Please check out this chapter from my novel. Honest feedback on the prose, readability, and POV would be greatly appreciated. Also, do you think the following passage would flow better in first-person POV?

Scene: Dawn and other dark mages who awakened their power in the coming of age ceremony are now guided to the last part of the ceremony, to the council chambers where elders will judge based on their powers.

Thirty of them marched past the dark stone wall, guided only by the flickering flames of rusty iron chandeliers. Without warning, the group came to an abrupt halt. Lost in thought, Dawn bumped right into the back of the young mage ahead of him.

“Sorry...“ Dawn muttered, staggering back to catch his balance on the cold stone floor.

The young mage didn’t even turn around, barely registering the collision. Up at the front of the procession, an attendant’s hands came together with a sharp, echoing clap.

“Nobles first, then commoners! Split into two lines,“ the attendant shouted. “Quick now!“

Swiftly the students started to form a line. Dawn scanned the divide, silk dark cloak and polished boots lined right, dark faded tunic and tattered sandals lined left. Commoners or high folks? The system had ripped him from his world and dumped him directly into this sequence, leaving only his appearance unchanged. He knew nothing about his origins or lineage. How could he know where he belonged if he had not been told?

As Dawn was about to step into a queue, a massive hairy hand slammed him against his chest, shoving him back. “Where are you pulling into mutt” a guttural voice barked. “Hide your ugly mug alongside the commoners.”

Before Dawn could regain his footing, a second hand reached out, catching the brute’s wrist and wrenching it away.

“Now, now, Darwin,“ a smoother voice intervened, cool and condescending. “Even if he is a half breed, noble blood still lingers in him.“ The brute muttered something under his breath but fell in line like a well trained hound. It only took one word for him to keep the mutt under control. He eyed Dawn for a beat, then stepped back. “Malrick, give him some space.“ With a low grunt, the purple haired young mage backed up, clearing a gap in the queue. With a practised smile the savior gestured to the open spot, his voice smooth as silk. “Get in line, Dawn.“ Defeated, Dawn took refuge beside him among the noble ranks.

From the line he peeked another look at his saviour, Slicked back hair, calculative dead pan eyes, pale skin with a noble house crest knitted into his clock. Everything about the man screamed authoritative nobility. He flashed another smile, rotten and hollow, the fakest among fake.

“Now, the first five from the noble line, follow me“ the attendee called out.

Pulled into the line, Dawn was standing fifth. First was the brute, his massive frame hovering over everyone in the line. Second was the dark savior of Dawn, other two slots were filled with a purple dyed student with piercing, and a normal looking one. No code were followed in this school except the attire needed to be black.

The group followed the attendant toward a pair of massive oak doors. Pulling them open, he gestured for the young students to step inside.

A towering, crowded arena greeted them. Dozens of senior students looked down from the lower stands, while armored guards lined the dirt floor below. High above, in the upper wooden balconies, a few hooded elders stood watching. Their sharp eyes judged the new arrivals from beneath deep cowls, quiet fingers stroking long white beards.

Right in the center of the dirt floor, a single wide circle was drawn. A few feet back from the circle, a line of examiners sat behind wooden desks. Quill pens scratched fiercely across parchment as they scribbled notes.

“Welcome! The first batch is right on time!“

The speaker stepped forward to greet them, a teacher wearing round spectacles, a pointed witch’s hat, and a bushy white beard that billowed out like a pine tree.

“My name is Tharos,“ he continued, gesturing around the corner “And the one over there is Crowfeet.“

A few feet away, a second instructor hunched against the walls under the balcony shadows, his tall frame half-swallowed.

“As time is of the essence, we will begin the welcoming ceremony! No time for pep talks.“ Tharos turned toward the rear doors and ordered the guards, “Bring in the prisoners!“

Two hooded guards dragged forward five prisoners chained in a line. Heavy iron cuffs bound their wrists and ankles, clanking loudly as the captives struggled to walk. Sacks covered their heads completely.

Dawn’s chest tightened, a spike of cold panic piercing his gut. What were their crimes? What was about to happen? Around him, the other recruits stood impassive, as though expecting this all along. Everyone knew the rules of this ritual, except him.

As Dawn stood frozen in contemplation, a heavy hand patted against his shoulder.

It was his savior. The noble had effortlessly slipped out of his spot in line and stepped up beside him. According to whatever twisted logic of the system, they were supposed to know each other, yet Dawn’s mind remained a total blank, unable to retrieve a single memory of the man.

“Are you ready, Dawn?“ the noble asked.

Dawn wanted to mouth no, to scream it, but his instincts took over. “Yes,“ he muttered anyway, the word escaping his throat before he could stop it.

“No time to waste! First up, Corin from the House of Iron march!“ Tharos called out.

The brute stepped forward out of the line, his massive frame looming over the dirt circle. A guard stepped up, unlocked the lead chain from the line of captives, and guided a single prisoner with wrists and ankles still bound and forced him onto his knees directly before Corin.

“Start the timer on my mark! Corin, show us your power. The elders will judge!“

Tharos gave him a brief moment to prepare, but the brute looked more than ready, standing unnaturally tall and broad for a mage. As the signal was given, a guard flipped a heavy hourglass upside down, and grains of dark sand began to trickle down through the glass.

Corin activated his skill. From his broad shoulders, two massive arms made of solid shadow erupted into the air. With a brutal burst of violence, the giant hands of shadow slammed down, pummeling the helpless prisoner into the dirt.

After the fist’s first heavy impact, Dawn instinctively dropped his gaze toward the floor. Before he could look away, a firm hand clamped around his jaw and yanked his face back up.

“Don’t look down,“ a smooth voice whispered near his ear. “Look around us, Dawn. None of them are staring at the dirt. They are all looking death straight in the eye.“

The slick haired noble tilted Dawn’s head upward toward the balcony. “The elders are watching.“ He turned Dawn’s face back down toward the desk of instructors. “We are being judged. Act according to our noble name.“

He released his grip, leaving Dawn forced to witness the brutal onslaught as shadow hands mangled the lifeless body. Dawn was no stranger to butchering livestock or the stench of rotting animal carcasses but now he would have to get used to the sight and smell of human blood too.

“And time!“ The guard flipped the hourglass flat and checked the remaining sand. “Ten seconds!“ he announced to the arena.

Tharos shook his head slightly. “If you had stopped your meaningless rampage early, that could have been a record.“

Across the arena wall, the grand slate board shuddered. The name holding tenth place dropped lower, triggering a domino effect down the line. The fiftieth name vanished from the bottom entirely as the forty ninth slipped into its place.

“You are currently tenth on the leaderboard,“ Tharos announced.

Corin threw his arms wide, flexing his massive muscles in triumph as a handful of senior students scattered throughout the crowd offered lazy applause. High above in the balcony, the elders remained silence, unimpressed. At the long wooden bench, the examiners jotted down their notes.

After allowing Corin a brief moment to bathe in his glory, the guards escorted him out of the ring. A cleanup crew rushed in immediately, dragging the mangled remains away and leaving behind only a slick, pool of blood staine in the center of the dirt.

“Now for our second recruit, Matthew of the Vlodrath family! Come forward,“ Tharos called out.

The savior with the polished black hair stepped smoothly into the spotlight. A wave of murmurs rippled through the arena. A few senior students cheered, while others looked on with sharp, astonished eyes.

Dawn watched him walk forward, his lingering suspicions confirmed. Matthew was clearly from a high ranking house and dawn belong to the same house as him.

“Now once I give the signal, you can show your powers to the elders“. Dawn frowned, by showing powers now has a darker meaning then anything else.

As Tharos signaled, Matthew took out the dagger from his belt and lunged at the prisoner, slitting his throat without a shred of remorse. Not a single second was wasted.

He glanced over at the guard operating the hourglass and shrugged. “Turn the hourglass upside down again!“

“The trial only ends when you show us your powers. It’s not about how fast you can kill,“ Tharos snapped, giving him a scornful look.

High above, a few elders gasped in disappointment, while the examiners at the desk didn’t even look fazed, they had seen this arrogant rookie mistake a thousand times before.

“Fine,“ Matthew declared.

He opened his palm and twitched his fingers, weaving invisible dark threads from his finger tips that slid directly into the fresh wound on the prisoner’s neck. He held the stance for a moment before commanding in an cold voice, “Arise!“

The dead body mechanically jerked upward to its feet.

“A Puppeteer,“ one elder murmured from the balcony, sounding quiet impressed. Beside him, another wore a proud smile, as if to say, That’s my boy.

“And that’s time!“ Tharos shouted, glaring toward the guard.

“Twenty seconds!“ the guard called out.

The reanimated corpse stumbled forward a few feet before collapsing back into the dirt like a broken rag doll. As the cleanup crew dragged the body away, Matthew walked past Dawn, silently lipping the words good luck before stepping out of the arena.

As the lineup moved faster and faster, Dawn fidgeted nervously with his hands. He checked his status screen several times, but the truth remained unyielding. Neither the class bestowed upon him nor his skills had changed.

Up ahead, the queue dissolved quickly. The purple-haired boy summoned a small brigade of skeletons to tear into his target, while the quiet silence student calmly coated his blade in poison before finishing off his prisoner. They logged times of thirty and thirty five seconds, respectively.

Finally, the floor was cleared and his Dawn’s turn.

“Velkar from-” his voice suddenly cutting out with a strange, unnatural static. Tharos entire frame glitched for a fraction of a second. As if the system is fixing a mistake, “...Dawn from the Vlodrath family!“

Dawn didn’t bother worrying about the system glitch. He had far bigger problems to survive right now. He swallowed hard and stepped into the center of the circle.

“Wait for my signal. Then, you may use your power,“ Tharos said.

Dawn could feel the weight of every eye in the arena preying upon him. Tharos gave the signal, and the guard flipped the hourglass.

Dawn activated his skill: Summon Orb.

A tiny black sphere materialized in the air in front of him, hovered for a split second, and then dropped straight into the dirt with a pathetic plop.

A wave of muffled chuckles rippled through the stands. Tharos quickly silenced the crowd with a sharp glare before gesturing for Dawn to proceed. Over at the instructors’ bench, however, the examiners leaned into one another, exchanging urgent whispers.

“What is your class?“ one of the examiners called out, breaking protocol.

“It’s called Void Caller... ah, sir,“ Dawn replied, his voice barely holding steady.

The examiner slid his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, squinting at his parchment. “And what is the rank of your class and skill?“

“SSS-rank, sir. Both of them.“

“Continue,“ the examiner ordered flatly, turning back to his colleagues as they frantically began scribbling notes and debating among themselves.

Dawn took the sphere into his hands, looking out at the crowd. Up close, it resembled a heavy iron cannonball, polished slick like a black bowling ball without finger holes. When he lifted it with both hands, the weight sank heavily into his arms, around twenty pounds of solid black metal.

“What is your power again?“ the examiner pressed, leaning over his notes as the sand inside the hourglass slowly dripped away.

“Ah... it’s this,“ Dawn stammered. He lifted the iron sphere, balancing it in both hands to show the entire gallery. “I can summon this ball.“

A sudden wave of roaring laughter erupted from the senior students.

“Silence! Silence!“ Tharos barked, glaring sharply at the laughing crowd. “Let Dawn from House Vlodrath finish his-”

“That insolent brat is not from the Vlodrath family!“

A roar interrupted and shattered the mood as an old bastard in the balcony jumped from his seat, leaning over the wooden railing with a face twisted in rage. “I have controlled enough tolerance, One member’s failure to control his sexual urge will not leave a black mark to the entire clan! Never utter our house name again alongside that brat’s name.“

With that single outburst, the entire chamber went dead silent.

What did I do to piss that old fellow off again?

Dawn stared down at the heavy black sphere resting in his hands. Holding it tight, he took a hesitant step toward the kneeling prisoner. Beneath the rough sack, the captive let out muffled, frantic whimpers, his mouth bound tight beneath the cloth.

Dawn glanced back over his shoulder at Tharos and the examiners, his wide, desperate eyes silently pleading for someone to intervene.

The pressure unlocked a core memory, where he had stood frozen on a stage during a speech competition, paralyzed under the glare of a hundred staring faces. But this wasn’t a speech. He didn’t want his first act in this world to be murdering a helpless man with a twenty pound bowling ball.

A tongue clicked sharply from the darkness.

It was Crowfeet. The instructor hidden beneath the shadow glided forward, his tall frame cutting through the dim light as he clenched his fists. Without a word of warning, Crowfeet grabbed the prisoner by the head, slammed him face first into the dirt, and pushed his knee into the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

“The timer won’t stop until you kill him,“ He pointed a long, bony finger at the sphere in Dawn’s hands. “You hold a weapon. Use it.“

Dawn’s hands trembled as he adjusted his grip on the heavy sphere. He closed the distance, raising the ball up near his chin to gain momentum.

“H-huh...“ Dawn gasped, losing his balance for a fraction of a second.

“If you drop that on my leg, I will kill you myself,“ Crowfeet growled without looking up.

A few muffled snickers snuck out from the senior students in the stands, though Dawn took a small, twisted comfort in knowing the other particpants had already been escorted out and couldn’t witness this embarrassment. Still, Crowfeet’s threat worked. Panic surged through Dawn’s veins. He quickly lowered the heavy ball back down to his waist, bent his knees, and released his grip, the sphere went down toward the captive’s head.

Crack.

The heavy iron smashed into the prisoner’s nose with a sickening crunch. The ball rebounded off the face and rolled away into the dirt. blood instantly soaked through the sack.

Dawn spun around, gulping his bile back to his stomach.

Crowfeet let out a long, disappointed sigh. Raising his hand, he activated a telekinesis skill, the iron orb lifted off the ground and floated directly into his palm. Wrapping his fingers around the ball, the instructor brought the sphere down onto the prisoner’s head again and again, raining relentless blows until the captive stopped breathing and the skull caved in completely.

Crowfeet tossed the bloody sphere carelessly into the dirt.

“Stop the timer!“ Tharos shook his head. “It doesn’t even count!“

Before Dawn could even catch his breath or wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, two guards stepped up, grabbed him by the arms, and forcefully escorted him out of the arena.

These past few months I've been working on something under the misapprehension that the theme was one thing, but after an extremely productive writing session it's hit me that it's actually something completely different, and I couldn't be more excited!

I barely need to change a thing, I've somehow been writing about it the whole time without realising, and now a thread has appeared that ties everything together with weight and meaning that I was struggling to reach before. It was taking a lot of effort to work my original theme into certain parts of my story and I was worrying that something was wrong, but this solves so much, and gives my story the momentum it was missing beforehand.

This is the first time this has happened to me as a writer, and it made me wonder if anybody else has experienced this?

I like metaphorical word but AI put it as a red flag. For me, a metaphor is a one word explained all. Because of AI it forced me to removed about this term and surprisingly removing metaphor words gave me another way to write the content with the same term with more words, which btw a requirement for recognizing word count in novel site

He is the creator and guardian of the omniverse. He sees every moment of time in every universe in every multiverse all at once for all of time. He sees me writing this and he sees you reading this. His existence is canon to all realities, fiction or otherwise. He doesn't conform to any single religion or truth, because he created every religion and truth. He created entities like The One Above All, The Presence, or Azathoth because he was tired of governing every reality. Any character you or I can imagine will always be less powerful than him because nothing can be more powerful than him.

Story

I strolled through the tranquil forest that I once strolled through in my youth the leaves snapped and crunched under my armour-clad boots as metal clashed with nature in a fierce battle each step I took left a mark-a mark in history

The silence wrapped around encasing me

Just then-rain-heavy rain

It hammered down like a plethora of arrows, the light bent and reformed before my eyes

It was simply divine, it danced in the wind as they slowly collided then smashed to the ground, they were once beautifully built by nature, but now they are fractured and broken, I stood there therapeutically, as rain dripped and danced on my armour-clad helmet, as if it were nature’s song

The armour I bore drank in the rain as though it belonged to it. Forged from a deep, obsidian-black metal, it carried a weight that was not just physical but ancient, as if every strike it had endured still lingered within it. Its surface, though dark, held a faint sheen—subtle reflections of the storm twisting across it like ghosts of light.

Across the chest plate and flowing down the limbs ran jagged markings of cold, luminous blue. They resembled veins of diamond buried beneath the surface, glowing faintly with each movement, pulsing softly like a heartbeat hidden beneath steel. Rain traced along these lines, catching the glow and scattering it, making the armour seem alive—breathing, watching, remembering.

Each plate overlapped the next with deliberate precision, layered like the scales of some great ocean beast. When I moved, they shifted with a low, restrained sound—metal whispering rather than clashing. The shoulders flared slightly outward, broad and commanding, giving me a silhouette that stood apart from the fragile forest around me. My gauntlets were ridged and reinforced, built not just to defend, but to crush, each finger encased in cold certainty.

The helmet crowned it all—angular, enclosed, and unforgiving. A narrow visor cut across the front, its darkness concealing any trace of humanity within. From its sides extended blade-like frills, rigid and segmented, curving back like the fins of a deep-sea predator. Rain streamed along their edges, gathering before spilling off in thin, deliberate lines, as if the storm itself respected their shape. With every drop, the helmet seemed less like armour and more like a creature awakened beneath the sky.

Beneath it, wrapped tightly around the lower half of my face, was a thick grey scarf. Its texture was rough, almost bushy, worn by time and weather. It softened nothing—only concealed. Beneath its folds lay old scars that crossed my jaw and cheek, hidden not out of shame, but indifference. The scarf fluttered faintly with each breath, a quiet contrast to the unyielding precision of the armour that surrounded it.

I continued and I left the forest as the rain stopped, I was alone in a barren field deprived of sustenance there laid a gargantuan old, ancient mountain, lonely , solitary , abandoned by nature herself

The wind here did not feel like wind—it felt like absence given form. It slid across the empty field with no warmth, no purpose, only the memory of movement. The ground beneath my boots had changed; the soft surrender of the forest had become fractured earth, cracked and tired, as if even the land had forgotten how to grow.

Before me, the mountain rose like a wound in the horizon. It did not belong to the sky, nor to the earth—it simply was, imposed upon the world long before anything had agreed to question it. Its surface was jagged and broken, carved by time rather than shaped by it, every ridge looking like an old scar that refused to fade.

The silence out here was different. In the forest, silence had been alive—watching, breathing, wrapped around me like a presence. Here, it was hollow. It did not embrace me. It simply followed, as if even sound itself had grown afraid to exist.

At my side, something else endured that silence with me.

My blade hung low, steady against my leg, as if it too understood the weight of this place. Its form was simple at a glance, but wrong in a way the world could not quite accept. Forged from the same abyssal black as my armour, it swallowed what little light dared to touch it, leaving only its edges to betray its shape.

Along its length ran a thin rim of cold blue—sharp, unwavering, like a line drawn by something that never hesitated. The glow was faint, yet constant, tracing the blade’s edge with an unnatural precision. It did not flicker like fire, nor shimmer like reflection. It existed—calm, deliberate, inevitable.

The metal itself felt older than the mountain before me. Not worn, not dulled—unchanged. As though time had tried, and failed, to leave its mark. When the wind passed over it, there was no sound, no whisper of steel. It did not sing. It did not hum. It remained silent, as if noise was beneath it.

My hand rested against the hilt, fingers brushing the grip wrapped in dark, weathered binding. It was firm, familiar—an extension rather than a tool. The guard was minimal, almost non-existent, offering no ornament, no flourish. The weapon did not need to prove itself.

For a moment, the blue edge caught the empty light of the barren sky, and the glow sharpened—just slightly. Not enough to illuminate, but enough to remind.

And something else did too.

A shift—barely there. Not a sound, not a movement, but a disturbance in the stillness, like the air itself had been touched by intent.

I did not turn.

It came anyway.

A figure broke from the emptiness behind me, fast—desperate, silent in its approach but loud in its purpose. Steel met the air, aimed for where my neck would have been a heartbeat ago.

But the world had already moved.

My hand tightened.

The blade rose.

There was no clash, no drawn-out struggle—only a single motion, clean and absolute. The blue edge traced a brief arc through the hollow air, precise as a thought that had already been decided.

The attack ended before it began.

The figure staggered past me, momentum carrying it forward as if it had not yet understood what had happened. For a moment, it remained standing—caught between action and consequence.

Then it fell.

Silence returned instantly, swallowing the moment whole. No echo. No aftermath. Just the same hollow stillness, unchanged.

I lowered the blade.

The faint blue along its edge dimmed once more, returning to its quiet, patient glow.

Behind me, the presence was gone—as if it had never belonged here to begin with.

Ahead, the mountain remained.

Unmoving. Waiting.

So I climbed.

Each step was deliberate, the fractured stone resisting me as if it rejected the idea of being touched. Loose rock shifted beneath my boots, sliding away into nothingness below, yet I continued, carving a path where none wished to exist. The higher I rose, the thinner the world felt—like I was stepping beyond something meant to hold me.

Time did not pass here. It stretched.

At the summit, there was no triumph—only stillness.

And there, at the peak…

A box.

It did not belong.

Simple in shape, ancient in presence, it rested upon the stone as though it had been waiting—not placed, not abandoned, but left. Its surface was worn, edges softened by age, yet untouched by decay. No dust gathered upon it. No wind dared disturb it.

I approached.

For a moment, even the hollow silence seemed to hesitate.

My hand reached forward, armour dimly reflecting the pale sky, and with a slow, unspoken understanding… I opened it.

Inside lay something entirely different from the world around me.

A tall, conical hat with a wide, circular brim and a sharply pointed crown. It was woven from bamboo or straw, each strand carefully bound together, forming a pattern both simple and precise. Despite its fragile appearance, it carried a quiet resilience—made not for war, but for endurance.

The material bore the memory of rain and sun alike, built to shield rather than to strike. It was something worn by those who walked long paths—farmers beneath endless skies, monks beneath silent journeys… and, once, warriors who had learned when not to be seen.

It did not glow. It did not hum.

Yet it held presence.

I stood there for a moment, the wind brushing past me, the mountain unmoving beneath my feet. Then, slowly, I reached upward.

The helmet came first.

The finned, blade-like frills caught the empty light one last time as I lifted it free. For a brief second, the world felt… quieter. More exposed. The scarf beneath shifted slightly as the cold air touched it, brushing against skin long hidden behind steel.

Without ceremony, I lowered the helmet to my side.

Then I took the hat.

It was lighter than expected.

I placed it upon my head.

The wide brim cast a shadow over my face, merging with the grey scarf, concealing what little remained visible. The sharp, imposing silhouette of armour was softened—not weakened, but changed. The warrior beneath the storm had become something more distant… more unreadable.

The wind moved again.

This time, it caught the edge of the hat, and for the first time since I had entered this barren place… something shifted.

Not the world.

But me.

The blade remained at my side. The mountain still stood.

But the figure that now stood at its peak was no longer just a thing of metal and memory.

It was something quieter.

And far more dangerous..

I did not remain at the summit.

The mountain had given what it intended to give. Nothing more.

So I turned, and I descended.

The path down was no easier, yet it no longer resisted me. Stone shifted, dust slipped, but my steps were certain. The hat’s wide brim caught the dying light, its shadow steady over my scarf-covered face, while the faint blue veins in my armour pulsed softly beneath it—like something ancient adjusting to something new.

The barren field stretched once more before me. Empty. Endless. Forgettable.

But I knew where I was going.

Home.

Not a place of comfort—only of purpose.

The cave revealed itself slowly, carved into the earth as though the world had once tried to swallow it and failed. Its mouth was jagged, uneven, dark beyond reason. No light escaped it. No life approached it.

Yet I entered without hesitation.

Inside, the air was still—thick with the scent of metal, ash, and something older. The walls bore marks of time and work alike, scorched and scratched, shaped not by nature, but by persistence.

At the heart of it stood the anvil.

Silent. Waiting.

I set the helmet down beside it.

For a moment, I simply looked at it—the angular shape, the blade-like frills, the cold design that had hidden me from the world for so long. Rain no longer traced its edges. Wind no longer tested its form.

It had served its purpose.

Now it would become something else.

The forge answered when I willed it.

Flame rose—not violently, but steadily, as though it had always been there, waiting to be remembered. The light flickered across the cave walls, casting long, shifting shadows that bent and stretched like echoes of past battles.

I placed the helmet within.

At first, nothing.

Then… change.

The obsidian-black metal began to glow faintly, the blue veins within it brightening, pulsing harder—resisting. For a moment, it felt as though the armour itself refused to yield, clinging to the shape it had always known.

But time had never left its mark on it.

I would.

Slowly, deliberately, the metal softened. Its rigid edges blurred, its form collapsing inward as heat stripped it of identity. The frills bent, folded, then disappeared into the molten mass, their sharpness lost to something more fluid—more adaptable.

The blue light did not fade.

It spread.

Like veins unravelling, dissolving into the liquid metal, becoming something no longer bound by lines or structure.

When it was ready, I took it from the flame.

The molten metal moved like heavy water—dark, luminous beneath the surface. It did not drip. It flowed, as though guided by something unseen.

I brought the hat forward.

For the first time, something so simple met something so forged.

And I poured.

The liquid metal spread across the woven surface, seeping into the bamboo strands without consuming them, coating without destroying. The hat did not burn. It endured—just as it was meant to.

The obsidian sheen settled over it, darkening its form while preserving its shape. The blue glow traced along the edges of the weave, slipping between fibres like threads of light binding it together.

Then, from the sides…

The excess fell.

But it did not fall away.

It stretched.

Thin strands of molten metal extended downward, cooling as they lengthened, forming into delicate yet unbreakable chains. Link by link, they shaped themselves, each one precise, each one intentional. They hung from the brim in uneven lengths, swaying slightly as they solidified, catching the forge’s light in faint blue reflections.

Not decoration.

Not armour.

Something between.

When it was done, I lowered my hands.

The forge dimmed. The cave returned to its quiet stillness.

I lifted the hat once more.

It was heavier now—but not burdensome.

Stronger—but not rigid.

The chains whispered softly as they moved, brushing against one another with a faint, hollow sound—like distant echoes of something long gone.

I placed it upon my head.

The brim cast its shadow once more. The scarf remained. The armour beneath still pulsed.

But now…

With each subtle movement, the chains swayed and sang in quiet, metallic tones, framing the silence rather than breaking it.

The old helmet was gone.

Not destroyed.

Remembered.

Reformed into something that did not hide what I was—

But changed how the world would see it.

I don't know if this is the type of novel you guys are reading on this subreddit. But after you read this chapter, what are you guys thinking?

Chapter 1

The doctor had given me four months. Three weeks already slipped by. The men who shattered my ribs gave me three days to come up with fifty thousand rupees, and that deadline passed two days ago. One night left, and nothing but a smooth, polished wall standing between me and the money I didn't have.

The wall was even taller than it looked. By the time I got one hand over the top, then the other, my lungs could no longer pretend everything was fine. I hung there, the bruised area of my ribs scraping against the brickwork. Teeth clenched I dropped down onto the grass.

On this side of the wall, the rain fell harder. The alleyway lay empty, submerged in darkness, and the sound of water striking the pavement filled my ears. At the far end of the alley, leaving the city behind, stood the house.

"Come quickly," Isak whispered from behind.

He was already there. Three days earlier he'd shown up at my apartment with a plan and a broad smile. I agreed to it—after all, he was the only person who ever accepted me exactly as I was. He needed money for his mother's medicine; I needed money for the men who broke my ribs. Neither of us was going to get it by being smart. I walked toward him and reached the side of the house.

My reflection appeared in the window. I looked away. I didn't want to look at the sunken cheeks or the beard I hadn't trimmed in weeks.

Isak tossed a dark, cheap scarf at me. It landed in my hand before I thought to catch it.

"What's this for?"

"What do you think?" He was already tying a cloth around his own face, pulling it up over his nose. "Did you think we were walking in there with our faces showing?"

"You didn't say anything about masks."

"I didn't think I had to. What kind of thief are you?"

A lousy one, clearly. The kind who wouldn't even think to bring a mask for a robbery. The cloth went up over my nose and mouth, and the face in the window vanished with them.

"The windows aren't locked," Isak said, his voice muffled. "This should be pretty easy."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

"You don't need to be afraid! This is the house of a retired government official; wealthy people always hide their money somewhere."

"That's the stupidest thing you've said all month."

"Maybe. But it's still the truth."

Before I could argue, he turned the handle of the back door, and it swung open with a soft, creaking sound. A small red light blinked above the door frame.

"A camera," I said.

But he was already inside. "Too late now."

I hesitated—knowing the camera was recording, that entering meant being captured on film—but then, after a quick glance at the scarf covering my face, I followed him inside.

The moment the door closed behind us, the air shifted. The house smelled of dust, stale coffee, and something else—something I couldn't quite identify. The scent made the inside of my nose itch.

As I took another step into the hallway, a pain flared behind my eyes. It started mild, then sharpened—though, unlike usual, it didn't keep intensifying. It spiked suddenly, then faded just as quickly, leaving me stopped in my tracks, one hand against the wall to steady myself.

"What is it?" Isak whispered.

"Nothing." I could have turned back then. The camera was one reason, the house itself another—yet I kept walking.

The living room must have once been beautiful—old sofas, wooden cabinets, photographs adorning every wall. The kind of room where everything had been bought back when the owners still thought life would go the way they planned. I don't know why that bothered me.

Isak stopped and pointed toward the wall.

Gold-colored medals, certificates, photographs of a man in uniform—some from his youth, some from his later years, others showing him standing alongside fellow officers.

"This is the home of a retired police officer," I said.

My fingers were gripping the doorframe tightly; I hadn't even realized it. Behind his mask, Isak turned pale, his hand moving to the back of his neck.

"We're in real trouble, aren't we?" he asked.

"We're leaving."

"Wait... trust me—"

"You said the same thing back when the warehouse exploded."

"Why do you keep bringing that up?"

"Because it exploded."

Isak almost smiled. "This time will be different. I promise."

His hand was still holding mine. The medals on the wall behind him—the man who had spent his entire life studying how people like us operate. The fifty thousand rupees sat in my head, and the men demanding it, and Ronan, sitting in that hospital chair with his hand clenched around the armrest when he heard the word 'tumor.' Then I pulled my hand free and walked deeper into the house. Isak was already moving ahead; money had never come looking for me, so the time had come for me to go looking for it.

Halfway down the corridor there was a faint, grating sound. We froze—Isak's hand tightened on my sleeve—but the house stayed silent after that. After a moment, I let out a breath and kept walking.

Somewhere in the darkness, an old clock was ticking away. A glance at it—running, but the time it showed was wrong. Further on, against a wall, we found a desk—an old wooden piece with locked drawers. The only thing in the entire house that was locked.

"Doesn't this seem a bit suspicious?" Isak asked.

"Try to be useful for once in your life."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

I knelt down and set to work with a thin metal tool from my pocket, while Isak stood over me, keeping an eye on the door. Neither of us spoke as I worked. With a sharp click, the lock gave way, and I slowly pulled the drawer open.

Inside, nothing but an old piece of paper. On it, drawn in ink that had faded to a brownish hue, was a mask—a full-face mask with two horns curving outward from either side.

I stared at it for a moment, unable to comprehend what I was even looking at. The paper felt warm in my hand, and the lines of the drawing appeared unnervingly sharp. But there was no time to dwell on this; I had come here for money, and this certainly wasn't money.

"What the hell is this?" I tossed it aside and turned back to the drawer.

Nothing else inside but a few documents. I looked at Isak, my expression one of helplessness. He said nothing. For a moment, the house was submerged in silence—a silence shattered by the sound of sirens.

Faint at first, the sound drew steadily closer, growing so loud the windows began to rattle. Along with the noise came flashes of red and blue light, sweeping across the walls, the floor, over both of us. We stood there, caught in the glare, as if trapped in the beam of a searchlight. Before I could see anything, I heard the sound of cars pulling up in front of the house.

My hand shot out and grabbed Isak's jacket. I pulled him toward the door, and—in a voice that didn't even sound like my own—screamed, "Run!"

We ran. Sirens wailed, echoing through the walls, accompanied by flashing red and blue lights.

I froze halfway down the hallway. Still clutching Isak's jacket, standing there, sensing the police were somewhere inside the house behind me—yet I couldn't move!

Then a whisper reached my mind, bypassing my ears entirely:

[SENKI]

My chest tightened, and my hand flew to my throat instantly. The voice had spoken my name—not as a mere word, but with the familiarity of someone who had known me a long time. And yet, no one in this house was supposed to know my name.

Isak gripped my arm. "What are you doing? We have to go—now!"

But even though I wanted to run, my legs refused to move.

[SENKI]

The whisper came again—louder, much closer.

A glance toward the last room at the end of the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint, red light glowed from within. My mind screamed at me to run, but my legs stayed rooted to the spot. I tried again, and nothing happened.

Before I even realized I had reached out, my hand had landed on the doorframe. I pressed my fingers deep into the wood, fighting with all my might to keep from entering that room—but then my grip began to loosen, one finger at a time. First the index finger—curling away from the wood as if it had received a command I never gave—followed by the middle finger, then the rest. I watched, helpless, as my own hand betrayed me. I tried to clamp it shut again, but I couldn't.

Isak's hold slipped from my sleeve. He called my name once more—this time, the word reached me. I wanted to call back, but my mouth would not open.

I could hear his footsteps receding down the hallway. I felt like weeping. I didn't blame him.

Then, without asking for my permission, my hands opened the door to the room.

Inside the darkened space, an old wooden chest sat in the corner, surrounded by a red light that flickered like a dying flame.

I crossed the room, knelt beside it, and placed my hand upon the lid.

The moment my fingers touched the wood, a jolt of cold surged through my palm and up my arm—and suddenly, every ache in my body fell silent. The bruises those men had inflicted on my ribs, my swollen knee, the headache that had lived behind my eyes for a year—everything vanished in the time it took to draw a single breath.

Fingers against my ribs—nothing. I stood motionless on the floor of the stranger's house. I knew the police were outside, knew they could burst into the room at any second—yet I felt no urge to move. I had forgotten what it felt like to just... not hurt.

I opened the box.

Inside lay a shattered half-mask—smooth and dark—split in two by a jagged, winding crack. From within it, a red light pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

[SENKI]

The voice was clearer now; it emanated from within my own head.

The sound was my name, clear as day, but the characters around it belonged to a language I had never encountered. They bypassed my ears entirely, etched directly into my brain.

Suddenly, words materialized before my eyes.

[CONSCIOUSNESS SYNCHRONIZATION: 2%]

[HOST: SENKI]
[PHYSICAL CONDITION: CRITICAL]
[NEURAL DAMAGE: 87%]
[MASK INTEGRATION: 1%]
[ABILITY: UNKNOWN]

Eighty-seven percent. My legs felt as though they were giving way, and my breath caught in my throat. The words lingered in the air a moment too long—long enough for me to notice something else beneath them: a line of text, too small to decipher. It vanished before I could even attempt to read it.

My hands had opened the box—just as they might open a door or pick up a cup—but this time, I had given no such command. I realized the footsteps in the corridor were drawing closer.

I didn't know what the box was. Didn't know what it might do to me once I took it out of this house. All I knew was the pain was gone—gone for the first time in a year—and I wasn't letting it come back.

Before I ran, I grabbed the box.

I emerged from the room with the box tucked under my arm. Isak had reached the middle of the hallway—near the back door—and turned around at the sound of my voice; his face had gone pale.

"What are you doing?" he shouted. "Move!"

I moved. With the police behind me and Isak in front, the hallway seemed to blur and recede. I followed him through the back door and into the garden, where the cold air struck my face and the rain poured down harder than before. Suddenly, a wall loomed ahead; I slammed into it at full speed, throwing one hand up, then the other. This time, nothing mattered—because I felt no pain. I swung one leg over the top of the wall, where Isak was already halfway across. The smile had vanished from his face, and he was breathing heavily. Together, we leaped to the other side, where a bike stood ten meters away.

Isak reached it first and tried to start the engine, but it wouldn't fire. He tried again—nothing happened.

"Come on!" he urged.

On the third attempt, the engine roared to life. I had already jumped on behind him. For a fleeting moment, I thought we might actually escape, but that hope began to fade the instant a second police car rounded the corner. It came from the direction we were heading; the headlights shone directly into our faces. Isak had to swerve, the bike wobbled beneath us, and I nearly lost my grip on the box. He steadied the bike and turned left onto the next street, where a third police car was parked—its doors just opening.

Isak hit the brakes, the bike skidded sideways, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"Get on the ground," one of the officers commanded. "Get on the ground, now."

Isak glanced back at me over his shoulder—in that instant, I could see his regret. Regret for the plan, for the house, for dragging me into it all. He said nothing, just looked at me, then took his hands off the handlebars and raised them.

I got off the bike and raised my hands as well. We both knelt on the wet pavement; I placed my hands behind my head and stared at the asphalt, listening to the sound of boots approaching us.

One of the officers reached me first. He was a man in his forties with thick hands and a face like a clenched fist; he yanked the scarf from my face. The fabric was cold and damp, it fell away and left my bare skin exposed to the chilly night air. The officer looked at me, then at Isak—whose mask had been pulled away—and back at me; his lips curled.

"Idiots," he said. He hauled me to my feet and shoved me toward the car. Through the window, I saw a young officer holding the box; I watched as he placed it into the trunk of the second car.

Then the trunk slammed shut, and the pain returned—full force, worse than before. I doubled over, but the officer ordered me to walk upright.

End of Chapter 1.

Hey everyone! 😊

I hope you’re all doing well.

I wanted to share something special with you. I’ve recently published my debut novel, Forever Is Just A Word, and it means a lot to me because I’ve put so much time, effort, and heart into writing it.

If you enjoy reading stories about love, loss, betrayal, hope, and the strength to start again, I’d be really happy if you checked it out.

Your support would genuinely mean a lot to me. Even if you’re not a regular reader, I hope you’ll take a moment to have a look at my book.

Thank you so much! ❤️📚

To Get Your Copy From Here

Amazon :- https://amzn.in/d/00HpPFi0

Flipkart :- https://dl.flipkart.com/s/vOHvBdNNNN

Premise: A post-apocalyptic, Lovecraftian world built around the idea of “Iterations.”

Human civilization follows a natural cycle of roughly 10,000 years, ending in an apocalypse before beginning again.

Iteration 99, the setting of the story.

Class systems and social hierarchies.

Borrowed themes from:

Cyberpunk — corporate control

Fallout — post-apocalyptic settings

Adventure Time — repeating history

Metal Gear Solid — private military companies (PMCs)

POLITICAL SUBPLOT:

The Union, an alternate version of the United States, is divided into districts. Its cities are scattered across a vast, harsh landscape of deserts, plains, and tundra. Steampunk airships and dirigibles share the skies with cassette-futurist and early-1980s-to-1990s technology. Settlements exist beyond city walls, where PMCs often operate beyond government scrutiny.

Wild West-inspired settlements and landscapes

Gunrunners and couriers, known as Dust-biters or Scraps

Rogues: PMC defectors who still wear their former company colors

Marauders: violent, unstable outlaws, sometimes driven to madness by heatstroke or drugs

Immigrant outposts, particularly those populated by Middle Eastern and Turkish communities

Advanced technology is rare and heavily restricted. Microcontrollers, megahertz chips, unified RAM, technologies that could enable modern AI, and integrated nuclear-weapons programs are forbidden, with severe physical punishment for violations.

District 52 is the main setting for the first half of the story.

Wide roads and 1980s-style cars with some design elements from the 2000s.

Tall buildings and small dirigibles fill the lower skies. Above them, PMC airships hover near the clouds, ready to deploy shock troops when unrest breaks out.

Despite their strong aerial presence, PMC aircraft are unreliable, limiting their use.

PMCs

Kessler: Personnel wear slim gas masks, long coats, helmets, and lightweight weapons; their appearance varies by rank and role. Kessler Security Contracting Co. originally took over a factory that mass-produced exterminator masks. The masks proved useful in chemical warfare, helping trigger conflicts between French Canadia and the Union involving poison gas, trench warfare, and the development of modern airships. In the 1960s, Kessler funded research into the Union’s first atomic bomb, contributing to a Cold War fought largely through espionage and proxy conflicts. A near-dirty-bomb incident in Miami led to city walls being built and access to the harsh, but inhabitable, wasteland being restricted. After Kessler helped defuse the crisis, the Union brought the company into its military operations. Politicians eventually began using Kessler to carry out covert actions without the political consequences, gradually sidelining the official military.

105th Collies

During the Second Proxy World War in the 1940s, defectors from Europe, the Union, Kieva, and Albian (Britain) formed a secretive network of operatives known as the 105th Collies. In the 1960s and 1970s, rumors claimed they were replacing politicians who died unexpectedly, though government-backed investigations dismissed the allegations. By the early 1990s, most people believed the Collies were extinct or in hiding, while conspiracy theories claimed they still manipulated elections and legislation. In 1993, District 52 Director Victor Halden shut down all investigations, calling them “a disappointing waste of effort and funds.”

Other PMCs

The Eastern Wars displaced many Middle Eastern and Eastern European refugees. In 1976, Director Clifford Benedict offered them free immigration and protected settlements outside the cities. His successor later revoked the policy, prompting riots and armed uprisings across the East Coast. Kessler and Union Army special forces suppressed the violence while still operating as equals. Some survivors formed unofficial PMCs, including Valencia Contracting and Salam Security. These groups operate in the largely lawless territories beyond the major cities, where authorities often overlook them.

Social classes and slang

Couriers are commonly called Dust-biters because they transport goods across dangerous plains, deserts, and tundra. In colder regions, they may be called Snowshoes.

Corporate elites are known as Plate-lickers or Silver Spoons. They control PMCs, genetic-testing programs, food safety, and the production and distribution of essential goods.

Blindeyes are couriers who also work outside the law. They steal technology from PMC warehouses and may sell the same parts back before anyone notices they are missing.

Preachers are government-sponsored “missionaries” sent to settlements beyond the city walls. They promote urban life while discouraging potential threats to the cities, often imposing the government’s version of happiness on nomadic communities.

Patchers, or Highwires, are technicians who illegally repair or modify circuit boards, microchips, and other advanced technology. Many live in the Rust Grid, a vast buried city beneath the flatlands between Districts 52 and 58, which are hostile toward one another. The city is guarded by bulky, primitive drones secretly developed by Kessler engineers. Tethered to wires across the high ceiling, the drones have limited mobility; busy blocks may contain four to eight of them. The 105th Collies are the main power in the Rust Grid and occasionally reveal themselves to discourage interference.

Chirpers, also called Mouths, work in media and culture as filmmakers, actors, writers, comedians, debaters, poets, and more. Many form groups to share ideas, create propaganda, or produce art. Their entertainment helps maintain public morale, and production often increases during periods of tension to distract people from events beyond the cities.

ITERATION SUBPLOT: 

Every human civilization ends abruptly after roughly 10,000 years, often through nuclear war, mass poisoning, or another global catastrophe. A small number of survivors lose their memories and eventually rebuild civilization.

Vorons are tiny, four-dimensional subatomic particles sometimes called the “DNA of time.” Their density in an organism is believed to determine its level of life and awareness. Around 750,000 Vorons per cell may indicate intelligence; approximately 2.3 million Vorons per cell (vpc) is thought to produce sapience—a soul, consciousness, and discernment. Humans are the only known sapient species, though some who study the Iterations believe another existed during the first cycle over a million years ago.

When a sapient organism dies, its Vorons disperse through space and may later be reused in another creature, forming the basis of reincarnation in this universe. Across Iterations, the same soul may reappear in different lives, sometimes repeating similar actions in the same place and year. Here, history does not merely rhyme; it repeats.

Each Iteration follows a broad pattern of rise, development, collapse, and renewal, though its technology and culture vary. One cycle may be steampunk, cyberpunk, atompunk, analog, or digital. After each apocalypse, humanity begins again with primitive tools and gradually rebuilds until the cycle’s end becomes inevitable.

MAIN CHARACTERS: 

Elliot Thatcher

Elliot Thatcher was born in 1973 and works as a courier, often taking illegal jobs as a Blindeye and stealing from PMC warehouses or technology workshops. His father was a courier and was killed during the Eastern Wars; his mother, a primary-school teacher, was imprisoned and later released on the East Coast, unable to reconnect with him. Elliot grew up in a public foster institution and ran away at 17. He later left college to follow his father’s path. Repeatedly detained for petty theft, he usually spent only a few days in jail. In 1994, at 21, he lives in an apartment complex on the city’s eastern edge. His closest connections are childhood friend Pace Romano, Pace’s sister Salem, neighbor Camille Navarro, and several information brokers.

Camille Navarro

Camille Navarro was born in Barcelona in 1973 and moved to the Union with her family at age nine, near the end of the Eastern Wars. She attended school with Elliot and graduated from a prestigious university at 23. After her family circumstances changed, she moved into his building. Their relationship is tense and full of arguments, though they still care about one another. Camille interns in District 52’s architecture department, hoping to improve people’s lives. She values peace and altruism but is repeatedly drawn into morally complicated situations.

Pace Romano

Pace Romano, born the same year as Elliot, dropped out of college during his first year and started a business with his younger sister, Salem, modifying vehicles and handling technology of questionable legality. Elliot supplies them with parts in exchange for a small weekly payment. Because authorities suspect Pace of more illegal activity than Elliot, he takes precautions to avoid detection.

Salem Romano

Salem Romano, born in 1975, is Pace’s quieter younger sister and handles most of the technical work in their shop while Pace and Elliot negotiate. She earned degrees in business, engineering, and biochemistry at a young age. After the business became profitable, she and Pace moved into a vacant building beside Elliot’s apartment. Despite her intelligence, Salem struggles with insecurity about her parents’ expectations, caution, insensitivity, and a quick temper. She remains close to Pace and Elliot.

Victoria “Vic” Alira

Victoria “Vic” Alira was born in 1972 in the southern coastal region of the Australian Dust-lands, a term for sparsely inhabited dry regions across places such as the Middle East, Africa, and Mongolia. Her birth parents gave her up for adoption at age five, and she grew up with cold, disapproving adoptive parents. She remained closest to her two sisters and older brother. Vic moved to the Union’s Pacific region at 19 and eventually settled in District 52. After becoming acquainted with Elliot and Camille in her early twenties, she turned her wanderlust into work as an information broker for their courier jobs and others.

Main Story:

As time stretches and the Iteration cycle repeats, Vorons begin to cluster and bring objects and beings from past Iterations into the present. These anomalies cause phasing, visual glitches, and other distortions. One of the first is an android known as Jack.

Jack was built in the 42nd Iteration in a 1940s-noir version of New York, where biotechnology dominates the American Empirical Republic (AER). Researchers used human brain cells to give him human-level intelligence and near-sapience. Named Lazarus by lead researcher Dr. Tobias Kolavenko, Jack has amber-lit eyes and a mouth that functions as both audio output and exhaust. After months of painful experiments, AER special forces raided the lab and killed its staff. Jack escaped his reinforced enclosure and killed the remaining operatives. Grieving the researchers he regarded as his creators, he later became an illegal bounty hunter and adopted the name Jack, along with a broad-brimmed hat, long coat, and boots to conceal his identity. When Voron anomalies begin, Elliot glimpses him during a nighttime raid in a blizzard. Days later, Vic finds Jack injured and brings him to the shop, where the rest of the crew meets him.

The Director of District 52, Victor Halden

Victor Halden, Director of District 52, is cocky, humorous, power-hungry, and somewhat unstable. His rivalry with District 58 Director Susan Brownell leads him to blame her and her thriving cities for many of his problems. He dislikes confronting people above him and routinely appeases Kessler generals, the Union’s head Director (the President), and his own supervisors. He also ensures that details of major incidents are redacted.

The story follows the crew through episodic adventures involving gunrunning, stealth, humor, and contracts to help people. Beneath these smaller stories, tensions between Kessler, the Union, the Huang Republic, Kieva, and other powers threaten another Cold War. The creation of dirty bombs containing Chernovor—a Voron-dense mineral made from depleted uranium and phosphorus—could end Iteration 99. The use of just five bombs would plunge Earth into permanent darkness and prevent humanity from returning.

With humanity’s factions deeply divided and distrustful, the crew must find a way to end the Iteration cycle before it destroys them.

The central twist concerns Elliot’s identity and his connection to previous Iterations.

The ambiguous nature of the Iterations’ origin remains central to the story, yet it should contain these ideas: 

Like many people, Elliot has lived different lives across multiple Iterations. A soul’s role may be filled by another version of that person in a later cycle, though the origin and meaning of this pattern remain open to interpretation.

Elias Mercer:

Iteration 0 took place roughly one million years before Iteration 99 in a world much like our own.

In the 1960s, Soviet leader Edgar Reznov became internationally known for his work in peace, biotechnology, and medicine. His research eventually had unintended and devastating consequences.

By the mid-1970s, Reznov’s researchers were using chemical mutation and gene therapy to create people resistant to disease. These modified humans looked almost ordinary but tended to have pale, gray-tinted hair, unusual inherited accents, and reconstructed genomes. They were often taller and stronger, reproduced more quickly, and were more likely to have multiple births, but lived shorter lives—around 60–65 years rather than 75. Once the public learned about them, many called them “sub-humans,” “monsters,” or “God’s Secondaries.”

Reznov stepped down in 1982 and was succeeded by Mikhail Voronin. In 1984, Voronin launched the Integration Campaign to help the growing modified population join society. Reclaiming the insult “God’s Secondaries,” he called them Secondaries and placed them in public-facing roles in advertisements and city campaigns. Acceptance grew, although prejudice remained.

In 1992, Voronin settled many Secondaries in Russian-occupied East Africa, where new settlements were needed amid the threat of foreign occupation. That year, biologists discovered that Secondaries could no longer reproduce genetically with unmodified humans. Leaked documents called them “Homo aberrans” (“Deviated Man”), and the revelation sparked worldwide riots and killings. Voronin responded by protecting the settlements and appointing a young survivor, Elias Mercer, as his apprentice to demonstrate that the two populations could coexist.

The discovery leaked to the public, and documents referring to the group as “Homo aberrans” (“the Deviated Man”) intensified the backlash. Riots broke out worldwide, and Secondaries were killed across the globe. Voronin responded by sending military protection to their province and choosing Elias as his apprentice, hoping to demonstrate that the two populations could coexist.

Voronin became a father figure to Elias, but on September 18, 1999, European and American radicals attacked Secondary communities, killing and imprisoning civilians. Voronin’s efforts to stop the violence failed. Later, raiders attacked Elias’s village, killing several of his allies, including children. Traumatized and furious, Elias decided to retaliate against humanity for the persecution of his people.

Elias secretly ordered bombings of Union offices and helped seize Russian military equipment in the province. The conflict escalated as other countries intervened and Secondary forces conquered nearby territories. A U.S. invasion of Africa’s west coast triggered a wider war. After witnessing the resulting mass deaths, Elias lost faith in humanity and ordered global dirty-bomb launches, believing that shared extinction would force all life into a single, equal state.

As the launch began, Elias went to a helipad to initiate the opening of the world’s missile silos. Voronin confronted him, and Elias stabbed him. With the launches underway and the world facing destruction, Elias regretted killing the man who had raised him, yet remained convinced that his plan would end humanity’s divisions.

The plan ultimately fails to end the cycle. When the world dies, its Vorons disperse across Earth and remain in stasis, allowing the same process of collapse and renewal to repeat without an apparent way to stop it.

The Catalyst

The Catalyst is a Kessler-owned artifact discovered deep within ancient analog data vaults. It is a Voron-dense crystal composed of phosphorus and uraninite, with a density of approximately 1.5 million Vorons. Its defining feature is sentience. Although most people cannot hear it, the Catalyst can communicate telepathically at close range. It usually seeks a place to reside as it “bounces around” inside Elliot’s mind, often to his mental detriment.

As for the elements of the story itself, it holds a certain balance between solemnity, wholesome teamwork, broken factions, corruption, and loss. It touches on a lot of tragic topics, and in my opinion, it just shows a very solid moral foundation.

Just a reminder that this IS still a work-in-progress, I havent focused too much on my grammar since I rushed this brief proof of concept, but I think I sums it up very well. Let me know what I can do, since the idea isnt done yet!

I am looking for a beta reader for my Percy Jackson fanfiction, would anyone be interested?

Chapter One: Familiar Shadows

The midday sun shone brightly over the courtyards of the historic Italian university, while crowds of students poured toward the gates in boisterous, lively waves, celebrating the end of their final exams for the academic year. In contrast, “Yen” walked with slow, labored steps, leaning his full weight on a worn wooden cane, while his face bore a deep calm that concealed a world of mystery.

Amid the crowd in the hallway, the cane suddenly slipped from his hand with calculated lightness, striking a student passing by. The student spun around in extreme annoyance, his face darkening with a scowl, and grabbed “Yen’s” shirt collar in a sharp, fierce tone. His friends tried to pull him back in fear, pleading with him:

\- “Leave him alone! You’ll get us into trouble!”

But the student pushed them aside in a fit of rage, shot “Yen” a contemptuous glance, and shouted:

\- “Are you afraid of this cripple? He can barely stand without his damn crutch!”

Before he could finish his sentence, a broad shadow swooped down like a roaring wind. “Cristo” appeared, with his powerful physique and sharp features, seizing the attacker and his two friends in an iron grip that knew no mercy. Within seconds, the sounds of impact and cries for help rang out, before the three of them fell to the ground, groaning in agony.

Cristo brushed off his hands with utter nonchalance, then bent down gently to pick up the fallen crutch and handed it to his friend with a warm, friendly smile:

“Are you okay, my friend? Be careful next time.”

The relationship between “Yen” and “Cristo” was one of a kind; they were companions on a harsh journey. “Cristo,” a fierce boxer hardened by life’s harshness—he had lost his parents years ago in a tragic car accident, after which he and his younger brother moved to live with their wealthy uncle in this city—possessed tremendous physical strength and a kind heart.

As for Yen, he had come from a village in the countryside and lived in a very modest apartment near

Beyond my imagination, there is a world where I am the owner and creator of my own joy, where I don’t chase material things, where I don’t have to explain myself, where I don’t wear masks. They accept me as I am. My ugly appearance and wicked personality surprise no one. I live by my own rules. They love my flaws, muse over my suffering, never counterfeit their love, and love me even for being selfish.

A world where I have no fear of what others think of me.

NOTE: Does anyone know any writers like this ?

——-

Donnie’s apartment had a scent of late-night loneliness, depression, and high-anxiety suffocating whoever went inside, a lingering contagion seeping into the thoughts of anyone after they exited his unit.

He sat at the mirror next to his computer monitor. His fingers trembled as he used green eyeliner on the rim of his shaved eyelids. His naked brows were filled in as small digits from zero to four and five to ten.

In between him and the mirror, a bottle of lithium lay toppled on its side, opened with a few pills scattered on the glass desk, leading to the lid a couple of inches from the spilled container.

He prepared himself and shifted to the screen, the tips of his fingers hovered over the keyboard, attempting to conjure some sort of special energy by placing them in a frozen position a millimeter from the buttons, waiting for the words to manifest, but they refused to materialize.

On the green highlands of the Livingston estate, Caroline stood in her little white gown, her cheeks reddened by the cold winds that tossed her skirts like a bird caught in flight. She heard her name called and, glancing down, saw the mud clinging to her shoes and frock. Nancy, ever brisk, led her toward the courtyard where two middle-aged men conversed, and a young, handsome lad stood nearby, nodding politely as he took in the beauty of the serene estate.

Caroline curtsied, stealing a side-glance at the young man, who met her with a quiet, curious glare.

“Oh, Lord Tuttles, please pardon the girl’s carelessness with her skirts! Nancy, dress her properly, at once!” cried Mr. Ribbon.

Blushing, Caroline turned away and walked down the long hallway toward her chambers, her heart fluttering as the father and son remained behind.

“Your daughter is of age, Ribbon,” said Lord Tuttles, his eyes following her retreat. “I can see it in her youthful grace.”

“I pledge her to your care, my lord,” replied Mr. Ribbon solemnly. “Henry is the rightful groom for her, as we have long intended.” He offered one of his finest blends of tea to his guest with a bow.

But the seventeen-year-old Henry found himself wondering if he could endure the wait — for the girl he had seen only moments ago had left an impression he could scarcely name.

Moments later she returned — now dressed in a deep red gown that caught the light and shaped her slender torso with elegant precision. Her cheeks, naturally flushed, glowed brighter as her eyes met Henry’s.

“Why don’t the children speak,” Lord Tuttles said with a smile, “lest they steal glances while we sip the finest tea of our lives. Go on, both of you.”

“Isn’t the place far too romantic for two young souls in their bloom, Ms. Ribbon?” Lord Henry remarked, his gaze fixed upon her, unmoving.

Caroline, her eyes lowered to the fine embroidery on her gown, gave a shy smile — a silent answer to his unspoken thought. Her heart fluttered beneath her corset as her hands gathered the restless folds of her skirt from the teasing wind.

“I have been here many times since I was a little girl,” she began softly. “My Ma would bring us here when we were young. She’d braid our hair and play at catch, while Jane — my sister — tried to climb that tree over there.”

She paused, as if catching a memory too delicate to speak aloud, then turned her head slightly toward the young Tuttle.

“Go on,” Henry urged with a gentle curiosity. “Tell me more. May I know Jane? We haven’t met her yet, I presume?”

“Let bygones be bygones,” she exclaimed softly, her fingers fidgeting with the silk in her hands as her gaze lifted toward the endless sky. Birds soared freely above, the clouds parting as though to make them way.

“Isn’t it an irony,” she mused, “that we believe the birds wander without direction, when in truth they know precisely where to go? The winds guide them, though neither knows the other’s name or origin. Nature, in its innocence, knows how to guide souls—yet we, in our selfishness, raise barriers that confine our own hearts, forbidding ourselves and those we love from truly experiencing the world.”

The silence that followed did not burden them; instead, it deepened—a quiet current through which their souls began to reach for one another.

Taken aback by the sudden moment of solidarity and unspoken acceptance, Henry looked at her with a subtle mix of sympathy and awe.

The fifteen-year-old girl before him seemed burdened with more than muddy skirts and newfound duties as a young lady. There was a weight in her eyes—one too heavy for her tender years—as she stared toward the lone tree, its roots deep in the watery soil beneath a sky darkened with angry clouds.

“It’s already late, sir. We must head back,” she said quietly.

During supper, Caroline stared at her soup with a bland expression. The aroma, the subtle seasoning, the delicate spices—all reminded her of Jane.

Speaking of that “lost” girl: meticulous, calculative, with a mind as precise as a finely tuned instrument. Her acumen in the realm was unwavering, her passion for numbers infinite and recurring, as she had once told Caroline near the lakeside, scratching away in her withered old notebook. Little Caroline could only watch, admiring her sister’s wild spirit, wondering if she would ever understand the strange, brilliant words Jane so effortlessly spoke.

A sudden thud on the table, a heavy fist rattling the plates, yanked her back to the present. Startled, she looked up to see her father’s face flushed red, eyes fixed sharply upon her.

“Playing with food isn’t appreciated, young lady. Finish that soup and start setting your things right. You’ll soon be a Tuttle’s bride,” her father said firmly, his tone leaving little space for reply.

Nancy hovered beside him, arranging the crockery on the table—the silver-plated plates bore edges chipped and dulled with age, their cracks catching the dim candlelight.

this is my attempt i have more i can share if this one has potential to be something. Pls attempt to give contructive criticism!

Hi,

I am looking for a writing partner (if you also know Spanish, this is a plus). This would be writing for fun and will not be published. I would like someone who is able to write paragraphs. The plot I have takes from 1985-1989 and then again, in 2015. It is fiction, like slice of life with other genres in-between. The plot takes place in the Lehigh Valley. Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, specifically. I tend to do this on messenger and if you are comfortable and willing, we can go ahead and use messenger as the the writing platform. It would be back and forth.

Thanks!

I never meant to leave her.

People always assume I crossed the sea in search of adventure, or fortune, or answers.

Only one of those is true.

By the time I departed, I was already changing.

It began with dreams.

Then fever.

Then mornings I could not explain.

Sometimes I woke in places I had never been, my clothes torn, my hands stained with things I dared not examine. Other mornings I remembered everything, which was worse.

I had spent years teaching others that no soul was beyond redemption. Yet I could scarcely bring myself to pray.

I sought physicians first. Then scholars, mystics, and men who claimed to know the old ways. Every one of them spoke with certainty.

None of them spoke with hope.

An old monk finally told me there were places where forgotten words still lived, where ancient melodies had never been written down because they were older than writing itself.

He spoke of mountains rising above endless plains, of lands where the world remembered things mankind had forgotten.

So I followed the stories south.

I believed, then, that I was chasing a cure.

Africa gave me something else.

The first nights were the hardest.

The cries echoed across the darkness, carried on the warm wind from somewhere beyond the trees.

I mistook them for wild dogs.

By the third night, I understood they were calling to me.

I answered before I realized I had.

They found me before dawn.

Not monsters.

Not men.

Something beautifully and terribly in between.

I had expected them to recoil from me as others had. Instead, they welcomed me as though I were a traveler who had finally found his way home.

They taught me to listen before I spoke, to master the hunger rather than deny it, and to understand the strange music of the wilderness.

They taught me what no physician ever could.

The wolf was never my punishment.

It was my inheritance.

What I had feared was not evil.

Only powerful.

And power, I soon learned, carries obligations.

There were villages where no children played after sunset. Places where the doors were barred before the evening meal, where families whispered of visitors who never aged and neighbors who simply disappeared.

I learned of ancient houses whose masters had ruled for generations without ever growing old. Of travelers welcomed at dusk who were never seen again. Of creatures who could imitate the living so perfectly that their victims sometimes invited them inside.

They possessed everything except the one thing they could never reclaim.

Life.

They could take it.

They could prolong their own existence by consuming it.

But they could neither create it nor truly share in it.

Kings of empty kingdoms.

Predators who consumed but never belonged.

I had spent months believing I was the greatest monster in the world.

I was wrong.

The others had guarded these lands for longer than anyone could remember. They knew the enemy's ways, its hiding places, and its ancient hungers.

They knew how to fight.

But they were losing.

And I, who had crossed an ocean to escape the beast within me, found myself fighting beside it.

I cannot say when I stopped searching for a cure.

Perhaps it was the first child we brought safely home.

Perhaps it was the night I stood beside the others beneath a pale moon and realized I no longer feared their voices.

Or perhaps it happened later.

The night the rains came.

We had been driven back for days. The enemy had learned our paths and surrounded the villages beyond the plain. There were too many of them, and too few of us.

Even a hundred men could not have turned them aside.

I remember standing at the edge of the grasslands, exhausted, watching the clouds gather above the distant mountains.

Thunder rolled across the horizon.

The air smelled of rain.

And suddenly, without warning, I remembered the little stone chapel where I had once spent my mornings. The candles. The quiet. The simple words I had spoken over water a thousand times.

Words I had not dared utter since the night I first changed.

I had believed myself unworthy.

Yet there, beneath the gathering storm, I found myself remembering them.

Without thinking, I raised my hand.

Not to ask for a cure.

Not anymore.

Not even to ask for victory.

Only to give thanks.

Only to bless.

The first drop struck the earth.

Then another.

Somewhere beyond the trees, something screamed.

The wolves stood silent.

More rain fell.

The screaming spread.

Shapes fled through the darkness, abandoning the villages and the roads, clawing desperately for shelter from the very heavens.

I watched them run.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I wept.

Not because we had won.

Not because the storm had answered.

But because the blessing had worked.

The curse had changed my flesh.

It had never touched my soul.

All those years I had believed that Heaven had turned away from me.

Yet I had never thought to ask whether I was the one who had turned away.

There was much the darkness could never take from me.

My faith.

My love.

My name.

Years have passed.

The others sometimes ask whether I still dream of returning home.

I do.

I still think of her whenever storms gather.

I wonder whether she ever understood why I left, or whether she remembers only the silence that followed.

I hope she found peace.

I hope she never had reason to fear the dark.

Sometimes I imagine seeing her again. I wonder whether she would recognize the man I have become, or whether she might see something in my eyes that was never there before.

I would tell her that I am well.

That I am no longer afraid.

That the world is larger and stranger and more beautiful than either of us imagined.

And that I have finally learned what it means to do what is right, even when it takes me far from everything I love.

As for me, there is nowhere else I belong.

The children of the villages no longer fear the night as they once did. The old roads are open again. The pack keeps watch from the hills, and when their voices rise across the darkness, I know I am not alone.

There are still dangers beyond the mountains.

There always will be.

But when the clouds gather, I still look to the heavens.

When thunder rolls across the plains, I remember the man who crossed an ocean searching for one miracle and found another.

And before the first drops touch the earth, as I always have, I bless the rains down in Africa.

Joe Brady has hated me since the fifth of December, 1962, and I have never once held it against him.

A man is entitled. I keep my end tidy. The curtains go across at four and the back door gets bolted twice, and the poker lies on the floor by the bed where I can reach it without sitting up. No wireless at tea, because a wireless covers footsteps. Nora says I live like a man expecting a siege. I tell her a siege is only a long wait with rules.

In the winter afternoons a man in a brown coat comes to the gate and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the house. I watch through the gap in the curtains. I know his boots, and the way he leans on the left leg. I have never looked at his face. From the gate to my door is forty-one steps, and I've counted them so often I walk them asleep.

Every March I oil the gate hinges, because rust is rust. At four I leave the kitchen light on, for the fuse, I tell Nora.

At half nine the pipes knock in the wall behind the bed, one flat note. Water, Nora says. The telephone in the hall is worse. He lets it ring fourteen times, according to Nora, and I have never got past nine before she comes out of the kitchen and lifts it herself. Her voice goes low behind the door and I go upstairs.

Under the bed is a Clarks shoebox with twenty-six letters in it, one for nearly every winter. I call it the evidence. Not one has been opened. The year none came was 1971, and every morning that December I met the postman at the door. My father used to say never trust a man who forgives quick, it means he hasn't felt it.

On the mantel, between the Sacred Heart and the clock, there's a Christmas card with a robin on it, turned to the wall. The October letter is thick as a hymnbook. On the hall shelf, between the Brasso and the spare fuses, stands the old ferry lantern. I dust it on Saturdays. I haven't lit it since.

Nora brings my tea at five and sets it down the way she does for the infants she teaches, a little too gently, so I'll know it's gentleness.

"He was out there again yesterday," she said. "Two hours, in that cold."

"Let him."

"You said that last year." She sat, which she doesn't usually do. "I've thirty copybooks to mark and a father who counts the telephone."

"I don't count it."

"Nine," she said, to the sugar bowl. "You go white at nine."

I let that go by. After a minute she said, "Tell me about the night. I never properly heard it."

So I told her. The three of us worked the crossing eleven years. Joe sang on the ferry in a voice like a gate in a high wind, and the passengers paid extra to have him stop. Pat, who was twenty-six, ate a raw turnip on a bet in front of the canon and was sick over the side with great dignity. We had one flask between us, tea with a drop of Powers, and it went round in the same order every night: Joe, Pat, me.

The fog came up at six. By nine you could smell the lamp on the landing and not see it. Pat said he heard the bell from the far side, the one the lockkeeper rang for a late fare. Neither of us had heard it. He laughed and took the small boat. I ran down the bank and caught the rope, I told her, and shouted till my voice went, and Joe stood behind me roaring that he'd never forgive me, not while he lived. The bridge opened that spring and I was out of a trade by June.

Nora folded her napkin smaller. "Joe went in after him. Up to his chest, Mam said."

"Is that kettle boiled?"

"Daddy."

"There's tea left in the pot, if you'll have it."

She poured. She held the pot a moment over my cup. "He asks after you every time, you know. Every single time."

"It's stewed," I said.

That night I told it again to the ceiling, to check. The rope went first; I couldn't find where I'd put my hands. The roaring came down to shouting, the shouting to nothing, and Joe stopped being a man on the bank who hated me and was only a man in the water going out into the fog after a boy. And me standing there with something in my hand.

I held the lantern. By two in the morning that was all of it. I stood on dry ground and held a lamp very still, level with my chest, and I did not go in.

At first light I drew the curtain right back for the first time since 1962. Hard frost had silvered the garden except in front of the gate, where the grass was gone. A patch of bare earth, two boots wide, worn flat by a man standing in the one place winter after winter until the ground gave up.

Nora found me there and asked had I been up all night.

On Wednesday the woman from next door came with a tart. I was in the hall in my cardigan, perfectly well, and Nora put herself in the doorway. "He's not himself in the afternoons. We'll let him rest."

"I know what day it is," I said.

"Of course you do."

When the door shut she took the tart into the kitchen and told me, with her back to me, that Joe was bad in the chest and wanted to come. "I've told him Thursday."

"You've told him."

"I'm telling you now. He's asked nineteen times, and I kept count too."

I stood in the hall with the clock going and thought of the patch of earth.

"Let him come."

On Thursday I shaved twice and ironed the good shirt myself, and Nora let me. In the hall mirror I began, _The rope was wet, Joe, and the fog_, and it wouldn't hold. What came out the second time was _I held the lantern_, in a voice I didn't know, very small.

Nora put on her coat and said she was going to the shops. She is never at the shops on a Thursday.

"Eat something," she said from the door. "You're seventy-one, nobody's asking."

When she'd gone I turned the robin round to face the room. I didn't read it. I went upstairs and came down with the thick envelope in my hand, and couldn't have said when I took it from the box.

A dry bright day with nothing to say for itself. I heard the gate. Twenty-seven winters at that window and I had never once heard the latch lift: a single flat click, iron on iron. Then the path, slower than a man's feet should be. Then the knock.

The poker was upstairs under the bed. I opened the door.

He was smaller than the coat. The sleeves came down over his knuckles. The gap in his teeth was where it had always been, and his eyes were wet and not ashamed of it.

"There he is," Joe said. His glance dropped to the envelope. I found I was holding it out in front of me, level with my chest, very still.

Hey, you.

When an old friend seems happy, do you ever feel just a little envious?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin. I took my usual seat, and Mama set down my Harper without asking. The ice shifted softly in the glass.

Taka was beside me, looking at his phone.

“Kenichi.”

“What?”

“Someone I used to know just posted that he got promoted.”

“Huh. Good for him.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Taka scrolled down the screen.

“If someone you used to work with got promoted, how would you feel?”

“I'd be happy for them.”

“That's it?”

“What else is there?”

“I don't know. Frustrated?”

“Why?”

“They got ahead of you.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Taka looked up from his phone.

“Come on. Of course it does.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Say someone who joined the company the same time as you is a department head now, and you're still regular staff.”

“Wow. Department head. Good for him.”

“And that's it?”

“That's it.”

“He might be making twice what you make.”

“I'll make him buy me dinner.”

“That's not what I'm talking about.”

I had no idea what answer he wanted from me.

“Didn't you ever want to move up?”

“Sure. If I could.”

“Then wouldn't it bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“Because he could do it and you couldn't.”

“Right.”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

“I'm not cut out for it. What am I supposed to do about that?”

Taka frowned.

“But you've turned down management positions before, haven't you?”

“Because I couldn't do the job.”

“Most people would call that choosing not to.”

“It's different.”

“How?”

“I didn't do it because I knew I couldn't.”

“Man, you're complicated.”

Rude.

A little farther down the counter, Tom angled his cigarette smoke away from us.

“You're not going to get it.”

“You get it, Tom?”

“No.”

“Then stay out of this.”

Mama laughed quietly.

Taka still wasn't satisfied.

“What about rich people?”

“What about them?”

“Say an old friend got really rich.”

“Huh.”

“Built a huge house?”

“Sounds like a pain to clean.”

“Luxury car?”

“I'd cry if I scratched it.”

“Trip around the world?”

“I hate flying.”

Taka put his phone down on the counter.

“Do you ever envy anybody?”

No.

I was about to say it.

Then I stopped.

I lifted my Harper. The ice rolled inside the glass.

“...Yeah. I do.”

“I knew it.”

Taka leaned closer, suddenly delighted.

“What is it?”

“New Year's cards.”

“New Year's cards?”

“Yeah.”

Even to me, it sounded like a strange answer.

“You know the ones old friends send. With pictures.”

“Oh. Family photos.”

“Those.”

Plenty of people don't send New Year's cards anymore. But I still get a few every year.

Our son started college.

Our daughter got married.

We took a trip together.

Hope you have a great year.

A little message beside a family photograph.

The friend in the picture always looks much older than when I knew him.

Of course he does.

So do I.

Beside him is his wife, older too, smiling at the camera. Their children are grown.

Seeing that makes me happy.

It really does.

Some idiot I used to mess around with got married, raised a family, and they're all standing there smiling.

Good for you.

I mean it.

And sometimes I cry anyway.

I had a wife too.

Her name was Kaori.

If she'd lived, she'd be older now too.

Sometimes I wonder what she would have looked like.

Then I get angry.

You just left.

Why didn't you tell me?

Why didn't you talk to me?

And once I get that far, I start getting angry at myself instead.

Maybe she couldn't tell me.

Not me.

I was the one closest to her, and I still didn't see it.

Once I start down that road, I don't even know what the tears are for anymore.

“Kenichi?”

Taka's voice brought me back.

“What?”

“You just went quiet all of a sudden.”

I took a sip of Harper.

“So that's what you envy?”

I thought about it.

“...I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“I'm happy for them. I really am.”

“Yeah.”

“Really happy.”

“Yeah.”

“And sometimes I cry anyway.”

Taka went quiet.

“So I don't know.”

Tom said nothing.

Mama didn't ask.

After a while, Taka picked up an edamame pod.

“You know how they say the grass is always greener on the other side?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you don't actually want to live on their side.”

I looked at him.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean, you don't want the department head's lawn. Or the rich guy's lawn.”

“Stop trying to steal people's lawns.”

“But the New Year's cards are different.”

He popped an edamame bean into his mouth.

“Maybe some places look greener because you can't get there anymore.”

I looked down at the ice in my Harper.

There wasn't much left of it.

“Who knows.”

It was the only answer I had.

After a while, Mama cleared away an empty plate.

“What about you, Taka? Is there anyone you're envious of?”

“Me?”

This time, Taka went quiet.

“...Sure.”

“Who?”

“You, sometimes.”

“What?”

That came out louder than I meant it to.

“What the hell is there to envy?”

“People rely on you.”

“They dump problems on me.”

“That's what I mean.”

“That makes no sense.”

Mama laughed.

“Maybe things look different from next door.”

I raised my glass.

“Don't. I've got enough trouble over here already.”

Taka laughed.

Tom lit another cigarette without saying a word.

I drank my Harper.

The ice that had been clicking against the glass earlier barely made a sound anymore.

Hey, you.

Is there a place that still looks greener to you?

Is it somewhere you want to go?

Or does it look greener because you can't get there anymore?

See you again at Aoi.

---

Want another night at Aoi?

Step back inside. We'll help you find your next story.

→ Welcome to Bar Aoi

Mia got sick the next day.

I knew because the whiteboard was empty again, and because at noon a girl with a messy ponytail walked into the study room, looked around, and said, "Are you Ethan?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Hannah. Mia's roommate." She held out her phone. On the screen was a text from Mia: If a quiet guy shows up at the study room and looks lost, that's Ethan. Tell him I'm fine.

"She's not fine," Hannah said. "She has a fever and she's trying to finish draft three on her laptop in bed. I tried to take it away and she bit me. Metaphorically."

I stood up. "Should I go?"

Hannah looked me over, from my wet shoes to my bad haircut. "She talks about you a lot, you know. In the weird way, where she says she doesn't."

My ears went hot. "I'll get soup."

The soup place near campus was closing in an hour. I bought chicken noodle, two crackers, and a bottle of ginger ale, because I couldn't remember which one people were supposed to drink when they were sick. I stood outside Mia's apartment for five full minutes before I knocked.

Hannah opened the door and pointed down the hall. "Third door. She's pretending she's asleep."

Mia was sitting up in bed with a blanket around her shoulders and her laptop on her knees. Her face was pink and her hair was a mess. When she saw me, she tried to close the laptop and nearly dropped it.

"I said I'm fine," she said, and sneezed.

"I can see that."

"This is humiliating."

"I brought soup."

She looked at the bag. Something in her face went soft, and then she tried to hide it. "You didn't have to."

"I know." I put it on the desk. "I wanted to."

I should have left then. Instead I stayed, and Hannah made tea, and Mia ate half the soup while telling me about draft three. The boy and the girl were still at the train station, but now there was a new character, an old woman who sells tickets and watches them both. "She knows how it ends," Mia said. "She just doesn't say."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not her story." She pulled the blanket tighter. "People don't change if you tell them what to do. They have to see it themselves."

I almost said, That's what happened to me. I held it back.

Later, when the tea was cold and Hannah had gone to class, Mia looked at the ceiling and said, "Can I tell you something dumb?"

"Sure."

"The whiteboard. I started writing on it because I thought if I wrote enough little notes, somebody would eventually write back." She laughed quietly. "Nobody did. For months. And then one day a guy sat in the back row and didn't write anything in his notebook."

I couldn't speak.

"You didn't write back for two days," she said. "But you kept coming. That counts, I think."

"It counts."

"Okay." She closed her eyes. "Then I'm glad you came."

I sat there until her breathing got slow. Before I left, I picked up the marker she kept on the nightstand and wrote on the little whiteboard hanging by her door.

Get better. I'll be in the back row.

次の日、ミアは風邪をひいた。

わかったのは、ホワイトボードがまた空っぽだったからで、正午に、ぼさぼさのポニーテールの女の子が自習室に入ってきて、見回して「イーサン?」と言ったからだ。

「はい?」

「ハンナ。ミアのルームメイト」スマホを差し出した。画面にはミアからのメッセージ。「静かな男の人が自習室で迷子みたいな顔してたら、それがイーサン。大丈夫って伝えて」

「大丈夫じゃないの」とハンナは言った。「熱があるのに、ベッドでノートパソコンで第三稿を書いてる。取り上げようとしたら、噛みつかれた。比喩的に」

僕は立ち上がった。「行ったほうがいいですか」

ハンナは濡れた靴からひどい髪型まで、僕を上から下まで見た。「あの子、あなたのことよく話すよ。話してないふりをして話す、変なやり方で」

耳が熱くなった。「スープ、買ってきます」

大学の近くのスープ屋は、あと一時間で閉まるところだった。チキンヌードルと、クラッカー二枚と、ジンジャーエールを買った。病気のとき何を飲むのが正解か思い出せなかったからだ。ミアのアパートの前で、五分も立ってからノックした。

ハンナがドアを開けて、廊下の奥を指した。「三番目のドア。寝たふりしてる」

ミアはベッドの上で、毛布を肩にかけて、膝にノートパソコンを載せて座っていた。顔がピンクで、髪はぐしゃぐしゃ。僕を見ると、パソコンを閉じようとして落としかけた。

「大丈夫って言ったのに」と言って、くしゃみをした。

「見ればわかります」

「恥ずかしい」

「スープ、買ってきました」

彼女は袋を見た。顔のどこかがふわっとやわらいで、それから隠そうとした。「そんなことしなくてよかったのに」

「わかってます」机に置いた。「したかったので」

そこで帰るべきだった。でも僕は残って、ハンナがお茶を淹れて、ミアはスープを半分食べながら第三稿の話をした。男の子と女の子はまだ駅にいたけど、新しい登場人物が増えていた。切符を売っていて、二人をずっと見ているおばあさん。「あの人は結末を知ってるんです」とミアは言った。「ただ、言わないだけで」

「どうして?」

「だって、彼女の物語じゃないから」毛布を引き寄せた。「人は、やれって言われても変わらないでしょう。自分で見ないと」

「それ、僕のことだ」と言いかけて、飲み込んだ。

あとで、お茶が冷めて、ハンナが授業に行ったあと、ミアは天井を見て言った。「バカなこと言っていい?」

「どうぞ」

「ホワイトボードね。小さなメモをたくさん書いたら、いつか誰かが返事を書いてくれるかなって思って、書き始めたんです」彼女は静かに笑った。「何か月も、誰も書かなかった。それで、ある日、後ろの席に男の人が座って、ノートに何も書かなかった」

声が出なかった。

「二日間、返事くれなかったですよね」と彼女は言った。「でも来続けた。それは数えていいと思う」

「数えていいです」

「そう」目を閉じた。「じゃあ、来てくれて嬉しい」

呼吸がゆっくりになるまで、そこにいた。帰る前に、枕元にあったマーカーを取って、ドアのそばに掛かった小さなホワイトボードに書いた。

「早く良くなって。後ろの席にいます」

I've noticed all the writing books I follow share their stories in text. However I rarely can find myself the patience to read something unless it really grips me. almost every book I know I read as a audio book because despite being a good storyteller I have dyslexia and reading/writing is a pain. So most of my stories I share through audio clips. I do that because it is how I read.

The ottoman slammed its lid shut. We felt a sudden, violent upward acceleration, like being launched out of a subterranean cannon toward the surface of the earth. My ears popped in C-minor.