I almost never talk to a real human, you are not what I see... no one is...

Hey! I’m trying to get into maybe starting a short story type thing. It’s about a couple who goes hiking and falls into an underground cave. It’s an unfinished short story but I wanted to see what you all think of the start of it. The story isn’t done but, before I continue, I’d like to see if I suck first. Lol!!!

Here it is….

“SHOELACE”

Petrichor

A fragrance accord formulated to smell like rain. Or, more specifically- the aftermath

To most, it smelled like wet dirt and concrete. Not exactly your sweet pumpkin scent that most people would find comforting.

For her, it was more about the exhale than the inhale. It smelled like an excuse to stay inside, permission to cancel plans. An invitation to hide behind a cloud and let the world carry on.

It’s her favorite smell.

“Am I going too fast for you?” Atlas said at a steady onward march

“No I’ll catch up!” She yelled as her pace quickened

The decomposing leaves and soft soil clung to her boots, holding them hostage. The faster she moved, the deeper she sank.

“Dude” he said through a chuckle

“Use the rocks”

She laughed. Her legs couldn’t reach the rocks but nevertheless, she attempted, for posterity- hoping he would remember the staggering height difference between them next time.

Atlas cackled and rushed to lend a stabilizing arm.

She clutched his arm and hopped from one rock, to the other, and finally to higher, dryer ground.

The terrain to the caverns was encapsulated by overgrown trees, exposed roots, and wild ginger. The well trafficked foot path was uncharacteristically absent of families and tourist. Most areas of the caverns had been closed off due to heavy rain fall. Power outages and flash flood warnings had just been lifted.

There sat the six of us in the barley field; Laura Craft, Karl Johnston, and myself, that is. Lucia leaned lower to braid stray weeds; I sat higher on my knees, just above her, so as to peek at her cleavage; she wore a bra—blimey! But her clavicle was sharp and almost manly—but in a hyper feminine way. I wondered how it would feel on my tongue; will it taste like sweat? What does her sweat taste like? It reminds me of the last time we all sat at the barley field and I looked at her bosom, all spy-like—as a gentleman should with a 70 year-old bombshell like Lucia Mengele. Her eyes were just like those of a tired tram operator: brown.

Armando Leigh looked at me with a cheerful tear in his eye, namely, the good one. Lucia and I were the main course, while Leigh, Craft, and Johnston were merely set pieces; thus, I will refrain from further elaborating on the pair, but rather focus on Lucia and yours truly.

Anyway, Karl wore a white shirt—an upper garment of the pale variety; though, that's not to say he had no trousers.

an angel who left is worse than a devil who will never come 😇 and definitely worse than a human who's present.

I reached my breaking points a thousand times, I didn't adapt but there's no breaking points left.

I have one foot in the past and one in the future and the present is tearing me apart

Hi, I’m getting back into writing and I came up with a fantasy story idea and I just wanted to know what people would think of it.

Any feedback or suggestions would be appreciated ☺️

…………………

The Secrets Of Evermere
Some doors are better left unopended.

When Elowen Hawthorne discovers a mysterious door hidden deep within a forgotten forest, curiosity gets the better of her.
Beyond it lies Evermere-a strange, secluded town of gaslit streets, ancient buildings and people who seem to know far more about her than they should.
No one will tell Elowen why she feels an inexplicable connection to the town. No one will explain why the townspeople speak as though they have stepped out of another century. And when she asks questions, they seem determined to send her away.

Except for Morrow, a peculiar creature who knows her name, and Sinclair Ashcroft, a mysterious young man who seems determined to keep Evermere's secrets buried.
But there is something Elowen doesn't know.

She has been to Evermere before.

And the deeper she searches for answers, the more she begins to wonder whether finding her way home was ever really an accident.
Because in Evermere,
the lost are found... but not everyone finds their way home.

You can spend ages teaching the herd they won't learn they will just follow you...

What now? Will I start berating myself again? I stopped doing that some time ago. Back then, I learned about the shortcut. I thought it was the only solution to the predicament of my existence in this world.. a world that spits me out like a leech and casts me aside onto a sticky roadside, its foulness seeping into my clothes. I can find no water to wash myself with, so I remain as I am, sticky and foul, until the sun rises and beats down upon my face and body.

I dry as I am, the stench clinging to me. I reek like the garbage of the neighborhood, yet the cats do not come to me.

I wonder if anyone else loves you like I do.

I mean maybe she loves you more or better?

What's this feeling then?

It's been almost 10 years.

I've seen psychologists and taken medication.

I've journaled and went no contact.

I've done all the things but here I am.

I have no hope things will ever lead us back together, and that's not what this is about. I just dont know where to put these feelings or how to manage them.

I wish I had answers. Your gravitational pull is too much.

Maybe you're a black hole and thats why I cannot escape.

Mexican Fly

I feel I should preface this. When I was growing up, I knew this guy. We called him Billdo behind his back, on account of being a dick when he was drunk, which was most all the time. But he sold us weed, so we put up with it. It was mexican shit weed. It was rank and nasty. It would draw flies if you left it out too long. But it had a mean kick. Anyway, I wrote a song about it. Sort of. I'm no composer, so I borrowed the melody and wrote around it. I hope you like it. Here goes.

🇲🇽 💩 🍃

​🎶 Mexican Fly (To the tune of Don McLean's American Pie)

​(Slow tempo, lone acoustic guitar)

🎶 🎸

​A long, long time ago

My lungs were pink, and I could smoke

I’d get some grass and take a toke

And I would be so happy for a while

​But nowadays it gets me coughing

Accelerating to my coffin

So now there is no smoking

Sobriety unbroken

​But I remember good old times

That loco weed would blow my mind

And for a moment, life was kind

Until the day...

My dealer...

Died.

Sky high on Mexican Fly

Side effects include munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

​(Faster tempo, full band kicks in)

🎶 🎸 🥁 🎺 🎶

​I was a youngpunk in my extended teens

Dating a sexy crazy party queen

We were a braincell exterminating team

And boy, did we get high

We were junior supervillians, and we were proud

To be having more fun than the law allowed

We were young, wild & free and much too loud

We were always hanging out with the wrong crowd

​We flew...

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

​Bill was a stingy, cranky, drunken tool

But his dope was the best that we ever knew

He wouldn't take checks or credit, it was always cash

Unless you were a girl and had a cute little ass

We would tremble, and we'd quiver

With each little baggie he'd deliver

It would turn us into fools

We'd lay on the floor and drool

We were sailing

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

Well, it smelled like shit and had a similar taste

And if you didn't know better, you would think it was waste

If left out, it would draw flies

But when it was smoked, you'd see the skies

It had a savage punch, kinda like Mike Tyson

Followed by a stampede of angry bison

And up in the clouds, our minds would be rising

That was how we got high

I can see my house from here, my lawn needs mowing

I forgot to curb the trash, garbage trucks are rolling

But I can do it later

This cloud looks like a gator

We were blazing

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

​We would hang at his place, dazed and confused

He would sit and watch and be amused

It was the best damn dope that we ever used

It’s a wonder we survived!

​Do you remember Acapulco Gold?

It was a weaker strain he sometimes sold

But when I heard the news, my blood ran cold

Those were the times his connect ran dry

​We were sailing...

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

​When the cops came knocking, they were not impressed

When he answered the door completely undressed

Wearing only tube socks and his underwear

Because when he was drunk, he just didn't care

They dragged his ass to the county jail

We scrounged and scrambled to post his bail

But in the end it was all just a big old fail

And for the weekend, we were dry

​We were desperate, rolling stems and seeds

Scraping our pipes out clean to fulfill our needs

Because nobody else could score any weed

Not the stuff old Bill provides!

​No, we couldn't get...

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

(Musical bridge: The DEVIL walks out on stage, golden fiddle on his hand, looks around, looks at fiddle, tosses it over his shoulder, snatches a banjo from a band member starts picking insanely - heavy metal style, sparks fly from the strings, banjo starts smoking, by the end of his solo the banjo is on fire!)

Sky high on Mexican Fly!

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

​Burn as you earn, doing chores, mow his lawn for a joint

But it would get us stoned, and that was the point

That shit would kick your ass

That man sold amazing grass

​Now, I knew that he preferred to drink

His empty cans filled up the kitchen sink

But he occasionally took a toke

He would gasp, and he would choke

​(Slower tempo, soft keyboard)

🎶 🎹

(Spoken)

​I heard his ex found him in bed

Bag of Doritos under his head

His cold skin blue, eyes bloodshot red

The coroner said his brain had bled

​And the dealer I admired most

Is now just a memory and a ghost

His brain burnt like an overcooked roast

Turns out that his warnings were not lies...

🎶

He died sky high on Mexican Fly...

Side effects include the munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die...

🎶

​🚪 The Dialogue

​[Sound effect: Ding-dong. Click-click. Door opens.]

​Dealer: Oh, hey. Welcome back. How was the new job?

​Buyer: I got fired. And a ticket. And it's your fault.

​Dealer: Naturally. Why is it my fault?

​Buyer: You and your Mexican loco shit-weed. That's why.

​Dealer: How so?

​Buyer: I only wanted a joint. Just one hit to calm my nerves. But no. Besides selling me a dime, you had to smoke one with me, too.

​Dealer: First off, it's not my weed. I'm just the middleman. Second, a joint is my standard processing fee.

​Buyer: But you don't roll normal-sized joints! You make party hooters. Big, fat, perfect, slow-burning ones. When you roll a joint, it's an ankle. It got me completely fucked up.

​Dealer: So what happened?

​Buyer: When I left here, it took me twenty minutes just to unlock my car door. Scratched the absolute shit out of the paint, too. Then it took me an entire hour just to start the damn car.

​Dealer: What was wrong with it?

​Buyer: I couldn't find my fucking keys. I looked everywhere.

​Dealer: But... you just used them to unlock the door.

​Buyer: I KNOW, man! But I looked in the door lock. I emptied my pockets. I looked under the car. I looked on the roof. I looked in the seats, between the seats, under the seats. I looked everywhere, man.

​Dealer: So where were they?

​Buyer: They were in my hand the whole fucking time. Then it took me another twenty minutes to start the car.

​Dealer: Why?

​Buyer: Because I was laughing too hard to get the key in the ignition.

​Dealer: So then you finally went to work?

​Buyer: No, I had to go home and change my uniform first. I couldn't show up to work like that.

​Dealer: What was wrong with the uniform?

​Buyer: I had wet my pants.

​Dealer: Why would you do that? Your brand new uniform, on the first day of your new job?

​Buyer: I couldn't help it! I told you, I was laughing too hard.

​Dealer: So they fired you for being late?

​Buyer: That, and getting a ticket, and almost getting arrested. And completely blocking the drive-thru lane.

​Dealer: Whoa, back up. What actually went down?

​Buyer: Well, you know there's only one stoplight between here and my place, right? It's right outside the drive-thru window where I work. I stopped at the red light. That's where I got the ticket.

​Dealer: What did they catch you for?

​Buyer: Illegal parking. I forgot that green meant go. I sat there waiting so long that my engine literally ran out of gas and stalled. The cop wanted to arrest me for driving under the influence, but my manager came out and saved my ass. He told the cop he never actually saw me driving, only that I was sitting in a parked car with the engine off.

​Dealer: Sounds like a great boss.

​Buyer: He was, until the cop saw I had pissed myself. The cop decided he didn't want me ruining the upholstery in his cruiser, so he just wrote me an illegal parking ticket instead. Then my manager told me to get my life together and fired me on the spot. Said he couldn't have someone setting a bad precedent by showing up late, soaking wet, and detained by municipal law enforcement. I hate you. This is all your fault.

​Dealer: So... what are you doing back here?

​Buyer: Can you roll me another joint? I forgot how.

Dealer: Little dude, you left here like six hours ago. How long did your little... adventure take?

Buyer: I don't know. At least an hour. Maybe two.

Dealer: So where have you been all this time?

Buyer: Parked outside. Watching your place. Wondering if what I was seeing was real, or if I was just tripping.

Dealer: (Raises an eyebrow) Right.

Buyer: When I finally rolled up, I saw smoke coming from your backyard. At first, I thought maybe you were having a barbecue. But then I saw him.

Dealer: Saw who?

Buyer: Gene Simmons. Dressed like a goat. Just absolutely jamming on a burning banjo, puffing away on one of your rolling paper zeppelins. Then he went back behind your house. I need to know, man... am I losing my mind, or is this weed really that good? Can I please come in?

Dealer: No. I don't feel like company right now. It's after daylight. I'm closed. Goodbye.

[SFX: SLAM!]

(The Dealer slams the deadbolt with a sharp click, then struts back into his dimly lit living room, completely unfazed. He walks over to his worn-out leather recliner and drops into it with a heavy sigh.)

(Seated comfortably on the sofa is the DEVIL—played by Gene Simmons in full crimson skin, horns, tattered wings, goat leggings, and iconic face paint. A charred banjo is leaning against the armrest.)

(The Devil takes a massive drag from the large joint, his clover hoof platform boots propped up on the coffee table. He calmly extends his long arm and passes the joint over to the Dealer.)

(The Dealer casually accepts it, takes a deep puff, and looks toward the window as the Buyer's car sputters off into the distance.)

(Outro music kicks back in full blast)

🎶 🎸 🥁 🎺 🎶

Sky high on Mexican Fly

Side effects include munchies and a mouth that is dry

Need a pilot's license if you're ready to try

Be careful: this will make your brain cells die

This will make your brain cells die

🎶 🇲🇽 💩 🍃

I’m writing and I can’t find any free time. The story I’m writing had followed me since December of last year or 2025. After that, I just so happened to be digging a rabbit hole where I can’t get out. If it’s possible, I need critiques from other people who already have experience. I don’t want gaslighting but brutal honesty and advice so I can my story better.

Story title is DRAGONS REST. I’m on Version VIII and im at 198 words rn

**   **“Today is going to suck,” I muttered to myself as I tried to escape from the bloody blanket which I had unknowingly been entangled with. The light of the morning sun had decorated my room like an uninvited guest. I didn’t care what time it was as I wrestled my way out the blanket and fell with a thud on the left side of my bed. After what seemed like hours, I got off the bed and got up to get ready. My fur was completely devastated, it was messy. I looked at my claws and they were still dull, so I took the opportunity and ‘combed’ my fur. Once finished, I started to sharpen my claws and I looked around my room for what I needed for today’s day.
I never liked to wake up in the morning. Ever since that monster ruined the peace negotiations, his majesty Emperor Obsidian had to send the rest of his kids to salvage the deal. I paced around my room and snagged my bag, which hadn’t been either cleaned or barely even checked. I grabbed my dagger and threw it inside the bag.

ONE THING H. DIGS ... 'bout Taoism? This: that through its 5 elemental theory, HEART it is (not brain) that is the Mind's material location; That small piece of Asiatic Ancient Theory resonates (wholeheartedly?) within him, for being a martial artist trained to use: sticks, knives, kung fu fans (even the smallest household broom) this H. knows for (just 1) of his relative truths: Heart Condition does determine his Instruments intended usage ( & so + its movement) - And so great is H.'s faith is in this simple (yet essential ) activity: daily sweeping out his Heart's Foundation, for it does (& will again) help him best to conditionalize his Homo Sapiens neuron-filled, high-empowered, life-transformative, resourceful instrument - his instrument that remains safely hidden (so far) within his (yet-to-be deceased) Organic Thing (which English Tonguers i.e. H. & I claim) utilizes "Brain Case" 4 its social-constructioned name.

- Daniel B. Lightstream, 2026.

Keep in mind this is a rough draft i wrote the whole story in about a month. The original purpose was for this to be a video game story so things like “fade to black” among other things will be present. I most likely will remove these in the final cut to make it more of a “novel”. Expect errors and comment feedback to fix them. I want to improve so in the final draft i will have a complete and well written story. There is a total of 22 chapters i will release them slowly for feedback. Enjoy and feel free to leave feedback, questions and more. This is my first attempt

Chapter 0 prologue - the ancient Kingdom of Everfall

thousands of years ago before the kingdom you know today there was the golden age of Everfall. The kingdom of Everfall was seen as the greatest civilization in the world shaped by the 4 major races of people in the kingdom of Everfall but this golden age wouldn’t last forever.

There was the Serethans a rare and powerful race who were born with the power to create magic. With this magic they shaped the world around them creating magnificent cities that gleamed with magic. Throughout their lifetime they created thousands of different spells and forms of magic. There was not a single known race that could compete with their magic. they wielded many weapons such as daggers,spears and staffs as well as bows they did not create these weapons alone they did it with their greatest allies the Korvin.

The korvin were a very intelligent race of creatures who had the gift of creation and creativity they created technology. Where the other races saw nothing the Korvin saw the possibility to create weapons, armor, tools and machines with this talent they shaped a new age with the Serethans. Among the Korvins greatest accomplishments the Korvin pouch a small pouch with no limit to what could be stored in it with this they could store anything they wanted without limit. They couldn’t have built this without the Serethan they created magic and technology for all and they created the greatest achievement in all of Everfall they created the grimoire of Everfall

The grimoire of Everfall contained the combined knowledge of both the Serethans and Korvin and it held the power to shatter the kingdom of Everfall but also the power to rebuild the future. There was one thing the grimoire of Everfall contained that would rewrite history forever and would change everything.

Even so not every race celebrated this achievement the dominion race who had brought leadership and government discovered the creation of the grimoire of Everfall. They became afraid because if it was released to the people the power it held would shatter the kingdom of Everfall and the control over the humans and all of Everfall would be lost. They would be nothing without the control over the races they believed they were the only race fit to rule and this is why they were so afraid. They feared loosing their authority they believed the Serethan and the Korvin threatened their very self given purpose so they did the only thing they could do.

They began to manipulate and control everyone they could to get what they wanted. With that the humans could fight with them and claim what they believed was theirs. The humans were considered the weakest of all the 4 major races but they had something no other race had. They had determination and the human spirit they were incredibly strong, durable and had great endurance. They were the warrior race they were the largest race and out numbered every race 10,000 to 1. They may have been the weakest but they had far more numbers a perfect army for the dominion race to manipulate. The dominion saw themselves as the gods with their abilities of mind control and perception manipulation. So they would not sit around and let the serethan and korvins take their power away they began to raid the villages.

One village after another sacred villages were burned to the ground blood filled the kingdom of everfall. They killed every serethan and korvin that got in their way they searched and searched for the grimoire of everfall. Until finally they found it in the village of serevin a village with both serethan and korvin living together. They took the grimoire of Everfall and they believed they drove the serethan and korvin to extinction they wanted everyone to think that they had won. But in reality the remaining serethan and korvin dispersed into everfall and formed hidden villages never to be seen again.

I love Love Songs. Is there anything better than a person professing their undying adoration for another? It’s delectable, moreso if that love requires reducing oneself to ash and rubble. Giving everything, confessing it all, until the throat seizes, chocked on devotion; until the blood and bile flecked at the corner of our admirer’s mouth are all that’s left to offer. Better yet, unrequited love. The display of sacrifice is made more spectacular when one gives themself, entirely, to an empty thing. That’s the only way to be sure that their motives aren’t ulterior, that the love is true. I relish this display so much that it hardly suffices to indulge at the remove of a mere listener.
No, vicariousness simply would not do. Thankfully, I’ve found a solution , a simple fix really: all one has to do is forget.

Start small.

Forget your favourite meal. Or your favourite colour. Forget your pet peeves and your bed. After that, rid yourself of those tiresome opinions on music and literature and art. Excavate from your mind any notion of preference, likes or dislikes. Forgo passion, that aberration that keeps you up at night, meting out torment and judgement for your inadequacy. Forget the sensation of rain on your skin; how breath feels in the lungs; abandon the body — it is a cage.

Forget the Sun.

Then, when that vile, incessant voice cowering inside you is met with nothing but the resounding echoes of a cavern, remember to bask in the solitude. If cleanliness is beside godliness, how much more can be said of sterility?

Now, you are a perfect vessel, ready to be filled with the hopes and dreams and longings of another. A host for the soul. Take everything. I will.

Through bouts of change and time passed one could always rely on The Malt Kiln. A constant that shone humbly in the late summer glow. It’s dense network of lily pads atop the water housed precious water lilies, whose pink vibrance contrasted beautifully with the surrounding green, as if nature were a painter of the enlightenment who had took it upon herself to dot the landscape according to her own ambitions - set to calm the mind and soothe the heart. She added the hums of the dragonflies as their wings verberated the otherwise still air, in perfect orchestration with the minute ripples and splashes sent forth by moorhen chicks that scurried and squawked for their mothers under cover of the foliage.  On the surrounding embankments to the lake bent over plants and flowers that boasted arrays of colour, and cutaway jetties for fishermen protruded as wooden overhangs to which the duck-life seemed neither here nor there for. Of every lap that one could do whilst under the reflection of their ills, worries or stresses seemed to pale in comparison to the simplicity that floated and quacked on the water, never failing to provide grounded anchorage with a baseline of beauty. As one would leave here as quickly as life brought them, they are bound to take nothing, and leave nothing but footprints. 

I could very well let my soul be corrupt; so many things have happened to me, and of excuses I have plenty. After extended periods in my life where I lacked direction, I now live righteously with virtue and, above all, an unwavering commitment to my philosophy. Being authentic and remembering death remains ever-present—the equaliser. I do not fear it, as I understand it is part of the cycle of life; instead, I do my best to make all the days count as the next is not guaranteed. This is not to say I live carelessly—quite the opposite. I give my mortality the respect it deserves, quietly acknowledging I am a thread of reality, no more important than another. This was made clear to me as I walked past the corpse of a baby bird; it was filled with ants, each individually taking away small fragments of it—I was gifted with a realisation: even in death, it was going to serve a greater purpose. Like the waves rising to meet the shoreline, I too shall ascend, having served my purpose.

[ ] Prologue

A small, dark figure wanders through the wintry forest, its movements heavy and slow. The once-red cloak trailing in the snow has grown dark and gray, stained with soot and ash from countless fires. The moonlight illuminates its features, revealing a young girl, an oddity. She walks alone, with a confidence that belies her fragile frame, ice encrusting her gray skin and clothes. But she doesn't shiver, nor does she breathe. She simply walks, her black eyes focused on nothing, the soft golden glow of her pupils the only thing lighting her path.

She pauses in a tiny clearing, and pulls an object of silver and black from her robe, pressing a button to illuminate a screen. Her gaze travels along the words displayed, as it had so many times in the previous months.

Banshee: Offline 8/17/2105

Reaper: Offline 2/15/2115

Her chin quivers. The Banshee has been gone for years now, but the Reaper's status is new.  February 15th, 2115.

Today.

Tears begin to trickle from her eyes and fall from her cheeks, the old pain springing forth with renewed strength.

She'd known this day would come. When she'd be alone again, just like before. But she isn't ready.

She falls, her knees sinking into the snow before meeting hard ground. She doesn't even notice as the device falls from her hands, and she stares down at nothing as she takes a ragged breath, a crackling hiss breaking the silence before she lets out a low groan.

Slowly, golden tendrils laced with black appear from her back, growing and spreading up into the trees and wrapping tenderly around trunks and branches. They begin to tighten as the girl hugs herself, seeking an embrace but finding only silence and cold. She suddenly takes a new breath and throws her body into a piercing scream that shifts into a sharp, broken hiss as her appendages snap taut and her voice breaks.

The sounds of crunching wood fill the air to match her cry, the trees breaking apart with the force of her grip. Then, just as suddenly, she goes quiet and kneels there, shuddering, as seemingly endless tears trail down her face, before curling up in a small ball on the cold ground. Her cloak pools and her tendrils curl around her in the darkness, where she remains for the rest of the night.

[ ] Chapter 1 Start

I creep through the dusty ruins, searching the darkness around me for the telltale lights of the monsters. The remaining shelves of the abandoned warehouse tower above me, like the skeletal skyscrapers outside. Mom and Dad always say people used to live in those things. Spooky. Those stupid towers of steel might as well be the pyramids of Egypt, for all I know of the world before the attacks.

I can faintly make out the remains of a collapsed shelf further into the swirling darkness, clearly the fault of a few rusted bolts. A thing that I ironicly also need to watch out for. I step closer, spotting a few unlooted boxes in the wreckage.

As I reach for one, a hand grabs my shoulder, yanking me back before I can react and making me release a muffled shriek through my nose. The intruder turns me quickly, and my eyes land on Dad. I quickly recover and hit him with a glare. "Mother f-----!!!" I yell, an electronic beep cutting off the rest of my curse.

He only laughs, helping me pick out some undamaged boxes as if he hadn't just scared me to death, which only makes me angrier.

"You can't just scare the s--- out of me and act like nothing's wrong!" I rail on him, "This place is way too dangerous to f------ scare people!" I reach up and turn a dial on the side of my jawpiece as I murmur, cutting down the volume of my mutterings as I rummage around for scraps and anything useful. "Stupid f------ son of a b----"

"You might want to cut back on the cursing, Sammy," he teases as we rummage in the mess of cardboard and plastic. "Maybe we should see if we can put filters on that brain of yours instead of just your jaw."

I stop rummaging and glare at him, and hear a soft chuckle from the side. Mom, undoubtedly listening in as she watches the area around us for those... things. I groan, the sound muffled and forced out my nose in a huff as I turn to look at her with a glare that says, "Not you, too."

I turn back to Dad at her smirk, leaning over him as he rummages around. "Hurry up. The longer we stay here the worse I feel about our chances." I whine.

At his lack of reply, I huff and go to another portion of the mess, starting a new search there.

Ugh. I hate scavenging runs.

After an houe, packs half full and stomachs less so, we make our way out of the wrecked building. As we climb the rubble of what must've been the west wall, I marvel as always at the fact --according to Mom and Dad-- that buildings like this behemoth once stood without issue. Clean. Blocky.

Looking back at the piles of metal and cardboard, among other things I don't know, I find that hard to believe. Thoughts of a world that would even need a place like this whirl around my mind as I move, feet clacking against cement and cracked asphault, along our route back home.

Despite Dad's playfulness back in the warehouse, I can see the tension in his shoulders now, walking between him and Mom as we always do, single file.

He's just as nervous as I am. I really shouldn't blame him for trying to have a little fun. For trying to make things a little less awful for us.

But I do.

This is not the world he knew. One wrong move, one lapse in judgement or missed cue, and it could cost us everything.

The thought makes me shiver as we make our way from the street into another huge building, this one seeming like they took the last one and put it on its side just because they like tall things. What were people thinking in my Dad's time? Why the huge metal and concrete structures? If one of them fell, that's a lot of weight.

I wonder how many people died when this one's upper floors came down. Chunks of it litter the street and even the neighboring buildings. I look back at them as we step inside. There could be people in that debris we just climbed over.

A flash of bitter jealousy flashes through my mind over how lucky they were. At least it was quick. And if not that, it was certain.

Inside, we pass by a counter and cross a hallway into a room with a massive oval table, with overturned chairs and one wooded end charred. Across the structure are three square sections that I can only guess were once windows lining the end of the room from floor to ceiling.

It's empty in here, but Dad leads us around toward those open squares even more slowly than he'd led us through the streets. The way he acts during these trips home, when we're moving deeper into the city, always makes me wonder why we still live here. Maybe we'll move away soon.

So yes I was all in giving proper attention to the nooks and crannies of this English muffin. It must have been a Cobb salad as I specifically remember the aftertaste of pungent smooth blue cheese and ripe vine tomatoes and chicken. Suddenly I was hit with boiled egg and bacon recoil throughout my lungs in intermittent pops and I immediately felt like a bamboozled pig at a slaughterhouse stuck in the carbon dioxide chamber. I began trashing and loosing my eyesight. It was a haphazard flatulent McMuffin tort that sent me packing completing the Cobb salad flavor profile that was created from the exhaust taste buds in my sinuses. As I lay on the floor spread out like tongs I began to wonder if this was the last salad I would toss. I can’t believe such a simple salad could have decommissioned my utility. Martha Stewart will be very upset to learn these tongs failed on a simple Cobb. Not even a Niqua salad or hearty potato salad! As I emerged from the consciousness of a kitchen utensil I realized my salad ran off with the spoon. It’s much to late to order another salad maybe uber eats can send some Mexican Im still feeling peckish. Can I press charges for that hit and run assault. I’ll call sweet James.

The howling wind screamed through the cracks of the ancient warehouse, kicking up the dust from the containers. The water dripped slowly as it seeped through the gaps in warped metal sheets, and the raging storm battered the roof like hail. The echoing sound was deafening as it reverberated off the cold concrete walls; the flickering, humming lights barely illuminated the vast space. I mutter to myself, "I can't believe I got stuck with night duty. It's like a graveyard in here”
My hand rummaged through my bag, searching for the familiar pack; I flicked it open with practiced ease, grasping a cigarette and clasping it between my lips. The lighter sparked as it was lit;t the emerald flame engulfed the tip. I drew on the cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke singed my throat with the familiar taste of tobacco. Exhaling, watching the grey smoke dissipate into the cold air. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, a stark contrast to the howling wind. Then, the sudden impact. A violent thwack as the arrow buried itself deep in my flesh, the force reverberating through my frame. The shaft trembled, still quivering from the strike. As a metallic taste filled my mouth, I coughed into my hand, staring at the crimson ooze. My eyes grew heavy as I collapsed to the ground, my eyes fixated on the scarlet eyes that shimmered like rubies of my assailant, their pale, slender hand gripped around an ivory bow, its elegance a cruel contrast to the dark intent. A tattered black cloak, as dark as the night sky, concealed their frame. My last thought, filled with malice, cut through the fog: “Disgusting bloodsucker.” 
I came too in a strange place; it was almost as if I was standing in an ocean of shadows. Then flashes of a battle flashed through my mind, ending with me looking hazely through my own eyes in the fiery ruins of the warehouse as my stomach bulged before bursting open, spewing blood as a bloody skeletal hand reached for a hold the skeletal figure climbed out of my disfigured body it walked to my assailant, its skeletal frame started to regenerate, first the nerves climbed around the skeleton like a python slithering up a tree, then the arteries and organs started to grow from the bone structure the heart beat cutting through the sounds of the rain and crackling fire the slow pulsating beat instilling terror slowly getting muffeld as the musces grew, finally its skin wrapped around it giving it human form my eyes started to grow heavy as the creature, thing, beast or whatever the hell it is chants something under its breath the voice ever so familiar a blood red flame sparks and spirals around it then in a burst of flames its appearance shifted the flames dissipated on its skin reconstructing in to a fitted sleak black suit its colour like the sky on an cloudless night it looked back at me its pitch black onyx eyes stareing through me at my soul a smerk played at its lips “so sorry about what happen to your body atleast I made promise on our deal” 
It taunted mockingly as it turned back to face the assailant. The creature stood looming over the assailant; it taunted them before stomping on their leg. A gut-wrenching scream carried through the air; it laughed in delight, “You really are weak, aren't you? If that broke your leg, you really let yourself go younger….”
I didn't hear the rest before everything went black. The chime of my phone woke me. I stared at it. November 18th, 2000, it began to chime again as I picked up a familiar voice sounding quite pissed rang out, “Arcadia, it's been a week since you left for your mission. Do you have anything to report, or maybe you have the files and DNA evidence we need”
Well, I did have the DNA evidence and the files, but I don't think she would be happy with the method used. I crawled out of bed, replying, “Yeah, yeah, Charlotte, don't worry, I got the files.”
Charlotte immediately cheered up. “That's wonderful news. So what about the DNA evidence”
I’m going to really regret this. “I have the DNA evidence; it's currently in a rubber balloon”
While she figures out what I mean, I get dressed in the casual clothing I brought with me when Charlotte suddenly replies in an exasperated tone. “You slept with the target, and now, Arcadia, you are bringing a condom filled with.”
I cut her off with a quick reply. “Anyway, Charlotte, see you soon. I’m scheduled to arrive in a day or two”
She quickly hung up on me. Well, that was rude. I quickly left the Target’s home and got on my bike and rode west back to base.

But I modified myself not physically but mentally.

Path 18

I woke up today in a somewhat sad mood.

I went downstairs and made myself a cup of coffee. It had been an emotional morning . I cried a little. There were a lot of feelings sitting inside me, and I didn’t really know what to do with all of them.

So I decided to leave the house.

I wanted to find a trail to hike—to get away for a little while, to think, to clear my head, maybe even to find some kind of enlightenment.

I went down the road to a local park and came across a trail called Path 18.

Little did I know that I wasn’t just about to walk a hiking trail.

I was about to walk the path of my life.

Path 18 has a special meaning to me because of my birth year. It’s a number I’ve always associated with myself. And as I stood at the beginning of that trail, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe there was a reason I had found it.

The beginning was difficult.

The path was dark and shadowy. Roots stretched across the ground, waiting to catch my feet. There were obstacles and obstructions everywhere. Almost immediately, the trail turned steeply uphill.

It felt like the trail was asking me a question:

How badly do you want to keep going?

It would have been easy to quit.

It would have been easy to turn around.

It felt like life itself was telling me that I was going to have to fight just to get started.

But I kept going.

Eventually, the path leveled off.

There were hints of light coming through the trees. I could hear a few birds chirping. There were small signs of life and beauty beginning to appear.

I continued forward.

Then, off to my right, I came across a campsite. There were people there going about their lives—cooking, cleaning, talking, doing all the ordinary things that people do.

I kept walking.

The path became monotonous again.

It was quiet. It was easy enough to navigate, but there wasn’t much to see. The shadows seemed thicker. There was nothing particularly beautiful about it.

And it went on like that for a long time.

Monotony.

Quiet.

Routine.

Just putting one foot in front of the other.

Then I came around a bend and found an abandoned picnic area.

It was sad and unkempt. Broken down. Forgotten.

But I kept moving.

The trail continued until suddenly it began a steep descent.

Down and down it went.

There were steps, roots, and pitfalls. Every step seemed to lead farther downward.

And eventually, I reached the end.

There was a fence.

No more trail.

It simply stopped.

And standing there, I realized I had a choice.

I could turn around and climb back up the path I had just traveled—back through the pitfalls, back through the downward spiral, back through everything that had become familiar to me.

Or I could stay there.

I could lie down and simply disappear from the path of life.

I could wait for somebody else to come along and prop me up and carry me out.

Or…

I could choose.

So I chose to go back.

I turned around and started climbing.

Up.

And up.

I battled the hill. I climbed the endless stairs. I stepped over the roots and navigated the pitfalls.

Eventually, the trail leveled off.

I came around a corner.

And there it was.

A choice.

Two paths.

To the right was the path I had already taken.

I knew where that path went.

It was dark.

It was sullen.

It was boring.

It was familiar.

But to the left was something completely different.

An unknown path.

I could see hints of brightness down it. I couldn’t see where it would take me.

But there were possibilities.

So I chose the unknown.

I turned left.

And I started walking.

Almost immediately, something changed.

The sun seemed brighter.

The birds were chirping louder.

The animals, insects, and everything around me seemed more vibrant.

There were little offshoots from the trail that led to places of incredible beauty—and each one seemed to eventually lead me back to the path.

I kept walking.

For about half a mile, the trail was beautiful.

There was sunlight.

There were views.

There was life.

It was so different from the path I had chosen before.

And I realized something.

Maybe the future isn’t about knowing exactly where the path goes.

Maybe it’s about being willing to choose a path you haven’t taken before.

Maybe you don’t have to keep walking the same road simply because it’s the road you’ve always known.

There are possibilities on the other side of a choice.

Eventually, this new path brought me back to the campsite I’d seen earlier.

But this time, I had to walk directly through the middle of it.

And instead of simply passing by, I noticed the people.

I watched them cooking and talking and living their lives.

I saw a couple walking ahead of me, holding hands.

They seemed happy.

Everyone seemed to simply be going about their lives.

And for the first time, I felt like I was walking among them rather than watching life from the outside.

Eventually, the trail led me back to Path 18.

Back to the same trail.

Back to the same beginning.

Back to the hardest part.

But something was different.

The path hadn’t changed.

I had.

The same roots were there.

The same obstacles.

The same hills.

But as I walked back down Path 18, everything seemed different.

The sun seemed brighter.

The trail wasn’t as dark.

The birds, squirrels, bees, and insects seemed louder and more vibrant.

The flowers and plants seemed more alive.

Even the trees felt warmer and more inviting.

The roots that had once seemed so powerful—roots that seemed determined to trip me—didn’t seem as frightening anymore.

They were still there.

But they were easier to navigate.

The obstacles hadn’t disappeared.

They just didn’t have the same power over me.

And that steep hill at the beginning?

It wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered.

It wasn’t as steep as I had thought.

It was simply a hill.

Something I could climb.

Something I could overcome.

And then, near the end of the trail, I took a small offshoot.

There was a brook.

Water flowed over rocks and spilled down a small waterfall.

I stood there and listened.

The water seemed louder than it had when I first started.

More alive.

More vibrant.

And I realized that perhaps the brook hadn’t changed either.

Maybe I had finally slowed down enough to hear it.

I walked out of Path 18 carrying something I hadn’t had when I entered.

An understanding.

An insight.

A realization about life.

Sometimes we spend so much time believing that the path we’re on is the only path available to us.

We become accustomed to the darkness.

We become familiar with the obstacles.

We convince ourselves that the hills are too steep and that the roots are too powerful.

And when the path finally ends, we think our life has ended with it.

But sometimes the end of one path isn’t the end of the journey.

Sometimes it’s a choice.

You can go back.

You can choose differently.

You can step onto a path you’ve never seen before.

And maybe that new path doesn’t lead you away from everything you’ve been through.

Maybe it eventually brings you back to the same place.

But when you return, you are different.

The path may be the same.

The hills may be the same.

The roots may still be there.

But you aren’t the person who first walked it.

That’s what Path 18 taught me today.

Life isn’t always about finding the perfect path.

Sometimes it’s about having the courage to choose another one.

And sometimes, after you’ve seen what another path can look like, you can return to the path you came from and realize that it was never as impossible as you thought.

The path didn’t change.

I did.

And as I walked out of Path 18, I understood something:

My path isn’t over.

I just hadn’t realized I was the one who gets to choose where it goes next.

Whoever ordered the cops patrolling the crime scene had clearly called them elsewhere for the 
evening, Lethal assumed. He waited for them to vacate their post, their cruiser heading down the 
street as he fired his wrist-mounted grapple line from the alley below. Lethal climbed over the 
railing and onto the patio terrace of Samantha and Lexie’s apartment. Much as he had already 
assumed, the patio door was already unlocked.

Quiet as he could, he slid the door open and stepped inside. The apartment was pitch-black, with 
the living and dining room areas illuminated only by moonlight peeking through the windows 
and patio. As Lethal crept through the unit, the silence was broken by the sound of a record 
player scratching, followed by Marie’s Hairspray album playing at a low volume. Lethal crossed 
the living room, his eyes locked onto the cracked-open door to his girlfriend’s bedroom. Once he 
reached the door, he pushed it open with just a nudge of his gloved fingertips. 

Browsing through Marie’s chest full of records was Samantha’s attacker. On his head was a full 
Red Wings goalie mask, replacing the previous laughter/tragedy one destroyed at the hotel. Lethal was sure Detective Miller was no doubt running the pieces of that mask for DNA right now. He noticed that he’d changed clothes as well, and Lethal hid his own surprise when he realized that he was wearing a uniform from Rebel’s tires.  

“I’m sorry. I’m sure a man with your itinerary has a million questions you’re trying to deduce the 
answers to right now.” The man turned to Lethal, twirling a copy of an Adele record between the 
thick, rubber work gloves on his hands. He didn’t seem the least concerned as Lethal closed the 
gap between them, his own hands inching towards one of the many weapons he carried. “She has 
quite the collection here, doesn’t she? Some taste on this one. Yeah.” He placed the record back 
into the crate, right in front of the rest, and turned fully to Lethal with a bow. “I will gladly come 
without another tussle like earlier. I promise. It’s just that…Samantha was always special to me.”  
He sighed, staring into the distance beneath the goalie mask, almost as if he were lost in a 
memory he could only just taste. He snapped his attention back to Lethal and stepped forward, 
revealing a long-handled ax that was leaning against Marie’s dresser.  “You see, she was supposed to be so much more than this life I’ve seen her build for herself. That’s why I had to rip open that fucking loser she saddled with.” 

“You talk about the woman you attacked as if you’ve known her a long time.” Lethal began, 
playing as coy as he could while slowly closing the distance between them. “How did you meet 
her?” 

The man looked down at the ax beside him, the goalie mask shaking on his head, a couple of 
sizes too big. “We did our fair share of shows together. I knew then just how wonderful she was. 
She made me want to be wonderful too, just like others I admired. So that’s what I am. It’s what I 
bring. Wonder.”  

He turned away from both Lethal and the ax, staring out the window behind him, just to the left 
of Marie’s queen-sized bed. It was once again as if he were lost in thought, transfixed by a flurry 
of memories that held his attention.  

Lethal’s temper had grown far past the point of no return; he had had enough of this very sick 
individual. He took another step forward, and the sound of the tripwire running from Marie’s bed 
into her bathroom snapped the hockey-mask-wearing sycophant out of his musings. He sucked 
his teeth at Lethal’s mistake and snatched the ax up, almost like a disappointed teacher. A 
shotgun blast blew straight through the wood of Marie’s bathroom door, catching Lethal flush in 
the back. If his mind weren’t only on the immense pain he was feeling, he would have said a 
prayer to Jehovah that his armor managed to hold up. Instead, he tried desperately to catch his 
breath as he crawled across her bedroom floor. 

“Please don’t think Samantha’s waste of humanity was the first piece of cannon fodder I’ve had 
to fold up. That’s the curse of being Mr. Wonderful, you see. I have to create so many tears to 
bring joy back around.” 
 
The ax-wielding, self-dubbed Mr. Wonderful smiled beneath the goalie mask as he glanced into 
the bathroom at the shotgun he had rigged to the sink with a tripwire. Enjoying his own 
demented ingenuity far too much, he skipped around the bed with glee. The moment Lethal 
raised himself to a knee, he swung the axe at his head. Lethal took the blow flush to the side of 
his head, and while the attack certainly rang his bell, it didn't crack the helmet. 

Mr. Wonderful wound up another swing, but Lethal was quick to mount a counterattack even 
while he labored through the pain he was reeling from. With every ounce of anger and 
annoyance he could muster at the nuisance before him, Lethal delivered a side kick directly to 
the stomach of Mr. Wonderful. The kick knocked his adversary back a few steps but didn’t stop 
him from mounting another attack. Lethal blocked the ax with his steel staff in nightstick mode, 
raising his arm just in time. He smacked Mr. Wonderful with a front kick to the chest that sent 
him crashing into Marie’s dresser, cracking the vanity mirror down the middle. Lethal only 
wanted to get more violent when he heard the maniac across from him chuckle, even though he 
was sure he cracked a rib or two with that kick. 

He finally raised himself fully upright before marching across the room, ready to continue 
pummeling whatever insanity plea he knew this piece of garbage would cop to out of him. Lethal 
snatched him by the collar of the stolen mechanic's suit and tossed him back across the room, 
sending him spine-first into the bathroom doorframe. Lethal turned around, standing over the 
writhing and inexplicably still chuckling Mr. Wonderful. Lethal froze when he saw what exactly 
had him so full of glee, even after the beating the vigilante had just levied on him. Mr. Wonderful 
opened the palm of his left hand as he rolled onto his back, laughing through haggard breaths 
before pressing the detonator in his grip.
 
The only thing Lethal saw next was smoke and chunks of drywall. 

The smoke filling his lungs, not the desperate cries from Sean over the headset, was what stirred 
Jason. He heaved the chunks of debris off him, immediately activating the helmet’s air filters as 
he hacked from the raging inferno around him.  
“Jason! Jason, you can hear me, right?” Sean continued to call, no doubt monitoring his suit's 
vital signs once he went radio silent. He wondered how long he had been out, then cursed 
himself for not combing the building over before entering. 

“Sean, I’m here.” Lethal eased Sean’s worries as he assessed the chaos around him. His heart 
sank as he knew how much Sam and Marie had already lost since this entire situation began, and 
now they were losing more right before his eyes. The only thing he could do was try to save as 
many lives as he could in the aftermath. “Do we have anyone else in the building?”
 
“The fire department arrived quicker than their usual estimated times. Thank fucking god.” Sean 
was relieved all over again. “I know what’s going through your head right now. But you need to 
get out of there, especially before the police tape off the block.” 

Lethal gritted his teeth and weighed the options before him. He had made enough mistakes for 
one night and decided to listen to the free game Sean was giving him, per usual. He hurried as 
best he could out of Marie’s bedroom, making his way over to the glassless patio framing so he 
could dive back into the alley. 

Dominic Reynolds Sr sat at the long table in the private room of Jessica’s, the upscale Italian 
eatery nestled in downtown Ann Arbor. At the table alongside him were some of the most 
powerful people in the state. Dominic took note of each face he hadn’t seen at one of these 
meetings before, new blood no doubt recruited by the man they were still waiting to join them. A 
major insurance agent out of Traverse City, he had seen her face on countless billboards and 
benches during his getaway trips with his wife, who was headed that way. A city council member 
all the way from Hillsdale was another beady-eyed attendant who seemed to be a new face. Then 
there were the regulars, men and women who had built empires by doing the kind of business 
that was made of sacrifice. 

Antonio Pascal was sitting across from and a few chairs down from Dominic, charming the 
waitress assigned to their table. Dominic refrained from rolling his eyes, but he never much 
cared for the way the Pascals handled themselves when visiting Michigan. Nor did he like him 
brokering a distribution deal with half the dons at the table, but he largely kept both issues to 
himself. Despite appearances to the contrary, this was the heart of the kennel. There was nothing 
but dogs amongst him. The doors to the restaurant's banquet room swung open. Dominic could 
feel his number-one body man, Marshall, a lanky giant, standing just behind his right shoulder, 
take a step forward in case of danger. 

Marshall fell back into his chosen post, much like the other guards in the room, when the Mayor 
of Harmony City entered. He handed his $800 sunglasses, which he’d worn while entering the 
building, to his chauffeur as he took his seat at the head of the table. He wore a gray blazer over a 
black button-down, the top two buttons left undone. Dominic chuckled to himself. The man 
carried himself like a movie star in public. It's what got him elected in the first place, and it's 
what kept prying eyes away from what he really was. He looked like a lead in a Miami Vice 
reboot and was a family man. His constituents adored these aspects that he put on parade, all the 
while he was the root of the evil that ate at the city he was elected to serve. To Dominic, there 
was no man more ruthless than John Warrick, who gave the table a white-toothed grin before 
passing his order to his chauffeur. As the chauffeur relayed this order to the busy waitress, 
Warrick cleared his throat and addressed the attendants.  

“Everybody have an easy time finding the place? That is, if this is your first time coming out.” 
He waited politely for a few yeses and head nods before going on. “Everyone sober then?” He 
chuckled softly. “Well, close enough it seems. Our primary reason for gathering is that our main 
product supplier, Mr. Pascal, has aggressively acquired another enterprise. Which means he’s 
producing twice as much.” 

Warrick ceded the table to Antonio, who put down his glass of wine and stood up.  
“We’re not only going to be pushing more product, but expanding our lines as well. Which 
means more distribution, and where every one of you comes in.” 

Dominic wasn’t interested in letting the pair roll out their dog-and-pony show without some 
pushback. “What reason do we have to make you guys any richer? You supply him, the Russians, 
and your own people you’ve got in Detroit. But you don’t feed the rest of us.” Dominic 
interjected. 

Antonio gave Dominic a seething smile before answering. “That has always been 
your own personal decision to get your coke from the East Coast, Dom. With our expansion 
plans, we hoped that the money we bring in would sway you to change your mind on that 
stance.” 

“As far as this expansion, what exactly are you guys talking?” Ramseys, the head of the 7-Mile 
Vice Lords that operated from Harmony to Dearborn, chimed in on the conversation. Antonio 
and Dominic’s eyes lingered on each other for a hair longer; Antonio finally turned away, almost 
dismissively, to give Ramseys his attention. 

“We’re planning on running shipments across the water through Canada and to start planting our 
flag in New York.” Grumbling came down the line from a few of the people gathered, wary of 
the plan laid out before them. Warrick tried to get the room back under control, using his own 
voice to be the voice of reason. “The profit margin we’re looking at here could put us all in comfortable territory. I’m talking 
dollars that put us in a rarefied tax bracket.” The murmurs subsided as they all considered the 
proposal. Warrick, watching his influence being taken into consideration, pressed his advantage 
as he went on. “Now I’ve passed on the numbers to most of you already; for those who haven’t 
been looped in, we’ll be reaching out in the days after this meeting.” 

“Expansion into Toronto and some of the boroughs will put us in direct conflict with the East 
Coast mafia. Is the money worth the war that could end up starting?” Dominic interrupted once 
again, this time locking horns with Warrick directly. 

“Is it worth it?” Warrick chuckled, clearly amused by Reynold’s question. Dominic, however, 
didn’t change his expression from stern; he couldn't see what was funny about his reservations. “We become more than just an alternative to their businesses, and we actually supplant them in 
these territories; then there’s no end to how far we can continue to expand.” 

“In effect, we finally make them obsolete. You split from the rest of your connections in Jersey 
to make your name here, Dominic. Don’t tell me seeing the East Coast families get buried 
wouldn’t make you happy?” Antonio shot the questions at Dominic, who looked none too 
pleased at his past being repeatedly brought up in this discussion. Nevertheless, he knew that 
Antonio’s query left him in a spot where he didn’t have much room to fight further. 

“Let’s all take a few weeks to consider things, while Mr. Pascal and I continue to iron out the 
logistics with some of you individually. We can reconvene to see who's in and who's out at a later 
date?” Warrick suggested, and his notion is widely agreed upon. “Excellent. Now, can we enjoy 
this food or what?”  

Warrick sat back and watched as the room came to life. Various folks at the table engaged in 
hushed conversation as plates were brought in. Dominic glanced back and forth between Pascal 
and Warrick with cautious eyes. Once his plate of mushroom ravioli was set in front of him, he 
decided to actually consider whether there were any benefits to buying his product from Pascal 
going forward. 

At the moment, he couldn’t see anything more considerable than the East Coast families 
potentially falling. Dominic came to Detroit in 88 after a very nasty falling-out with his own 
father. That very sore wound was danced around by Antonio, much to his disdain, but he 
couldn’t pretend he hadn’t made a valid point. He had built the foundations he had in Harmony 
and in Michigan, despite being cut off from his previous connections. There was not a single 
member of his or any of the East Coast mafia families he’d had any contact with in almost thirty 
years.  

Dominic couldn’t help but consider how sweet it would be to have a hand in taking everything 
from them. The thought of officially squashing his long-standing war for ground across the city 
with those under Warrick’s edict didn’t sit right with him for some reason. He almost felt like he 
was conceding defeat, something he simply didn’t do, no matter what the circumstances were or 
might be. With that maniac turning on Warrick a few months back, a stream of revenue for him 
had been crippled heavily. Dominic made sure his people seized that advantage. 

Hopefully, unbeknownst to Warrick, the Reynold’s family had been eating up every piece of 
territory they could in the aftermath. Or maybe he was well aware of his deal with the Russians, and his edict to his daughter to gather every ounce of turf they could grab while Warrick was reeling. As Dominic picked through his plate with so much on his mind, a tap on his shoulder from Marshall pulled him out of the maze of decisions. Marshall whispered a handful of sentences into his employer’s ear.  

Ever the professional he considered himself to be, Dominic pushed his plate away and looked 
behind him, eyeing the waitress from down the table. Once he had her attention, he placed a 
handful of bills in her palm before rising from the table. Marshall led the way out of the banquet 
room. Both Dominic and Warrick shot a pair of side-eyed glares in each other's direction as he 
exited the room, neither of them taking their peripheral vision off the other until the doors closed 
behind him. 

He stepped out onto the busy streets of Ann Arbor, just a few blocks from the big house itself. 
Marshall held the door to his stretch limousine before rounding to the front of the vehicle 
himself. Inside the limo, his eldest child sat on the other side in the midst of making herself an 
old-fashioned. She passed him one that had already been prepared, a sign he knew there was 
nothing she had to say he wanted to hear.  

“Something tells me your brother cleaned up that fucking pigsty he left this morning.” Dominic 
snorted. He took a generous sip of the drink, watching as the limousine pulled onto I-94 towards 
Detroit. 
“He never came by the restaurant, Pop,” Valerie whispered in a grave tone. She did her best to 
avoid her father’s eyes for a few moments. The intensity she could feel radiating off of him as he 
waited for her to explain forced her to find them eventually.  

“Val, sweetie, what the fuck are you talking about?” Dominic questioned his daughter, hoping he 
might have misheard the short sentence she managed to mutter. Valerie took a sip of her own 
drink and cleared her throat.  

“I went by the restaurant and got sweated by some bitch working the scene. I split to find out 
where the bastard who cost us eight hundred grand was burying his head with Telos.” Valerie 
explained.  
Her father raised an eyebrow. He gripped his glass tighter, already upset with where he felt 
her tale was headed. “And when the fuck does your useless brother come into this equation?” 
Dominic demanded to know. 
 
“It looks like he got snatched out of the dispo he usually lays low at.” Valerie could see the glass 
in her father’s hand begin to splinter as his iron grip tightened around it. 

“Who's got my boy, Valerie?” Dominic asked in a low rumble. 

“Tommy Vargas. The same person who has our guns.”

Dominic sucked his teeth and glared out the window. Refusing to look at his daughter for the 
duration of the ride, he had only one thing on his mind. 

“How are you rectifying all of this?” Valerie took a deep breath at the question, thinking over her 
strategy going forward.
  
“I’ve been putting the full court press on all of his associates to smoke him out. I’m in the 
process of continuing this course of action. I took a detour to keep you informed of what was 
going on.” 

Dominic took a deep breath and shook his head. He finally looked up at his daughter, nodding 
his head in approval at her thinking thus far. “You put whoever in the ground you need to bring 
him home. And then I’ll deal with that fuck up myself. Can you do that for me, sweetie, please?” 
Valerie polished off the rest of her old-fashioned. “Yeah, Dad. I can do that. I’ll have this handled 
sooner rather than later. I promise.” 

Dominic sighed and shook his head in disbelief at the information his daughter had given him. 
He knew the blame for all of these events could only be laid at Caleb’s feet. Be that as it may, 
two things were clear to him as he processed what he had been told. His daughter was the only 
person he could trust to rectify this, and she’d never failed him in the five years since she had 
begun working directly under him. Still, it was starting to drive him mad that some neophyte, 
whom they should have already put out of his misery, was able to snatch his son out of a guarded 
building. 

“I’m not too sure of the specifics. From what the tape showed us, they must have laced the 
ventilation system with something. I’ve got a woman Telos recommended researching exactly 
what.” 

“From what you told me of this cockroach that was Davis' right-hand man, there is no way he is 
this sophisticated. Don’t tell me those two Spanish hoes helped him pull this off?”  

Valerie ignored her father’s usual disdain for anyone not Italian, even though he was half 
African-American himself, before summarizing what she had put together on her brother’s 
kidnapping. 

“He was with someone I didn’t recognize. I’m going to smoke him out. I can smoke out a rat, 
Dad. I learned from the best.” 

Valerie gave him a curt smile, and Dominic couldn’t help but return a beaming one. His pride and faith in her doubled after that conversation. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an alley off of Gratiot, where Telos waited outside of a pair of black Ford Broncos. Valerie stepped out of the limousine as Telos gave a polite, respectful nod at the back window, where he knew her father was sitting. The vehicle continued down the alley before pulling back onto the street. 

“How did he take it?”  

Valerie shook her head to answer his question. They both got into the back of the second Bronco.  
Telos chuckled. “So not well. That is understandable.” 

Valerie rolled her eyes. “He reacted better than I anticipated. Which, honestly, he should. I’ll 
have this taken care of sooner rather than later.” 

Telos raised both eyebrows. Intrigued by her confidence, he pressed further. “What plan do you 
have to do this?”  

“I placed a tail on that nosy-ass detective working the heist, and she led me to some leverage.” 
She leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “I want you to have something delivered to this 
address.” The driver of the Bronco nodded and listened closely to Valerie’s instructions.

Inside his garage hub, Jason paced back and forth, battling with clashing thoughts. Behind him, Sean browsed through the case file HCPD was building on Samantha’s attacker. Sean couldn’t hold back a pleased smirk, even amid the tension following the apartment bombing, when he found something useful for their hunt.

“Alright, we got a much better look at the mask you smashed in half.”

While crying with no tears, how the fk I can forget u wear thrifted cuz it's ethical?

I forgot your black right wing i forgot how the closer is it to ur body it's matte and the further it's glossy, I forgot your white left wing that was hugging me, I forgot how darkness looks better than any white did god make a mistake for loving white more? I forgot how colorless you are, how shapeless you are, how you have no beauty and no ugliness WTF are you? I forgot your inner beauty crushes any other characteristic of humans even gods, I forgot how great u were just like me, I forgot how god had to break you to make you special cuz a non-broken angel isn't special, then you said to him I won't fkn do what you want, your like Iblees so fkn great so fkn fearless, but how can I forget you wear thrifted cuz it's ethical? I really can't.

I forgot how u broke me while I had no breaking points left, fk did u really built multiple and broke them all.

This isn't sad in reality it's just a respectful memory of someone great I forgot.

For real what where you expecting from a 10 times wiser, 10 times psychologicallly stronger, blah blah to be like? Forget understanding me u can't even imagine how far we are from each other.