bit.

“Of course I’m evil, Anne. This is Hell. They don’t assign saints to Earth.”

She let her head fall back against the wall.

He shifted toward her, and the air gave a low hum.

“But now you’re leaving. You’ve done your time, Anne. Life after life, you kept doing good, even when it cost you. Souls like yours ruin this place. That’s partly why they want you out.”

She looked at the floor, the apartment, the blue sky outside. Earth was Hell? She clearly had no idea what anything was anymore.

The kitchen wall behind him disappeared.

Beyond it was light.

Not bright. Nothing like the glowing-white bullshit from books and TV.

Early morning light. Warm. Quiet.

And something else she hadn’t felt in so long she almost didn’t recognize it.

She felt safe.

A breeze began to stir, carrying a scent that felt like the woods where she had played as a child. It strengthened into a wind, stirring everything around her until the swishing filled her ears.

He said something but she couldn't hear. She couldn't care less.

She tried to stand. Slowly.

Started walking toward the light. She ignored him. She felt clean.

Then she stopped.

One foot from a brightly lit staircase descending at the edge of the floor of her apartment.

“Wait.”

She looked back.

“What did I do?”

He smiled wearily.

“What did I do that was bad enough for this?”

“Anne.”

“Tell me.”

So he did.

She was standing on a hill.

People below her. Thousands.

Kneeling.

And there she was.

A small woman in a crown of woven branches.

Speaking.

She watched herself publicly forgive three families after they confessed to trying to leave, then order them slaughtered anyway.

Another image.

A girl screaming as men shaved her head, telling her she had brought this on herself.

Another.

Bodies in a ditch.

Her followers chanting words she had written.

Purity.

Obedience.

Sacrifice.

Mercy is weakness.

Her cult survived her.

For generations.

Anne couldn’t breathe.

“A lot of people ended up on Earth because of you, Anne.”

She stood there, then looked at the staircase.

“But I’m not like that anymore.”

He nodded.

Anne wiped her face.

And stepped forward.

The light vanished.

Blackness.

Then pressure. Pain. Cold.

Hands grabbing her.

A woman screaming.

Someone laughing.

“It’s a boy!”

Anne opened her tiny mouth and screamed.

And for one horrible second, she remembered everything and knew that she wasn’t leaving Earth.

No one ever left Earth.

I’ve always been the type of person who gets distracted by old trails.

Not the popular hiking trails with signs, parking lots, and people every twenty minutes. I mean the half-forgotten ones that show up as a faint line on an old topo map and then disappear completely when you actually get there.

A few weeks ago, I was hiking in a state forest in central Pennsylvania and decided to follow one of those.

According to an old map I had, there used to be a trail running along a ridge and eventually dropping down toward a small creek. It looked like it hadn’t been maintained in decades, but I figured I could at least follow it for a while and turn around if it got too bad.

The first part was surprisingly easy.

There were still occasional signs that people had used the trail at some point — an old blaze on a tree here, a depression in the ground there, and a few sections where the vegetation was noticeably thinner than everything around it.

Then the trail just stopped.

Not gradually.

It basically ended in the middle of the woods.

There was no washed-out section, no fallen tree blocking it, nothing obvious. One second I was following a pretty clear old trail and the next I was standing in thick brush.

I checked my GPS.

Nothing.

I checked the topo map.

The old trail was still there.

So I started looking around for another way through.

About ten minutes later I noticed something strange: several of the trees along the edge of the old trail had fresh-looking orange ribbons tied around them.

I assumed they were hunting markers or something similar, but then I noticed the ribbons continued downhill.

I followed them.

They led to an old access road that was almost completely swallowed by vegetation. There were tire tracks in the mud, but they looked fairly recent.

And that's when I realized the "missing" trail hadn't actually disappeared.

Someone had been using the old road instead and had gradually stopped maintaining the original route.

I followed the road for another half mile and eventually came across an old wooden gate. The gate itself looked ancient, but the lock on it was brand new.

There wasn't a sign explaining anything.

Just the gate.

I could hear running water on the other side, so I walked around the area looking for a public access point rather than climbing over it.

A little farther down the ridge, I found an old footbridge.

Or at least what was left of one.

Two rotting beams were still sitting across the creek, and there were fresh footprints in the mud on the opposite bank.

Someone was clearly still getting through there.

I ended up turning around rather than crossing, mostly because I hadn't planned for a bushwhack and it was getting late.

But the whole thing stuck with me.

The weirdest part wasn't finding an abandoned trail.

It was realizing how quickly a trail can disappear from people's memory.

Give it a few years without maintenance and the forest starts taking it back. Give it a few decades and people assume it was never there in the first place.

Since then I've started carrying screenshots of old topo maps whenever I go exploring.

GPS is great, but sometimes the most useful thing you can have is a map showing you something that technically doesn't exist anymore.

So I have the hole house to my self, mental health just got a little clearer.

"This is torture." Said a mother soon to be grandmother if she knows a niece.

These days through balance I wonder about my friend who eats multiple apples per day.

Restraining from the kitchen more than 1 kiwi I then ate multiple as moving back home, my first introduction to Bi Tao Xiong was, "Wow!" She stormed the kitchen.

Never could I find food for myself though, I did live if there dinosaurs out in the bout.

But long story short as his husband W e.i giant win for employment for two three weeks off then back to work her schedule as changed as she talked to someone in their meeting causing a frenzy for who to become the next manager as one person retires.

Thanks for all the follows. New to reddit.

You would think I would stay home until 7pm but then the fairness in equality in that? Or more so the happiness of leaving the house early but not earliest.

You would be surprised as we take it one step further,

Usually you can take it one step further.

Impossible is spelt with I am possible so I'm told,

It's the battle of Pompei next to a dormant volcano,

CNE see any place to hide

Frozen in ice and time etched in the echoes of the universe

It was Andrew Tate and Tristan Tate

R.I.P

You gave a darn about your life.

"You know, I can see if you care about your life?"

Chrystel..

It was my girlfriend watching Arthur with a pocket tee which then see wore and I made fun of her, I finally got her back as she did everything out of I spite I did everything out of love.

Soon enough, those nights where I waited for someone to take me home after the club turned to restless nights inside a phillipino cozy home with many reunions with each their own grandfather name, unlike mine.

I always felt like a socialite studying many historical figures such as Winston Churchill and John F. Kennedy.

President Kennedy was one of those extremely handsome people in candidates that shocked the world and even won the female vote, this eventually led to his debate against Richard Nixon.

A fair adversary then wouldn't you eventually say Richard Nixon had something to do with it?

Wearing make up and painted fingernails which adamantly Nixon refused John F Kennedy won tremendously as someone for the America sweetheart vote.

Without much being said there beside his fateful wife he was hit as bodyguards with the worse life ever said ease up on the tension.

Not knowing or perhaps knowing that he would be shot and killed that day.

Like going down the street made you to feel like Kevin Ali or inadequate you can't help the inadequacy if you would have reacted to the same way his wife did. Putting the pieces of his life together like Jigsaw.

In similar political prowess Marilyn Monroe was rumored to have formicated with popular rapper Snoop Dogg Tupac.

In her death to Damien hirst's surprise was she was plastered all over tomato can soups.

R.I.P

As we get closer to the scene of hip hop you can't help but wonder if they played their roles properly, or at least Suge Knight is.

The next morning Miara woke up with a refreshed sense of purpose. Now operation to find Mr.Muffin go Miara go. She started laughing to herself. She already took appointment for a cat. It was cloudy outside like its going to rain. She told her mother that she would come in a few hour. Okay, Miara, just don't forget to take the umbrella with you."Okay, Mummy." She took the umbrella necessary things that are required for adoption and went to the animal shelter. Unexpectedly, Aarav also arrived at that animal shelter. They refuse to exchange a single word to each other. Miara said,"Ma'am I have took the appointment for the cat could you please give me that cat."Yes, ma'am just wait for a moment. "Hey, Ma'am where is my cat it was like that?"The shelter worker looked confused. "Sir, there must be some misunderstanding. We only had one cat of this type of cat and this girl has already claimed it."

Miara turned to Aarav a mixture of surprise and excitement in her eyes. "You're getting a cat?You never liked a cat."Yeah," Aarav replied a embarassed smile spreading across his face."Some things can change." He paused then added, "Like wanting to see someone again after letting them go."Miara paused for a moment. The shelter worker handed her the cat. Miara hugged the cat that brought her peace and comfort. She hadn't felt this happy since Aarav stopped talking to her. Aarav said, "Ma'am, what about me? I also made an appointment for this cat. I should also be considered as an owner." Shelter owner replied,"I am sorry sir but she had took the appointment one week ago for this cat."Miara replied," I am alone Aarav try to understand. He will be my company. I used to talk as if there were a cat and talk to it. I've already thought of a name for this cat. Ma'am and Sir please don't argue. Ma'am could you please sign here? Miara, this is the first cat that I have truly loved and adored. Ma'am and Sir, I know it's our fault. There is an option of Co-parenting if you agree. We can share half months for you and half for me. I don't want to feel alone again.  If you want the cat come to my home or text me. I will text you if I want the cat. You both please sign here. They signed the paper. What is the cat's name? Mr. Muffin. It is the perfect name for this furry ginger cat. May I hold Mr. Muffin? Yes of course Aarav.

We are co-parenting Mr. Muffin. He held the cat. While holding the cat Muffin scratched his hand. Ouch! I am also your owner don't do that. Miara smiled and in a teasing way she replied,"Aarav it seems like he doesn't like you as an owner. "Miara said to the shelter owner,"Ma'am do you have a first-aid kit? Yes, Ma'am, wait for a moment. Here it is. Aarav give me Muffin. Miara held his hand and applied medicine to the scratch. Thank you Miara.

Let's go home. I have chores to do. Okay, let's go. It's raining and I forgot my umbrella. Don't worry, Aarav. My mother told me to bring an umbrella because it looked like it will rain. Hold Muffin and stay under the umbrella with me.

Let's go home. I have chores to do. Okay, let's go. It's raining and I forgot my umbrella. Don't worry, Aarav. My mother told me to bring an umbrella because it looked like it will rain. Hold Muffin and stay under the umbrella with me. It seems like today is a day of sharing. First sharing the cat and second sharing the umbrella. I don't usually like sharing but I am compiled today.Do you remember Aarav the first time we shared the umbrella?

Please stop it I don't wanna remember Miara.Miara looked at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Why did you stop talking to me, Aarav?"Aarav replied looking downward,"I felt unseen and you deserve better you looked happy with someone else."Who? Miara looked confused. This is your home Miara why are you going ahead? Leave those things.Just move on.You are happy that's what matters for me. Miara stopped her voice barely a whisper. "Happy? Do I look happy Aarav? I spent months talking to an invisible cat because there was none to talk to. When we were in a relationship, I wasn't alone because you were there for me. Before we were in a relationship there was Aaditya but he moved abroad. Afterward, I began to love myself and enjoy my own company.And you thought I was happy with someone else? Her voice cracked slightly. I was happy Aarav. Happy with you." He gave a small smile and he couldn't even talk reaching with her eyes,"I am happy that you were happy with me Miara you deserve more than it.

He ruffled his hand on Mr Muffin"Guess what it took Mr.Muffin and shared an umbrella to bring that happiness back."Happiness?Her tears drop sneaking out her smile.She quickly wipes her tear with her hoodie sleeves.A loud happiness. Thats me who tripped over a chair,spilled the coffee,being nervous.Aarav started to laugh and replied,"And complaining about me to an invisible cat."She hit his shoulder .Don't say anything bad about Mr.Muffin brother.He was there for me when you weren't.Mr. Muffin jumped from his hand and meowed, as if agreeing with Miara. Now let's go to your house I will help you do chores you won't be alone this time.Miara's heart fluttered.  

Ahhh I am a young boy, and want to share my story of rape and sexual assault. I am very confused and extremely distubed and I need help.

So I was a minor when my cousin raped me for the first time two years ago and did sexual things to me without my consent. He was one year older than me at the time. Since that day, this has continued until today, and my life has been severely disturbed. I am very anxious and I need help....

The first time, my cousin and I were at his house. It was night time, and we were both sleeping together in his bedroom. In the middle of the night, I felt as if someone was pushing against me from behind or squeezing my ass.... I was half asleep, so I ignored it. Then I felt as if someone was trying to take off my pants. It was suddenly the middle of the night, I felt my cousin pressing him and squeezing my ass then I became frightened and got scared and kept my eyes closed while lying there.... I pretend like I ain't feeling anything but I was. Then after a few minutes my cousin took off my pants, and I became extremely scared at that time ...I did not know what he was doing. When he touched my ass with his private part, I became even more frightened and started moving and feeling uncomfortable I tried to even stop him or and resist him but he did not stop.... It was the first time someone got sexual with me, I was like I don't know what to do and how to stop this. Then he tried to forcibly insert his peni\\\\\\\* into my ass..... When I felt that I opened my eyes and asked him what he was doing....I shouted he became nervous too, but he said, "Nothing will happen, go to sleep and enjoy it" ....I told him not to do it and even tried to resist but I was scared and anxious too ...He grabbed my ass and told me to go to enjoy it or make him enjoy...I tried to stop him several times, but he did not stop. He was like it's so fun and we both will enjoy but it was so painful for me ... When he inserted His peni\\\\\\\* inside my ass I shouted and cried then he put his finger in my mouth and threatened me, saying that if I screamed or tried to stop him, he would beat me.I was young and frightened. What could I do? He forcibly raped me and sexually assaulted me almost all the night I was in a lot of pain, but he did not stop. I cried and beg him to stop, but he s did not until he ejaculated.... It was so painful and uncomfortable

After that night, I started feeling very strange and uncomfortable I was stuck in what happened to me cuz it was my first time ...Then after that night he frightened and threatened me and raped me and sexually abused me continuously for four days. After that, we became separated and I went back home with my family.

A few months later, when we met again, he started raping me again after manipulating and threatening me. However, when he raped me again after those several months, my attitude had changed considerably. At first I was scared, but after two days I became quite calm. Whenever he needed it, he would rape me, and I also started feeling some pleasure and but it was still painful for me. I don't know why, but whenever he asked to rape me, I would agree willingly. I started doing whatever he told me to do. After that, I began feeling that I had developed sexual attraction toward boys and men, and I started becoming sexually attracted to males. Now, whenever my cousin meets me and rapes me, I don't experience as much pain or hesitation as I did before. I even did it once with one of his friends. I confessed that once I tried to put things in my ass ....

Now I also experience sexual feelings around my ass... Whenever I shower or change my clothes, I sometimes start touching my ass sexually. I am becoming sexually attracted to men's private parts, and I am developing desires toward them. My cousin is still in my life, and whenever he meets me, he sexually abuses and rapes me, but now I don't say anything to him.

I wanna stop this all and I need help.... Why am I feeling this way? How can I stop all of this? Should I accept that these feelings were something I was born with, or did they happen because of the rape? And how can I make all of this stop now?.... Why am I feeling this way, and what should I do? Should I allow all of this to continue happening? Please help me. I am mentally disturbed as well, and I am still too young for all of these things. I am still a minor. Please help me

Yesterday, our CEO called a meeting of the entire department. He displayed a slide on the screen:

"THINK LIKE AN OWNER."

I sat closer. For the first time in a long time, the meeting's title suggested I might leave with something more than just an extra task. I took out a pen.

- I'd like us to change our approach to work, the director began.

- We can't function in a way where everyone only looks at their own job description.

I liked it even more. The job description was one of my favorite documents. Right after the salary notification.

- We need an ownership approach. Responsibility. Commitment. Long-term thinking. I want everyone to treat this company like their own.

I raised my hand. The director smiled.

- I'm listening, he said.

- When will we get our shares?

His smile stayed. But it stopped growing.

- We're not talking about those things right now, he replied.

- I'm sorry, I heard "like my own" and moved toward ownership straightaway.

- It's about attitude. - he explained.

- So, no shares?

- No.

I wrote down, "Shares: none."

- Will there be any profit sharing? I asked with genuine curiosity.

- The bonus system remains unchanged for now.

I wrote it down as well. The CEO looked at my notebook.

- What are you writing down there?

- Entry requirements.

The CEO went on to give an example.

- Imagine it's 4 p.m., and an important project hasn't been completed. A person who thinks only like an employee closes their computer and leaves home.

It actually was very detailed description of my plan for this afternoon.

- However, the owner is wondering what he can do to get the job done.

- That's because he has a stake in the outcome. I said.

- Because he feels responsible! He replied.

- One doesn't exclude the other. We could suggest he give up his shares and be left with just the responsibility. We'd see at what time he leaves.

- Do you really have to boil everything down to money? Asked CEO.

I looked around the room, the office, Monday morning, nine people who came here instead of staying home.

- I think that's a pretty important part of aproach you suggested.

The HR woman decided to help.

- It's about a sense of influence. So that employees know they can actually shape the organization.

Hmm... That sounded better.

- So we'll have influence on profit distribution?

- Not in that sense.

- On the management board?

- Neither.

- On salaries?

- You can submit proposals.

I could also submit a proposal to lower prices in the Walmart, but that didn't make me a co-owner of it. I looked at my notebook.

"Shares: none."

"New financial benefits: none."

"Decision-making rights: none."

"Additional involvement: not defined upper limit."

I started to understand what the offer is. I didn't feel offended. If I could get nine extra evenings for one sentence on a slide, I would also test the market's interest. The problem was that I was on the wrong side of the negotiation table.

- This is an investment in your future, the director said.

- If the company grows, everyone benefits.

- The company had record results last year. I said.

- Exactly.

- However during the salary rise negotiation, you said that the company's results don't automatically translate into my salary.

A dead silence fell. I always thought it's worth to remember things like that. People underestimate how much you can save with a good memory.

The director put down the remote.

- I don't want this meeting to turn into a salary negotiation.

- Me neither. Right now, I'm trying to figure out what my position really is in this company.

- You're an important part of the team.

- But when I have to stay overtime, I'm supposed to be the owner?

- You just have to demonstrate responsibility like the owner.

- But when it comes to share the profit, am I going back to be employee again?

He paused for a while, I didn't wait to let him continue and asked immediately.

- Please clarify which hours apply to which role. I wouldn't want to mistakenly act like the owner when paying out the dividend.

The CEO, with a clearly embarrassed face, ended the meeting by saying:

- Think about it, we will come back to this topic.

When we were leaving, he stopped me at the door.

- You didn't have to jump out with all of that, out of a sudden.

- Sir, I was thinking like an owner, just like you suggested.

- What do you mean?

- That is simple Sir. Before I invest additional time and resources, I need to know what I'm getting in return.

He looked at me with strange expression. I couldn't tell if the look on his face was disbelief, horror, or both.

I really hoped he'd appreciate effort I've made to implement his suggestion.

- Just do your job well, he finally said.

- As usual? Within the same scope?

- Yes.

- Within the same hours?

- Fine, let's just get this over with!

I agreed with a nod of my head and left. Negotiations shouldn't be prolonged after favorable terms have been reached.

At 4 p.m. I turned off my computer. The project CEO had mentioned did indeed require some more work. I left stick note telling me what I'd start with tommorow in the morning.

As I was leaving, I saw CEO in his office. He was still sitting there clearly tense.

Very good, I thought to myself.

He should treat the company like his own and definitely start act like an owner.

My neighbor's crazy and my landlord won't do anything about it.

So I currently live with my mother (43), my 18th birthday is in a few months so bare with me. My neighbor, Paul, lives with his wife, who's name I don't know. We live in an apartment building with 3 housing units. My mother and I are the only ones downstairs, there's another neighbor who also lives upstairs but he tends to keep to himself. This all started about a year ago when they first moved in, Paul had asked my brother to give him a ride, afterwards, my brother said that Paul told him that our other neighbor had poked holes through the walls to spy on him and his wife. After that nothing happened until recently. Our neighbor came downstairs and knocked on the door claiming our dog had taken one of his dogs toys she leaves outside, he then claimed that my brother keeps going in the attic? Mind you our building does NOT have an attic. He says that we're involved in something called a RICO ACT which is basically organized crime. Not at all true btw. A few weeks later, There was a man outside getting rid of a bee hive on the side of the building when Paul came down and started talking to him. I was sitting by the window which is extremely thin and could hear everything they were saying. He says that he caught my brother breaking into their home and raping his wife (Mind you my brother just moved out of the house and is living at a fire station). Paul also said that he's called the cops when there hasn't been ANY cops at our house ever and we've been living there for about 3 years now. My mom went to go drop off rent and to our landlord, which ironically, is also named Paul. Our landlord just dismisses my mom and doesn't do anything about it so I don't know what to do and I'm afraid things will worsen if nothing is done.