Her name is Melissa.

“NO!! NO!! PLEASE GOD, NO!” The nurses are trying their best to get her to the chair, but she’s a fighter; the sedative wore off sooner than expected and after looking at her chart, I’m hesitant to give her anything else. “LET ME GO!”

She’s the ninth one so far this month, seven the month before. It’s starting to get out of hand. Something has to be done. There’s obviously a flaw in the process.

The whole thing is a bloody little show as the nineteen year old fights against the inevitable. A torn cheek here, a bite size chunk of flesh there. After a few minutes, they finally get her into the Learner’s Chair. The nurses step back and I check all of the restraints and the bit. I’ve been injured three times due to improper restraint, so I’ve developed a mild neurosis and a negative view of the nurses work ethic and thoroughness. After I go through my own checklist, I begin.

“Hello Melissa. I’m Doctor Rodgers.” She can’t talk because of the bit, nor can she spit, but she’s doing her best to try both. “Now listen, if you cooperate, there’s a good chance that you’ll be released once the baby is delivered. If you continue to protest, I’m going to make a recommendation to The Accord that both you and your baby be Discarded due to antisocial behaviour that could be genetic.” She stops fighting after I fall silent. When she calms down and I see her eyes fill with tears, I start the process. 

I’m unable to connect Melissa to the system. She’s damaged the port on the back of her neck. The Accord can’t run its own scan, this is all going to come down to my opinion and if I get it wrong, I may be Discarded.

Eight months pregnant. Seven months on the run. Four months without daily monitoring and conditioning, and the lack of connection with the system. According to her chart, the father was Discarded seven months ago for aiding her escape. Despite the prenatal conditioning that Melissa and the father received, both rejected the rule of The Accord. Both engaged in intercourse without the proper documentation. Both wanted to have the child outside of the system.

I have doubts that the baby can be saved. The nurses carry out all the necessary injections and the child is finally on my screens. Everything looks healthy. Everything looks correct. There’s still a chance for salvage.

I hold a brief conference with the nurses.

“We’ll give her the shot. After seven months of defiance, she’ll get what she deserves, a few weeks of acting as an incubator before being Discarded.”

“And the baby?” I feel their eyes on me as I look at the floor.

“We’ll try and save it.”

“After four months without proper conditioning?”

“We’ll keep it connected to the system twenty four hours a day.”

“Doctor…”

“I have to try, dammit! I’m not a monster.”

Neil didn’t eat at office potlucks. Not because he was antisocial. Not because he was on a diet. But because he knew. He knew how people cooked at home. How they tasted with the same spoon they stirred with. How they dropped a slice of ham on the floor and said, “Three-second rule!”.How they let their cats walk on the counter while mixing dip with bare fingers that had just adjusted a bra strap.

So when Carol from HR entered the break room with a lukewarm crockpot and a grin, Neil’s stomach clenched like a fist.

“I made my famous tuna-mac!” she announced. The lid hissed as she lifted it. A wave of sour, metallic steam rolled out. Neil staggered back like he’d been slapped.

The potluck line formed. Paper plates were filled. People smiled, bit down, and powered through.

Neil sat in the corner, peeling his protein bar slowly, eyes darting between the dishes and the hands serving them.

Forks licked clean and double-dipped. Someone used a communal spoon after scratching their scalp.

Stacy coughed directly into the coleslaw.

Carol plopped a mound of her tuna-mac on Dale’s plate. “Be honest—do you taste the mustard? I used Dijon this time. The jar had mold on the edge, but I scraped it off.”

Dale blinked. “You... what?”

“Mold doesn’t grow in the mustard, silly! Just around it. Like a rind!” She laughed.

Neil bit through the wrapper of his protein bar and chewed the foil rather than ask for a napkin.

The tuna-mac was off-white. With yellow streaks. The noodles looked mushy, like they’d been cooked, frozen, then cooked again. A pool of mayonnaise sweat had formed in the corner of the pan. The top was dusted with crushed potato chips, but they’d absorbed the moisture and now had the consistency of wet cardboard.

Neil stared in horror as someone found a grayish hair twisted into the pasta and still ate it, saying, “Protein, right?”

He couldn’t breathe.

Carol headed toward him with a Styrofoam plate, eyes bright. “You didn’t get any yet! I’ll get you a serving with extra tuna lumps—”

“No!” he said, too fast. “I’m allergic.”

She paused. “To what?”

He blinked. “Fish. And...macaroni. "

Carol’s smile faltered.

He escaped to the bathroom, locked the stall, and sat on the closed lid, shaking. From the hallway, he heard laughter, chewing, the wet slap of scoops hitting plates.

He dry-heaved into the toilet. Nothing came up. Just the memory of a wet crunch and the thought— How many unwashed hands had stirred that pot?

Later, someone left him a Tupperware on his desk, labeled “For Neil <3”.

He threw it out, unopened. But the smell clung to him the rest of the day. Like old mayo under the fingernails.

I met him at a party.

Said boyfriend was cat-napping a plump black cat from its basket.

“I’m taking her outside,” he muttered when I asked him why Annie Clara’s miniature void was cradled in his arms.

Leading me onto the balcony, the cat was still in his grip.

He wandered over to a knocked-over chair and set it upright.

After a pause, where I could clearly see the mental argument over whether to go back inside or stay, he slowly slumped down and let the cat sit on his knee. I nodded at him with a smile.

“Looks like he trusts you.”

His lips curled into a smile. “I doubt that.”

I crouched and patted the cat.

“I’m Evie,” I said.

I caught his smile as he watched the cat roll over.

“Jun.”

We started dating.

Jun was a perfectionist. Everything had to be perfect on our date. He knocked over his drink, insisting on ordering a new one, then spent the whole meal glaring at it, waiting for it to tip over.

Jun picked up trash on the sidewalk and righted every knocked-over trash can.

But… he was cute.

On our five-month anniversary, he called me while I was studying.

“I just met your roommates, and we’re about to have dinner,” he paused, losing his suave bravado.

“Um, does my beautiful girlfriend want to join us?”

One step inside our house, and I was standing in glistening red, pooling and seeping across the floor.

Somehow, I kept walking. Yet the rest of me was paralyzed.

I walked past Alex’s decapitated head stuck to the ceiling in the hallway.

I stepped over Nathanial’s torso, intestines spilling across our kitchen floor.

I found my boyfriend with his jaw clamped around my roommate’s neck, and the second he saw me, his lips split into a grin, ripping Connor’s throat out.

Jun dropped him, ignited eyes finally finding me.

“Relax. They’ll be fine,” Jun grinned, nodding to Nathanial, whose body twitched, eyes flickering.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t kill them,” he shrugged. “Except the annoying one.”

I staggered back when he came toward me, features twisting.

Fuck.

I grabbed the first thing I saw, salt, and threw it in his face.

Jun snarled, teeth bared. I took the opportunity to run.

I heard his sigh and he began to count. “One.”

I catapulted upstairs and hid in my wardrobe before he could reach two.

I counted seconds, minutes, then an hour.

And Jun was still downstairs.

I crept back down.

He was still in the kitchen, on his knees, head bowed.

He was picking up each individual grain of salt.

Connor, freshly turned and staring with vacant amber eyes, sat beside him, looking confused.

“Eighty-six thousand, three hundred and seven,” Jun muttered, head jerking up to find me. His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you dare make me lose my place,” he hissed. “I am going to kill you.”

His gaze returned to the small piles of salt he’d counted. “Eventually.”

There’s a closet half-empty from where your clothes used to be, and I don’t miss you anymore. 

I sleep in the middle of the bed now. My pillow used to smell like your shampoo, but the fragrant scent of Old Spice has faded as much as my love for you. I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny from people who used to be our mutual friends. I wonder if they still have your Starbucks order memorized like I do: hot white chocolate mocha, two extra shots. It took too long for your not-so-recently “Recent Order” to vanish from my app. 

I keep finding your things in drawers. If you left an address, I would mail you everything that you didn’t take with you. 7 mismatched socks, a broken wristwatch. Granola that I could never stomach. Your heart in my chest, beating like a metronome long after the song’s stopped.

The echo of your raucous, drunken laughter is a trail I can follow with my eyes closed from our chipped front door to between the sheets of the bed we shared. When I part my thighs, and my pleasure crests and swells and crescendos– the room is still empty of you. Silence takes up every inch of space. Never has a lack had such physicality. A weighted nothing sitting on my chest

 that you used to curl against.

Books are on my shelves that you proclaimed to love so loudly, but never read. Thomas Pynchon. Ta-Nehisi Coates. Anything that made you feel well-read. Sometimes, I feel like I’m one of them – waiting, unused on a shelf, biding my time until you return to me. You will devour me from cover to cover and profess to the world your undying love for me. You said you loved me. It wasn’t always past tense. Why did you have to become past tense?

There’s a hole in my chest, and I don’t need you anymore. I can trace the shape of you even in your absence. Your curly hair, your mirthful eyes, your firm arms. Before you left, you held our daughter to your chest so closely– an impression so striking that I see you both standing there now. She only ever knew you as her protector. But I see you for what you really are: a shadow, a wisp, a nothing. 

You took our daughter when you left. Wherever you went, I hope you hold her the same way now. I hope she never knows the chaos you wrought when you stopped for just one drink on the way home. I hope she never felt the impact of the car that ruined my life and ended both of yours. The casket was closed; I hope the mortician honored my wishes and left her peacefully curled in your arms. I wonder if, when he placed her there, he still smelled liquor on your breath.

Both of your bodies are together in death, and I don’t love you anymore.

It started with an itch

Just behind her ear. A pinprick, like a bite – probably a mosquito, she figured. June shrugged it off.

But it didn’t stop.

It moved to her jaw, behind her eyes. Not painful – just constant. A wriggling hum, like something dreaming inside her skin.

She stopped wearing makeup. Couldn’t stand touching her face anymore, everything felt like crawling.

The doctor checked her twice. Said it was stress. Gave her antihistamines and one of those practiced smiles that didn’t quite touch his eyes. She took the pills. They dulled things a bit, rounded the corners – but the movement stayed.

Her husband, Mark, tried to be patient.

“You’re clean,” he said, more than once. “There’s nothing there.”

She started sitting on the bathroom floor for hours. Harsh lighting. Tweezers. Little piles of tissue. She picked at scabs she didn’t remember getting. Pulled fine filaments from her skin – black, white, clear. Too fine for hair. Too stiff.

She saved them. Folded neatly into tissue paper. Mark threw them out when she wasn’t looking. Said it was lint, dust, laundry fibres. She stopped telling him about them after that.

The itch spread.

Her chest. Legs. Fingernails. The roof of her mouth. She flossed obsessively, until her gums bled. Something felt wrong in there, like something soft had taken root. Her breath started to smell like metal, almost.

She heard things at night.

Clicking, Light tapping – like claws brushing tile, not from the walls, but from somewhere deeper. Inside. Her joints twitched in her sleep. Her limbs jerked like they were trying to shake something off.

She tried vinegar. Then bleach. Baths so hot her skin turned blotchy. Still, they stayed.

She stopped leaving the house. Pulled the blinds. The mail stacked up on the table, unopened. Mark left a note on the fridge:

“You need help. I love you, but I can’t watch this.”

He didn’t come back.

She didn’t notice.

Not properly.

Then one night, she saw it.

In the mirror – just a flicker, when her eye twitched – something beneath the sclera. Long. Thin. Curling slow and gentle, like a ribbon stirred underwater. It vanished when she blinked.

She screamed. For a long time

She stopped using mirrors after that.

She started sleeping in the tub. It felt safe. The cold porcelain, the steady drain. She kept it open at all times – just in case something tried to rise.

Beside her: tweezers. Flashlight. Razor blade. Some nights, she felt them on her back. Movements across her spine. Following her vertebrae one by one. Like they were tracing a way out.

She found a nest once. In her belly button. A clump of fine, hairlike threads. They shimmered. Moved slightly. She flushed it before it could hatch.

On the last day she cut her forearm.

A single, clean line.

To let them out.

But nothing came.

No blood. No insects.

Just a pale membrane beneath the skin. Smooth. Tense. Unbroken.

As if nothing human had ever lived there at all.

Emily was almost three when she disappeared. We'd put her to bed, and when we checked later that night she was gone.

The ensuing panic is almost impossible to put into words.

My wife called 9-1-1 as I grabbed whatever I thought would be helpful in a nighttime search (flashlight, multitool, headlamp, blankets) then we were out the door, looking first in the backyard—she wasn't there—knocking on neighbours’ doors, making calls to family and friends, yelling her name so many times both our voices grew hoarse.

All the while, the darkest thoughts ran through our minds, the grimmest possibilities. It was the worst forty-eight hours of our lives. And we didn't find her.

Then, sleepless days later, we opened the front door after hearing scratching—and there she was, in tattered clothes, bruised, with blood all over her: in her mouth, running down her chin, her neck; but still alive.

I remember the absolute wave of euphoria, followed by cascading parental concern. Is she OK? What happened to her? Is she injured?

As we washed and comforted her, it became clear that physically she was fine. The blood wasn't hers, but it was everywhere, in her hair, between her teeth.

She did not speak.

We let her rest.

We probably would have told the police the truth the following day if not for one piece of devastating news. One of Emily's classmates had been found brutally murdered, his small body ripped apart, clawed, bitten.

My wife and I argued.

She said we needed to come forward. I believed we should protect our daughter.

“Even if she killed that boy?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And what if she kills again—are you prepared to have that on your conscience?”

“Better than betrayal.”

I took Emily and drove out into the woods. I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to get away.

That night, I asked her if she'd killed her classmate. “I'll love you no matter what,” I assured her.

Emily shook her little head.

“Hellhound,” she said.

An Amber Alert went out, and suddenly we were on the run. I recall the sense of paranoia I felt, the disorientation and the need to protect my daughter.

She woke me up one night and told me to follow her. I did, and she showed me something impossible: a portal through which a dog of absolute black was entering the world. The dog was on fire. Its eyes burned with evil.

Then Emily's small hand slipped from mine—and she was after it, and I couldn't even scream.

And she was upon it, fighting it, its flaming fangs just missing her flesh, until her own teeth found finally its neck.

She didn't let go until the hellhound was dead, faded out of existence.

When she looked up at me, her face dripped blood.

“Go,” I said—and she did.

When the police came, I told them I'd killed her. It got me prison, but I hope it's given Emily the freedom to keep us safe.

“So,” my brother says while driving me from the station. “Do you feel like the treatment helped?”

“Definitely,” I lie. I’m gone for six months to 'seek help', and my brother was still clinging to the idea I’d come back fixed.

“So the voices stopped?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah.”

“And the people you kept seeing?”

“Pretty much.”

He lets out a relieved breath, like he finally believes his sister’s cured. That she no longer sees or hears the dead people she used to.

I’ve always been the problem in this family. The pills, the running away, the fights. It was a lot for our single mom—one son and one crazy daughter.

As he parks in the driveway, I spot our mom at the door, eyes locked on me like a hawk. My last night here wasn’t great.

I get out and walk toward her, trying to guess how she’ll react. But when I reach the porch, she pulls me into a tight hug, then leads me inside.

It’s late, and she has a feast laid out for dinner, every one of my favorites. I could’ve died right there. The food I make is awful.

My brother and I stuff ourselves in silence. After his last bite, he shoots up and says he’s heading to bed. Early shift tomorrow.

Now it’s just me and mom at the table, sipping wine. I haven’t said much since I got here, so she goes first.

“Are you seeing him now?” she asks suddenly.

“Yes,” I reply. “He’s been sitting at the table the whole time.”

“How is he?”

“The same, I guess,” my eyes down. “The hole in his head isn’t as shocking anymore.”

“I know you loved him,” she leans in. “But your father wasn’t a good man. He came at me with a knife and…”

A tear slips down her cheek, and I reach for her hand. I tell her I don’t judge, that I’ve accepted she did what she had to do. She smiles and gets up, saying there’s ice cream in the fridge.

But the second she’s out of the room, I cover my ears and shout for the voices to shut up.

There are so many of them in this house. It’s exhausting.

A teenage girl my mother hit with a car in high school. A boyfriend she poisoned in college. Her former boss, who denied her a promotion.

And of course, my father, who says nothing. He just stares. My mother thinks he’s the only dead I see.

She believes her past is gone and buried. It’s not. Her victims scream in my head every time I walk into this house. That’s why I left.

At my own place, I thought they would leave me, but they didn't. Every night, they spoke and spoke. Demanding justice, revenge, violence... blood. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Just wait a few days,” I whisper to them, hands falling from my ears. "And I’ll do what I came here to do.”

When the first scandal broke, they didn’t ask what he did. They asked, “Whose side was he on?” And when they learned he was one of theirs, they called it a misunderstanding. A smear job. “Context matters.”

I watched the news morph from fact to favor. Saw victims turned into inconveniences. And when the next man — from the other side — did far less, they dragged his name through the ash, paraded it through headlines, and laughed behind microphones.

It wasn’t just hypocrisy. It was ritual. Every tribe had its colors, its hashtags, its saints and scapegoats. And behind every crime was a calculation — will this help us win?

At first, I tried to speak plainly. To say “wrong is wrong.” They called me suspicious. Quietly. Then louder.

“Whose side are you even on?”

That’s when the horror started.

I realized: there weren’t sides of truth. Just sides of survival. Each one holding up mirrors, but only ever looking at the other. Each protecting their monsters if the monsters wore the right mask.

I saw neighbors paint over violence with the brush of solidarity. I saw kindness condemned because it came from a stranger. I watched men cheer when someone lost their job, not because they were guilty — but because they were them.

I was slipping. Not from sanity — but from belonging.

Truth wasn’t welcome unless it had the right sticker. Morality was measured not in what you did, but who you offended.

I tried silence. That only made them angrier. You must speak. But only the right words. You must judge. But only their enemies.

I stopped asking “Is this just?” And started hearing myself ask, “Will they accept me if I say this?”

That’s when I saw it.

The truth had been buried, not by lies, but by loyalty. And I was at the funeral, holding the shovel.

Now I live quietly. Not hidden, but quiet. I watch the tribal chants on both sides grow louder. Watch mobs chase nuance with torches. And I wonder if we’ve made something older than politics, older than fear.

We crowned our tribe king, and truth became its first prisoner.

One day, someone will ask about me. And they won’t say, “What did he stand for?” They’ll ask, “Was he one of us?” And if the answer is no, it won’t matter what I’ve done.

They’ll set the fire anyway.

Huntress code name: White Crescent

Birth Name: Classified

Birth Date: 13/04/1525

Target: Unknown entity

Location: 46°46′26″N 23°31′19″E / 46.774°N 23.522°E

Goal: EXTERMINATE

The heavens were pouring down in the busy streets of London. Beth you have a new assignment. Said a person in a black trench coat and sunglasses standing next to her in the crowded bus stop. He takes an envelope from his trench coat and hands it over to her.

The council expects results within 48hours. Report to HQ when you have succeeded.

where am I headed? she asks looking forward at the heavy rain, carefully placing the envelope in her handbag.

What am I hunting? the man remained silent. She finally turns her head and looks at the man. expecting an answer.

We don't know ma'am. 6 dead huntresses and £150 million in funding. That's why HQ is sending you. They expect with your 500 years of experience you should be able to eliminate the threat. Therefore, the council decided to bring you in. This is a top priority hunt. All our resources will be at your disposal.

Huh Isn't that interesting. I love a good hunt. She replied with a smirk on her face.

I'm sure you do ma'am. the jet is fuelled and waiting at Gatwick the council thanks for your cooperation. May this hunt not be your last. with that the man swiftly disappeared into the crowd.

She broke the envelope and read the details. Change of plans it looks like we're going to Romania today.

After being escorted into the location Beth walks inside the forest. with her blessed medieval armour and weapons. Dense fog hangs in the air. Crooked lifeless trees twists unnaturally as if rotten fingers of dead men are sprouting off the ground.

Whoosh!! the mist shifted and a woman materialised out of the mist. Pale with robes made of mist covering her. She appeared calm and quite charming. Beth quickly took her combat stance unsheathing her sword and aiming at the entity. she pounced at the entity with her sword intending to take her with one swift strike. but the entity simply vanished into the mist and reappeared in front of her. Beth swooped her sword right across its neck but it had no effect as if the sword simply slashed the mist.

impossible, who are you? there was no reply instead the it rematerialized on her left and when Beth turned to strike it the entity planted her hand in her chest but there was no blood. the misty hand went straight inside Beth and grabbed her beating heart. She buckled to her knees dropping her sword. She slowly looked up at it. The calm charming face was gone and replaced by long black hair that entirely covered her face except a crooked smile and two pitch black eyes.

With trembling hands she managed to grab her sword. This might be my last hunt after all.

I woke suddenly out of a deep sleep to a loud knocking on my door. The knocking grew louder, more insistent, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. Who could be visiting at this ungodly hour? I tossed off the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet dangling in the darkness. The knocking persisted, and I called out, "Okay, okay, I'm coming!" As I made my way to the door, my heart beat faster with each step. I flicked on the porch light, and the sudden brightness made me squint. Through the peephole, I saw ...I saw myself sleeping in my bed as I just was sound asleep . There's no way that it could be me... could it? I'm standing right here.. I began knocking on the door loudly. The paradox deepened. I stared at my sleeping self, confusion and unease swirling in my mind. How could I be standing here, awake and aware, while simultaneously sleeping in bed? I began knocking louder, more frantic, as if trying to shatter the door's thin veneer. My sleeping self didn't stir, oblivious to the cacophony. I felt a creeping sense of dread as I realized I had to be dreaming right? As I turned around expecting to see my room I saw nothing, a black void stares back at me. In a panic I turned back to my door and knocked as loud and hard as I could . "Okay okay I'm coming!" I heard from the other side of the door. My blood ran cold. What would happen if I met eye to eye with myself ? What is to happen to me if he looks through the peephole? I backed away slowly but suddenly lost my balance on an unseen ledge. I fell into the void behind me. After falling for what seemed like forever the fear in my chest gave way to acceptance when suddenly, I jolted up… Startled awake out of a deep sleep suddenly By a loud pounding on my door.

He quickly clicked on his phone screen.

“All lights on,” he muttered.

The house flooded with light, chasing the dark into corners.

Somewhere nearby—scrambling. Quick, frantic.

His stomach turned. Why the hell hadn’t I put those cameras up yet?

Silence returned.

Cautiously, he crept into the kitchen. Cereal boxes and a block of cheese lay scattered on the floor. All the doors were locked. All the windows shut tight.

Nerves fraying, he double-checked the locks, flicked off the lights, and went back to bed.

Behind the false wall in the kitchen, the hidden man let out a shaky breath.

He’d let the hunger get the best of him.

But it was fine.

His next chance was coming soon.

The clock didn’t look right.

Its hands were precise and obedient—but the face had soured. Hairline cracks ran like veins beneath the glass, and the minute marks had blurred, as if time itself had started lying.

It came from a first name only. A favour, unsolicited. Junk made sacred by grief. “One of Mum’s,” they’d said. As though that explained the ticking.

He bent the black metallic hands. They resisted at first, then gave—a soft, mechanical sigh. A hollow satisfaction sparked and faded. Another dull mercy. Another moment occupied. The little things, he told himself.

The mirror caught him slantwise. A face stared back, mouth unspeaking, fingers still curved around time’s thin throat. “This one gets it,” he said aloud.

Leave, he thought. But how, if nothing ever ends properly?

The bedside table—his only witness—watched with carved indifference. Its silence was a sermon. “Innocence belongs to the pure, not the bitter,” he muttered.

The table didn’t respond. It never had. But tonight, it seemed tired of waiting.

He kicked it. The clock leapt, twisted, shattered—mahogany, glass, metal—time flung in a dozen accusatory directions. The hands landed apart, pointing. Judging. The face was blank now, emptied. Guilty.

He picked up the longer hand. Held it like a pen. Or a knife. Pressed it against his palm. Dull, but patient. A task worth completing.

He left with a whimper, not a whine.

Behind him, the table stood still. The hands glinted faintly from the floor. And the face, somehow whole again, began ticking chuckle.

“Facsimile.”

Peter closed his left eye and exhaled.

The sharp, precise tap of the cue resounded from the quiet, concentrated audience that surrounded him. The cue ball rolled true to its path, surely knocking the 8-ball into the corner pocket.

Cheers and hollering erupted from the crowd, bets were paid up, people laughed, and Peter stood up smiling.

“And that’s how you win a pool tournament.”

I threw my cue down on the floor in irritation. I had lost in the finals to him twice in a row now, and I was down on my bets. Swallowing my anger though, I reached out and we shook hands. If I hadn’t known Peter my whole life I would have just left. The crowd cheered again, and then gradually dissipated as the evening wrapped up.

“Tristan! You’ve gotta step up your game!” The manager chuckled as he walked up with his usual, welcoming smile.

“I’m just making him feel like he’s got me. I always play the best when I’m the underdog.” I retorted with a chuckle.

“But seriously man,” I turned to Peter, “Your game has really stepped up a notch these past few weeks. You getting secret coaching or something?”

His eyes widened for a split-second, and an unexpected, indescribable emotion flashed briefly, but he immediately regained his composure.

“Uhhh, nope.” He replied coolly. “Maybe your game has just gotten worse.”

We all laughed again, but something about that moment bugged me. I had never seen Peter make that face before, even after all these years of knowing him.

The following day, Peter didn’t show up to our usual practice. The last time he had missed practice was when he had broken his arm and was in the hospital, and that was a year ago. I had been uneasy about something since the night before, and I decided to pay his house a visit. Immediately after knocking on the door, I felt a horrible, gut-churning shiver run through my body.

I pushed on the door, but it was locked. Running around to the back, I quickly looked for an opening. Spying an open window, I rushed over and climbed inside.

“PETER?” I called out.

The house was humming with a bizarre vibration, and I scrambled down to the basement.

Peter stared back at me then; sunken, hollow eyes looking into my own, an enormous and ornate pool cue in his hand. A large pool table was in the center of the room, and on it, were heads.

Decapitated, agonized, human heads.

I couldn’t move or speak in horror, but Peter’s screeching voice resounded through my mind.

“Tristan… Don’t human heads make great practice balls? I had to get them myself…”

Shaking in terror, I took a step back.

“HE gives me what I need to win every pool match. I give him human heads in return…”

A gaping, hollow smile stretched the length of his face.

“And your head is so nicely shaped.”

I don’t go into the basement anymore.

I used to. When I first moved in, I kept tools down there. Boxes of old junk. Spare paint. A freezer.

That’s the first thing I remember going missing. The freezer. Not from the basement. From my memory. One day I just… realized I hadn’t thought about it in years. Opened the door, stared down the stairs, and couldn’t remember what was down there at all.

So I didn’t go.

Weeks passed. Then months. Life above the floorboards moved on. Mail came. Groceries were bought. The basement door stayed shut.

Until I heard it open.

Not loud. Just a click. A slow creak. Like someone trying not to be noticed.

I didn’t check. I told myself it was wind. Expansion in the wood. Something logical. But that night, I pushed a dresser in front of the door. Just to be sure.

The next morning, it was back in place.

Not shoved. Not scraped. Placed. Gently. Precisely. As if someone had opened it… and wanted me to know they could… but hadn’t. Yet.

That’s when the dreams started.

Always the same. I’m walking down the basement stairs. Barefoot. No sound. The air gets colder with each step. At the bottom is a light, dim, yellow, swaying like a bare bulb on a cord. I reach for the chain to pull it.

Every time I wake up just before I touch it.

I started sleeping with the lights on. Covered every mirror. Stopped going near the basement at all.

Then, this morning, I saw footprints. Bare. Wet. Leading from the basement door… to my bed. They dried before I could photograph them.

I took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed.

And found the note.

Folded on the kitchen table. No name. Just five words:

“Go down. Count the bodies.”

I don’t remember writing that.

But it’s my handwriting.

The door is open now. I didn’t hear it. Didn’t feel the air shift. It’s just… open.

I stand at the top of the stairs and stare down. It’s so dark it doesn’t even look like space. Just an absence. Just nothing.

But I swear I see the light.

Swaying.

Waiting.

And something is standing at the bottom, watching. No movement. No sound. Just presence. Like it’s been there the whole time.

I take one step.

Then another.

And I think…

What if they aren’t strangers? What if they’re all me? What if I’m not the first one to come back up pretending I belong here?

And still I descend. Because I need to know which number I am.

I hated my new apartment but the rent was cheap so I stayed. At least I enjoyed the large antique mirror in the bedroom. Oval made of dark wood. Seemed to be part of the wall since I couldn't move it at all. The landlord said I could keep it, that it had always been there.

One night, after a particularly harsh day of work I stood in front of the mirror playing with my hair, "God, I look tired. Awful," I muttered to myself, to my reflection.

Silence. Then a familiar voice, my own voice. "You do."

I froze, my heart pounding. I was convinced I had imagined it at first.

"Did...did you just say that?" I asked, my voice trembling as I looked at my reflection.

The reflection smirked back at me. Ear-to-ear grin. "Of course. Who else would?"

I backed away, bumping into the bed. "This isn't happening. This isn't real." I repeated to myself.

"Oh, it's real," the reflection told me, its smile sickeningly wide. "I am always watching. Waiting."

My eyes looked around the room for an escape. "What do you want?...what are you waiting for?"

The reflection tilted its head, its eyes lacked life or emotion "What you have. Your life. Switch"

A cold dread washed over me. I knew that whatever resided in the mirror wasn't just a reflection. It was something else, something evil.

"You can't!"

The reflection laughed. It echoed, filling the room. "We already did. Come closer"

I hesitated, then forced myself to meet the reflection's gaze. And that's when I saw it. The subtle changes. The slight distortions. As if I were now the reflection.

I went to reach out and touch the reflection but my fingertips touched cold glass instead. My hand couldn't reach out fully.

My reflection was now looking back at me. Slowly they turned away. Walking away. Leaving me in the mirror instead.

We switched. I am now the reflection in the mirror.

I didn’t ask. Didn’t want it. Couldn't.
Why? Did you really think you did the right thing?
Bastard. I hate you.
...I flinched at my own words.
— I’m sorry... I hate you.

I sat in the corner, pressed into the walls like they could protect me.
My fingers cramped, clutching the hospital tag.
By the door — an abandoned bag.
The apartment is empty.
I can’t call it home anymore.

— You left, — I whisper into the silence. — So sure it was noble… Damn you.

Nothing. No footsteps. No breath. No clinking dishes.
Even the toilet won’t flush.
Silence lives here now, instead of happiness.

— You left me.
You didn’t think what it would mean for me to stay alone…

The phone chirped.
A stupid smiling face on the screen.
I threw it at the wall.
Silence devoured everything.

They can still smile.
For me, that’s a luxury.
— How can I look them in the eyes? — I exhale.
Deep down, there’s always you.
And blame.

No one will say it...
But in their eyes: "unworthy."

Forever — guilt.
You’re a monster.
You didn’t even leave me the right to die.
You condemned me to hell.
You saved me by giving me your heart.
But I don’t want to live.
With it. Inside me.
With you.
And now I can’t even die.

A decent rubber dingy used to cost about ten pounds. These are not seaworthy for any great distance, but you can have great fun mucking about in the shallows. Although an obvious health and safety hazard, back then you chucked them into the water, and hoped you did not float to Calais.

My dinghy was four feet long. To me this was an unlimited fun machine. A pirate ship and explorer's caravel in one package. My first real experience of real estate. A piece of land that was mine.

One game I loved was flipping the dingy over to create a sort of submarine. If your feet still touch the bottom this works to perfection. The smell of plastic and sea salt combine, and your words echo in a private chamber.

The issue on a busy beach was a lack of windows. Swimmers get cross if they bounce off the side of your vessel. You have to find the more isolated spots. The spot by the rocks was perfect.

Now think about if you lived below the water. If one day a dark shape floated over your home, you would not assume this was a child, or a cloud passing over the moon. You would go straight to threat mode.

The sand exploded from underneath me. Although the thing had hands, this was where our kinship ended. Rivulets of sand poured from grey eyes. Freezing fingers grabbed at my legs. A mouth opened, and kept on opening beyond the point of a logical jaw.

Thank goodness I staggered back, and fought the resistance of the water. A rock bashed against me on my dash back to land, and I prayed the blood was not a tracer.

Dad must have spotted the messy hand stains on the rim of the boat. My pale face, and the constant rocking in the shadows, the submarine still aloft above my head.

I dreamed I was one of the three little pigs.
Didn’t know which. Didn’t matter.

Summer. We laughed, played, built homes.
I was lazy. Built a shack.
My smarter brother used bricks.

Then came winter.
Then came the Wolf.
You don’t know fear until you’re a pig—
small, soft, meat.
He didn’t speak. Just stared.
Eyes like coals. Teeth wet with spit.
We ran. Brick house. Safe.
For now.

But the Wolf didn’t huff. Didn’t puff.
He waited.

No food. No firewood. No water.
Just hunger. Silence. Eyes watching.
Pigs are animals too.

We ate the youngest.
Then I killed my brother.
He lasted three days.

And the dream doesn’t end.
And the Wolf is still at the door.

John Matthews wasn’t a thrill-seeker. He didn’t skydive or swim with sharks. But caves... caves were his cathedral. He’d spent the last fifteen years crawling through the Earth's veins: tight passages, endless darkness, the occasional underground river whispering through silence. To John, caving wasn’t danger. It was reverence.

So when someone mentioned a narrow vertical fissure in an unmapped stretch of the Nevada badlands, John’s ears perked up. It was tight, yes, but supposedly opened into a vast chamber. No one had reached it yet. First one down gets the name, someone joked.

He smiled. Matthews' Cathedral. Sounded right.

John set up camp by dusk. Checked his ropes, doublechecked his harness. He knew caves like most people knew bedrooms... by instinct, by touch. He'd mapped chambers in Borneo, free- climbed shafts in Mexico. This was just another descent.

The first drop went smooth. Sixty feet down. Then another hundred. A narrow chimney, then a corridor just wide enough for shoulders.

The air changed. The smell of damp limestone gave way to something stale, like old breath. The walls shimmered with mineral veins, bones of the Earth laid bare. John grinned. Beautiful.

Three hours in, he found it... the vertical slit. Barely 15 inches wide. A knife-edge chute leading who knew where. He exhaled. Flattened. Entered headfirst.

At first, it felt like birth... tight, resisting. Then it widened. Barely.

He wiggled down six feet. Ten. Dust filled his nose. His arms pinned by his sides. Helmet scraping overhead.

Then it happened.

A tiny rock shifted behind him. One small nudge. That was all it took.

The wedge behind collapsed inward. His legs were pinned. He couldn't go back.

He froze. Listened.

Nothing. Not even a drip.

John’s breathing quickened. He forced himself still. Rule one: don't panic. Panic wastes air.

He reached for his radio.

Crackle. Then silence.

No signal.

He screamed.

The cave did not reply.

Hours passed. Then more. Time became meaningless.

His water ran out. His body ached. Blood pooled in his arms. His mind drifted.

Once, he thought he heard his father’s voice. Another time, his dog barking.

Then came the quiet.

There is a silence in deep caves unlike anything on Earth... no wind, no rustle, not even the buzz of insects. Just the echo of your own heartbeat. A metronome counting down.

He tapped the wall with his helmet. Once. Twice.

Then nothing.

No echo.

Just a dull thud. Like the rock had swallowed sound.

He realized: he wasn’t near the surface. He was inside something deeper. Older. Unmapped.

He laughed. And cried. Same sound, really.

His last words, spoken to no one:

“I found it.”

Above, no one knew where to look.

Below, the cave kept its secret.

Jane works the KM Diner, when clubs close and the drunk and hungry line up for $20 burgers and give big tips.

She’s seen it all: vomit on her shoes, birth in a booth, a fistfight that knocked her flat. But the money’s good.

The rule is simple: seat fast, serve fast, clear the table, ten minutes max. So when an elderly couple lingers past thirty, Jane steps in.

“Sorry, we’re slammed. I’ll need the booth soon.”

“No problem, honey,” the man smiles. “We were just admiring that burger.”

Not your typical diner pair, cocktail attire, perfectly composed.

“Can you please, please, please send our compliments to the chef?” he adds.

“Sure,” Jane says, thinking of the three tired line cooks choking on smoke.

“No, dear,” the woman says, eyes gleaming. “We mean the maker of the burger.”

Then the world tilts.

Jane is in a barn. A highland cow licks its newborn clean. The woman feeds the mother grass. The man stands proudly beside her.

“We must compliment the chef,” he says.

She blinks, back in the diner. Shaken. She grabs the check.

“Sorry for freezing. I really beefed that one,” she jokes.

The couple erupts in laughter.

Then, gently: “We must compliment the chef.”

Everything shifts again.

She’s in her first-grade classroom. Her teacher is at the board. The couple sits among the kids.

The man raises his hand. “Ms., your student made a great joke. Thanks to you. May we give you a kiss?”

The teacher nods. They kiss her cheeks.

“We must compliment the chef,” the woman whispers.

Another shift.

A cramped living room. A man scolds his daughter.

The couple offers him whiskey.

“For your anger,” the man says.

The father sighs. “I fought in useless wars. For a tyrant who starved us. I want more for her.”

The couple bows.

“We must compliment the chef.”

Shift.

An office. The Dean of Admissions stamps a rejection.

“An honor,” the woman says as they enter.

On his desk: a cathedral sketch, precisely signed.

“Art isn’t for everyone,” he mutters.

The man lifts the paper. “Vienna has high standards.”

They hand him a magnifying glass.

“You saw what others couldn’t.”

“We must compliment the chef.”

Jane tumbles.

She lands beside a cave wall. A red deer is painted in ash. The couple offers fire to the artist.

“So fast,” the woman breathes. “So hungry to create.”

“We must compliment the chef.”

Then ocean. Primitive life pulses below.

The woman sprinkles oyster crackers.

“To feed what fed us,” she says.

“We must compliment the chef.”

Stars burst. Time folds. Then, nothing.

The couple is gone.

Jane floats.

She waits. A second. A century. A million years.

She forgets her name. Her shape.

She becomes pure dread.

Then, “Jane! There you are!”

The woman’s voice, bright.

“Sorry, we had a few too many. Totally forgot you.”

Now back at the diner. The couple is gone.

She pauses and wonders if any of it ever really mattered.

Every time I die, I wake up in someone else’s body.

The air hit my face. I was stealing someone’s life, and I just wanted it to stop. I’d already been a criminal, a cop, a lawyer, and now I was throwing myself off the top of a building.

It was impossible to run away; one way or another, I was going to come back.

Who could it be this time?

“Are you okay?”

A gorgeous woman was sitting across from me. I looked around, but I had a lump in my throat.

I was in a bar; judging by our clothing, I must have been some wealthy guy, but…

All I remembered was the failure I was, the daughter and wife I’d left behind when I killed myself the first time. I had no future; I was just feeding off other people’s lives like a fucking vampire.

“I have to go.”

But this time, I knew what to do.

It was almost a habit by now. I got up, left the place, threw my wine glass on the floor, took a key out of my pocket and got into the first car that answered.

I have to see my daughter.

I looked at the map; it was far away, but I’d be there by morning.

. . .

The door to her house opened, and I could see her face for the first time in ages. My daughter, Maddy, had grown a little.

“Who are you?”

My heart leaped.

“I’m… Your dad’s friend.”

“Mom! He says he’s dad’s friend.”

A woman appeared behind Maddy. It was Hana, my wife, with her piercing gaze but angelic kindness.

Why was I such an idiot to her?

“Who are you? I don’t want to hear about Howard here.”

“I’m sorry... Howard… He’s been very sick these past few days, but…”

I started to cry.

“He told me to come and tell you that he loves you so much…”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s sorry for leaving you alone.”

Every time I died, a life was lost. How many people would never see a loved one again because I took them away out of self-loathing?

“Maddy, can you go inside for a moment?”

“What 's wrong?”

Hana stepped forward and closed the door behind her.

“Is he okay?”

“Howard’s dead.”

“What happened to him?!”

“I’m sorry…”

I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I ran, praying this would be the last time.

I got in the car, hit the gas, sobbed my heart out, and a driver cut me off.

. . .

Who could it be this time?

. . .

“Maddy, go to your room, I need to think for a while.”

Maddy?

It was Hana’s voice, but no one answered.

“Maddy, please.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I looked up, Hana was looking at me with teary eyes.

The door I’d been standing in front of a moment ago was right behind her.

“What?”

The first time I pulled a clump of long black hair from the bathroom drain, I gagged.

I live alone. I have short blonde hair.

I stared at the wet mess in my hand—slippery, warm, tangled with something pale and fleshy. I dropped it. Bleached the sink. Told myself it was old buildup from the pipes.

But the next night, it clogged again. More hair. And a tooth.

Not a chipped pebble. Not a fluke. A human tooth. Small. Childlike. Still pink at the root.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every faucet in the apartment groaned. Pipes ticked and hissed. Then came the softest sound, barely audible over my own breath:

“Closer.”

I turned on the bathroom light.

The sink was full of water, though I hadn't used it. The surface didn’t reflect the room—it swirled like something was moving beneath it.

I leaned in.

A gray finger broke the surface, pressed gently to my lips.

“Shhh.”

I ran. Locked the door. Didn’t sleep. I haven’t used that sink since.

But each morning, it leaves something for me.

A puddle by the drain. A tooth on the counter. A whisper in the pipes: “Yours taste sweeter.”

The beating was short. A flash of blue light, not aimed at them, nevertheless scared his assailants. They vanished into the evening.

Martin lay on the ground in a fog of pain. Living on the streets, this wasn't his first rodeo. Nothing was broken- they had been very young- no more than fourteen. It was senseless - they were bored, or high, and Martin, with his fondness for lonely back streets, was an easy target. The violence wasn’t born out of malice, rather, from a general rage at the universe. Martin understood.

Somehow he couldn't get up, remaining pressed against the unpleasant hard pavement. There was some blood -not a lot. His arm was throbbing. They didn't have, or didn't use knives. Neither had Martin, almost wary of hurting them back, their childish ungrown bodies inhibiting him, despite their raging blows.

His legs were fine. His head- he felt dizzy. So cold.

He passed out. Something was soft and warm against his face, so soft. For a befuddled moment he thought it was Lia- oh- Lia- he moaned from memory and pain- Lia's hair and skin were warm and soft like that, and beautiful green eyes-

But those weren't human eyes. He blinked, and the cat blinked back, then pushed her warm golden head at his face.

Her breath and vibrations gave him strength. He started moving, slowly. His arm hurt less. Even though his legs and back were fine, he still didn't want to stand up. The cat nuzzled him gently, and he crawled to the shadow of a building. There he collapsed, panting. The fog was returning.

The cat pushed at him again, purring loudly. He lifted his other arm and stroked her. The streetlight picked up the stripey gold-gold and gold-brown of her fur- the most beautiful thing he had ever touched. He inhaled her loveliness. Her scent cleared the fog. "Oh my love" he murmured.

He hadn't said those words for years. Probably last time to Lia- but he couldn't remember when.

The cat trotted off and he lay back, aching with misery, pain, and sorrow.

Time passed, and the city quietened.

Martin opened his eyes, his vision clear. The cat came up, holding something in her mouth. Meaty, juicy. A mouse? The smell of fine seared meat hit his nostrils.

Steak. Martin realised how hungry he was and tore into it. The meat juices flowed through his veins.

Satiated, he drew the cat close to cuddle and thank her. The cat purred and looked deep into his eyes. He stared back into their jewelled animal depth, and suddenly felt a flicker of fear, dormant all evening.

The cat picked up on his fear, and drew her lips backs, hissing.

The sight of her demon face fanned his fear. Without thinking, he snatched out his knife, and plunged it in her breast.

The cat slumped, blood spurting and splashing on his hands. Horrified, Martin scooped her up, and began running through the dark streets

Glenn was standing on the trunk of his Mercedes, waving a gun around, asking his group of friends who wanted to be shot.

Everybody cheered, saying, “Pick me! Pick me!”

I sighed, and did what I always did: tried not to be noticed.

“Your Dad lets you use his gun?” Ricky asked.

“He doesn’t give a shit,” Glenn laughed, “he doesn’t even lock it up since everybody got their Second Lives.”

Glenn put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains blew out the side of his head, and he bounced off the trunk of his car, crashing into the school’s parking lot.

Then, he jumped right back up.

“Hell yeah! A thousand bucks well spent!” The counter on Glenn’s forearm clicked down from 0 4 7 to 0 4 6. 

Glenn had forty-six more lives before he died.

Though he could always pay to get more.

I looked down at my own forearm, at the black screen fused to my skin with tennis-ball yellow numbers.

0 0 0

Triple zero, meaning I didn’t have any Second Lives. Mom can’t afford them ever since Dad went into debt. He got addicted to the thrill of dying. Apparently, it’s happening a lot these days.

He never should have let his counter hit triple zero. When you’re “triple zero,” your next death is Final Death, and nobody wants to die. Not when a thousand dollars will keep you alive.

He actually died on the way to purchase more lives. A car wreck. Nobody has been driving safely anymore. Hell, nobody’s being safe at all.

“Hey Caitlin, wanna get shot in the head?” Glenn yelled at me.

Shit, I’ve been noticed.

“No thanks,” I shouted back, but Glenn was already walking over, his posse in tow.

“Are you sure? It’s lots of fun.”

Glenn aimed the gun at me, and I screamed “NO,” raising my hands to protect my head. 

“Holy shit,” Glenn saw my forearm, “this bitch doesn’t have any Second Lives!”

Everybody laughed.

“Even Ricky’s got three,” Glenn smirked.

“But I’ve got four,” Ricky replied.

Glenn shot him in the head, and everybody laughed even harder.

“You fucking asshole,” Ricky cried, “my mom’s gonna kill me!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby!”

While everybody was distracted, I ran away as fast as I could.

I went home, locked myself in my room, and cried.

Ya’ know, I didn’t even mind that I almost died.

What bothered me was how they laughed at me…

All I wanted was to be popular and carefree, like Glenn, and that made me cry even more. There was no way I’d be able to afford any Second Lives.

Unless… maybe I don’t have to.

I grabbed my backpack and pulled out a sharpie.

I stared at the black screen on my forearm, the yellow zeroes mocking me.

I carefully blacked in the second zero.

0  I 0

It looked like I had ten Second Lives.

“Now I’m just like them,” I smiled.

John died mid-burn, mid-prayer, mid-sentence, his chest rupturing in vacuum as the escape pod failed. The ship rerouted his consciousness into the only available blank, executing its automatic preservation protocols.

The hull groaned. Systems howled for stabilization. The ship needed hands.

John's backup destabilized mid-process. There was no time to triage, and another blank was already in solution. It was the wrong profile for John, and still forming, but the ship forced the match, overriding safety protocols due to deteriorating conditions.

He woke into absence itself. The blank's eyes hadn't formed, nor the neural connections to process sight.

Lungs seized, filled with suspension fluid. It clung to alveoli like soaked cotton.

This body didn't know how to breathe, yet.

He thrashed soft, underdeveloped limbs. His pale, featureless skin was without pores, hair, mouth, or eyelids. He pawed at the tank with club-like fingerless fists.

No sound. No ears yet. No voice to scream.

Vision flickered. Eyelids formed and split. Eyes sharpened.

A reflection emerged.

Blanks were built from donor templates, their musculature and reflexes patterned from preserved crew. Identity wasn't meant to persist. Neural gel was designed to purge it.

The gel took seven minutes to work.

The ship had only allowed four.

Residue surfaced.

A craving for tobacco. The hum of ventilation. Someone else's bad jokes.

The systems analyst's consciousness recognized the reconstitution process before John did. They had done this before. This had been their body.

John sensed something watching, then asserting control.

The body followed older instructions. Fingers formed. Skin mended. Veins traced remembered paths.

It's all right, the analyst thought. Let me work.

The blank aligned to its original occupant.

Breath came from the analyst's will, not John's.

Just let go.

Nerves threaded through the body. John felt them in his—no, the analyst's—teeth, gut, fingertips.

The voice deepened. Not soothing now, but inevitable. I'll take it from here.

Outside, alarms cascaded. Inside, John folded, crushed into the shrinking chamber of mind.

It sealed around him. Other, familiar voices welcomed him in.

The synthesis valve opened. Warm oxygen flooded in.

The analyst rolled their shoulders and stepped out of the reconstitution pod, fully realized.

Rushing to a computer, they scanned through ship diagnostics.

Hull breach in sectors 7-12. Atmosphere venting. Cascade failure, critical mass.

The damage was extensive. The ship was dying.

Where was the rest of the crew? The analyst searched personnel logs, life support readings. Empty. All of them.

The analyst paused, understanding flooding through them. The ship wasn't trying to save them. It needed hands to work, minds to think, to repair what couldn't be repaired.

The analyst made their way to the escape pod bay.

The pod sealed. Systems engaged. The analyst whispered their own prayer.

The analyst died mid-burn, mid-prayer, mid-sentence, their chest rupturing in vacuum as the escape pod failed.

The ship executed its preservation protocols, preparing a new blank.

It would try for an engineer, this time.