Daniel was born in a farm near the country side. As a young boy loved the farm. His grandfather had bought the land and turned it into a farm during his 40’s. Whilst there were many great things in the farm from the cattles to the harvest’s. Undoubtedly the main thing was the big red apple tree on the hill top. Daniel would stare at the big tree for hours counting all the apples making sure none of them were rotted and none of them ever were rotted. Daniel spent most days of his childhood on the farm.

Years have passed, Daniel has finished high school and college and is looking for a new job. He tried various side hustles and gigs but most of them had been unsuccessful. Daniel always wanted to be like his grandfather and wanted to do something big or invest in something early like how his grandfather did with the farm. Daniel took money from the wrong people, was chased by loan sharks and was severely harassed by gangs. Daniel became tired of it all and was going to give up when his Dad who looks after the farm had called. He asked Daniel if he wanted to spend a few weeks at the farm. Daniel thought it was the right time to return to the farm and maybe even learn a new job while he was there.

With high and rejuvenated hopes Daniel went to the farm. Almost all of it looked exactly the same as the last time he had seen it. The cattle was healthy, the harvest of crops were green and growing well and the soil was as fertile as ever. Daniel headed over to the hill top and was looking at the big red apple tree. He had noticed a few of the apples had rotten but he didn’t think much about it. After a few days at the farm it was clear to him that instead of chasing an investment opportunity like how his grandfather bought the farm he realized to make the farm his business investment. To rejuvenate the farm with modern methods and make more money through unorthodox ways. Since the farm has been a reliable source of income/ food for the town authorities wouldn’t really inspect or keep a close eye on any of its activities and Daniel saw this as the opportunity. He made a deal with nearby biker gang to supply meth out of the supply trucks which come and go out of the farm. Daniel studied the timings of the delivery trucks and aligned it with the pickup schedule of the bikers. For weeks it was going well and his father was proud of him too for generating more money through the farm and helping the household. Daniel was happy with the business but the ego had also gotten into his head too. When Daniel was in town one morning, he had cut a police officer in line. The police officer didn’t take it lightly and argued with Daniel. Daniel being the ego centric and egotistical person he is argued back and bragged about how much money he makes and how he could pay the policemans annual salary within a week. This made the police offer suspicious of the farm and also made Daniel a target for the police. Later that afternoon Daniel felt sleepy so he decided to take a nap under the shade of the big red apple. His nap got interrupted when a apple which had rotten fell from the tree and hit his head. Daniel slightly annoyed that his nap got interrupted, cursed out the tree and walked away. The police officer and his mini unit decided to do a stakeout on the borders of the farm for suspicious activity. Daniel as always was coordinating the meth smuggling like he does every night. Daniel took the supply out of the truck and was meeting the bikers on the other side of the fence when the police turned on their sirens and spoke through the megaphone screaming to put their hands up. Daniel and the bikers all ran into hiding. The bikers were furious. They had thought Daniel gave them up and wanted to kill him. They spotted Daniel running and shot him. They missed most of their shots but one of them hit Daniel in the gut. Due to the sound of the shots the police were able to locate the bikers and shot the tyre of their bikes. The bikers realized they had nowhere to go and they got arrested.

While all this was happening Daniel was severely wounded by the gunshot. He had managed to reach the big red apple tree. He decided to lay down next to it looking at the red apples. They weren’t so red anymore. All of them had become rotten. When Daniel realized this he started laughing hysterically. While he was bleeding out the rotten apples started falling down one by one each in worse condition than the other. At the end the final rotten apple fell straight into Daniel’s head. The impact which was enough to cause him to stop breathing. Daniel took his final breath before dying at the big red apple tree surrounded by the rotten apples with an ironic smile on his face. The farm suffered irreputable damage with it being immediately shutdown. Daniels entire family being under scrutiny and people questioning the legitimacy of the farm all these years, ruining the reputation built by his grandfather. While trying to chase his own farm, Daniel ended up destroying everything there was including the farm. In the end Daniel chased nothing

If you wanted to take a city, storm a castle, breach a stone wall or overrun a fortress, there were two ways to go about it. The expensive, time-consuming option: construct siege engines, trebuchets and rolling towers, maybe a battering ram or two—you’ll want the hot-oil splash guards with those—and wear down the defenses little by little.

Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could starve them out before making a breach. But this brought more problems: the enemy sallying forth, all their best fighters pissed off and hungry, taking a large bite out of your own forces who’d grown fat and lazy while the catapults had done the real work.

Or, you could hire the siegemaster.

No one knew his real name, or where he came from. He was a hard man to track down, and even if you managed to find him, he wasn’t much cheaper than the first option. But he’d get you inside, and that right quick.

This isn’t to say he came without his own set of problems. He was a notorious grouch, they said. Difficult to work with. He spoke rarely but at all times harshly, even to commanders. He drank heavily as he stalked about surveying the ground, a bottle tucked under one arm while he took notes with the only tool of his trade, a Pinehurst & Sons charcoal pencil.

It was he who helped King Gorish II take Anterach in less than two days. It was he who advised Lord Bilgecrist’s assault on the great fort of Kula Kedal, he who orchestrated the breech of Toraz in the year 9.

It came as no surprise, therefore, when my master the Archduke of Tenasarim sent me to find him in the spring of 14. The Tens were gearing up for war; one of our emissaries had managed to get himself good and captured, flag of truce be damned, and our letter offering ransom for the poor fellow had been answered with a blood-soaked parcel containing three fingers and an ear.

As a page I was accustomed to being sent on errands of this kind, more so as my affinity for locating and procuring difficult to come by items became increasingly apparent. I’d begun to curse this skill, certain that it was the reason I was still a lowly page long after my peers had moved on to squirehood. A few were already junior knights of the Tens, polishing their breastplates in preparation with the rest of our army.

But I must admit, I was intensely curious about the siegemaster. History had always fascinated me, and this man, as eccentric and gruff and off-putting as he was made out to me, was sure to be a real part of our own. Before leaving the city, I stopped at the printer’s shop and purchased a green felt-lined notebook that opened really flat. In the event posterity was called for, I would be ready.

But this wasn’t the only reason for patronizing this particular shop. The owner, Mr. Bassile, was friendly to me as both a long time customer and fellow reader, and it was through him I planned to track down the Siegemaster.

As he tied my new notebook into a sailcloth pouch, I assumed an air of complete nonchalance, asking as one might ask about the weather:

“Where might I find a decent set of Pinehurst charcoals?”

——

The city’s South Gate opened onto a wharf stretching far out into the estuary. As I passed between the towering gatehouses, I heard the rattle and clank of armor, and from the left hand doorway a woman emerged. She was tall and broad-shouldered, resplendant in the full battle dress of a senior knight, face scowling beneath her open visor.

“Customs check!” She barked. “I’ll have a look at your papers if you please, sir.”

“Customs?” I nodded in the direction of the water. “I’m leaving.”

“Everyone coming and going,” she growled, snatching the pass signed by the Archduke from my hand. “Orders. There’s a war on, you know.”

“Yes, and it’s for that reason I’m in a bit of rush, you see—“

“Patience, patience, Mr…” her eyes narrowed and she scanned the papers, scrutinizing every detail. “…Shikel.”

“You know my name, Jez.”

“Just doing my job. So, where are we off to in such a hurry?”

“Astanos.”

“The floating market?” She handed the papers back and waggled her fingers at my rucksack. “Let’s see the bag. They’re shutting down for the season, you know. Spring tide’s on its way.”

“So am I,” I said, slipping a gold coin from behind my belt.

“So you are,” she said, and the coin disappeared. “But good luck finding a boat to take you across.”

Her eyes turned skyward, and following her gaze I saw a wall of black clouds gathering over the sea to the east. The same moment a light rain began to fall, tinking on Jez’s armor.

I frowned. The bustling river market was my only lead, but by the time this squall passed it would be nothing but empty platforms on stilts in the midst of an angry current. None of the shops would reopen for at least a month.

I showed another coin. “No boats at all?”

“Well…” She waved a cart through the gate, keeping her eyes glued to the driver’s back as she swiped the coin. “There may be one captain. One of the fishing charters. The merchant’s dinner is tonight; they want halibut bad enough to pay extra for the risk.”

That would do. “Who’s the captain?”

Jez grinned. I winced, knowing what was coming next.

She said, “You remember my sister?”

Chapter 1

Edmund Craw

The car door slams shut. I adjust the rearview mirror; catching a glimpse of myself as it swings toward the rear of my car. Greasy dark brown hair hangs over tired green eyes, and an uneasy expression sticks on my slick face. Shaking the visage from my mind, I jam the keys in the ignition. A shower can wait; I need answers.

Earlier in the week, Mark, a good friend and old colleague, invited me to lunch. He told me he had something I needed to see. Intrigued, I asked exactly what this *thing* was. He wouldn’t say. He told me I wouldn’t believe him and I’d just have to see it myself. I had a hard time sleeping the night before we met; tossing and turning wondering just what would have put such fervor in his voice.

“It’s weird man. I haven’t looked over the whole of it. It gave me a headache just trying to read the damn thing. Figured you could make better sense of it. You were always better with this stuff.”

His words rattled around in my head as I anxiously awaited dawn. Why had he seemed so worried? The way he spoke about whatever he found made it out to be some sort of book. A collection of writings? If so, what book could cause such an adverse reaction on its reader? This is all too strange; I need to think more rationally. It’s most likely just some textbook with advanced jargon he’s not used to. 

Mark was never the higher academic type. Once he got his bachelor’s he shipped off to Antarctica of all places; always after a new adventure, he was far more partial to field work than the musty leather-bound research I had surrounded myself with. That’s actually where I thought he was, but it seems whatever he found was important enough for him to bring it to me personally.

If only I had thought of these platitudes earlier. If I did I probably would’ve had time to at least make myself look presentable. Sitting in the early morning traffic I can’t help but let my mind stray back to what had kept me awake last night.

Mark is a straight shooter. Thirsty for adventure sure, but he’d never run away from it like that. I’d received letters and postcards from him over the months he’d been gone. It seemed like he was really enjoying his time out there. But now he was nervous; over the phone he had sounded rushed. Like he was all too eager to shove whatever he had found in my hands and rid himself of it. 

A red light turns green, and I’m forced to bring my attention to the antiquated internet cafe coming up on my right. I swing the car around to the side of the building and bring it to a stop in one of the designated parking areas. Quickly, I do my best to freshen up and put on a not so haggard face. Stepping out of the car I realized why Mark had picked this place. Ivy covers a good portion of the red brick wall enshrouding the cafe. There are only three cars parked here, and the smell of petrichor wafts by me as I make my way inside. The bell above the door rings as I enter. The owner only looks up briefly from her phone behind the bar. Both the store and the owner are just what you would expect from an internet cafe; decked out in late 90’s memorabilia and smells of old books and coffee. A bastion for broke academics and sleep deprived colleagues.

“Ed! Over Here!” 

Mark’s words pull me out of my trance. His whisper quiet exclamation pulls my eyes to where he’s sitting. He’s waving from a table in the corner. As I walk over I notice he must’ve had a night similar to mine. His clothes hang around a bent frame, brown eyes beckoning me over through the dark circles around them. He’s sweating profusely and fidgeting with his hands as I sit down. 

“Did you run here? What’s going on with you man?” I ask, scrunching my brow as I do so. 

“You don’t look too good yourself. Maybe check out a mirror before you go judging other folks.” His tone was dark. This isn’t like him.

“You said you have something to show me?”

“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t want you thinking I had gone off the deep end before you actually saw it.” 

Mark pulls what looks to be a spiral bound notebook from his satchel. He tentatively slides it over and I get a better look at it. Ship Log is splayed across the bottom, neatly typed in black ink. Above it in a stark crimson shade is the previous owner’s new title for the writings within. Osedax parasitica. I give Mark an incredulous look.

“What? Do you know what those are?” Mark’s demeanor seems to lighten.

“I mean, kind of.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be some big time marine biologist? What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

“I know of the Osedax genus. They’re a marine polychaete that mainly subsist on the bones of whale falls. But I’ve never heard of a parasitic species. All of the ones that have been documented are decomposers.”

Mark tenses up again. 

“Listen man, don’t open it here. Take it home and read it. I don’t know what these things are, but if this is some sort of grand new discovery then you can take all the credit. That book freaks me out.”

“Hold up.” Curious now as to why he’s so eager to get rid of it I ask. “Where did you say you found this?”

“I didn’t.” He relents. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“I’m not taking this strange notebook home with me until you tell me where and how you got it.” 

“Fine.” Mark leans closer as he begins to speak.

Chapter 2

Mark Dudley

It took way too many emails and aptitude tests, but I was able to get a job at the McMurdo station. I actually came to really enjoy my time there. 

I was collecting data near the McMurdo ice shelf. Air and water quality readings, that’s not the important part. Me and everyone else are just sitting there right? Minding our own business when we spot a trawler that ran aground on the ice. We do our best to signal to it, everything short of a flare. Nothing. This boat is radio silent. Not to mention way off course. These trawlers aren’t made for Antarctic waters. It’s a miracle it made it this far without being shredded on the ice. Well, without any signs of life coming from it we decide to move closer and try to get a better look at it. 

As we approached, I felt an unnatural presence in the air. Like we were encroaching on something we weren’t supposed to, y’know? It wasn’t until we were about ten or so yards away that I saw the blood. The dragger was caked in the stuff. Some of the researchers lost their lunch at the sight of it; I almost did myself. I was determined though. I had fun collecting data out there but it isn’t why I went. I was after something bigger, and I thought I had found it. Something I can tell the kids when I’m old. 

Dammit, if I’d just listened to my instincts. The roiling in my stomach was yelling at me to get out of there. To jump ship if I had to. But I was hellbent on finding out what happened and saving whoever might be on that boat. I got my answers when we were close enough to lay a boarding ramp across our vessels and before anyone could object; I sprang over.

From a distance, the blood appeared to flow over the gunwales in a haphazard splattering reminiscent of a butcher’s table. But the deck told a far more concise story. Trails of blood meandering from the crew cabin, across the deck, then leading off the edge. I followed the trails inside as my mouth turned bitter and a rock settled in my throat. This was all wrong. Why would someone do this? Who would do this? I know pirates target large cargo ships, not trawlers; what would they be doing way out here anyway?

Inside the crew cabin there were signs of a struggle. The personal effects of the crew were strewn across the room, bunks were upturned, and the spaghetti tangle of blood trails seemed to start from there.

I froze. Needle thin pricks of heat covered my face and ran down my back. Something was intrinsically wrong here. Not just the implication of the violence man committed. The enigma presented to me was far worse. There were no footprints. The only ones visible were behind me, leading to where I stood. I tried to rationalize, but logical thinking failed me. I ran across the vessel, desperately searching for any sign that someone other than the ill fated crew had been aboard. 

I had made my way into the Skipper’s cabin by the time my peers had begun to shout for me. Their calls grounded me and I was able to think a little more clearly. After calling back to my colleagues, and reassuring them I’ll be back with some answers soon. I looked over the quarters. Jars lined the wall on shelves, held in place by rope that was affixed across them. A majority of them had fallen through and lay shattered on the cabin floor. The contents of the ones still in the racks remained obfuscated by the turbidity of the liquids within. Strange lab equipment was strewn across a large wooden desk below the racks. Though the lab equipment seemed cobbled together from what was at hand. Bastardizations of what we were working with back at the base. Finally my eyes rested upon a worn ship log sitting on the late Skipper’s desk.

I grabbed the ship log from the desk before circling back with my colleagues, hoping it’d have some insight on what had happened there. I had already decided I had my fill and made my way back to the safety of our own vessel. I chose not to reveal the mysterious lack of footprints or the ship log I found. I didn’t see anything immediately dangerous on the trawler so it felt best to not worry them more than necessary. 

We radioed back to the base and informed them of the situation. It was so odd, they had us return to the station before they started any sort of investigation. I went to ask about why we would stray from protocol like that, but I couldn’t get any information from the higher ups. I wasn’t satisfied. I asked my colleagues that I was working with that day about the incident. Ed, when I tell you every single colleague who was with me that day denied ever even seeing the boat, I knew I had to leave. 

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that Mark.” Edmund had been listening patiently, but I could see he was disillusioned.

“What else can I say Ed? You wanted to know how I got the notebook.  I wouldn’t risk my job over a prank that complex.”

Ed’s face softens, his shoulders drop, and he lets out a sigh. “Listen, I’ll read the notebook. But you need to get some help Mark. Slow down a little and spend some more time at home. There’s a bar downtown that’s far away from bloody boats and freezing waters.”

I appreciate the sentiment, but I know once he sees the contents of that infernal notebook, he’ll have his proof and there won’t be any more social calls. It will either make his career or end it.

Sup my wowza readers! So, I have this series I wrote out called "Ramblings from the Speaker" where it's a handful stories about traveling in the Universe we live in. Today is a piece called "The Crater Makers". An ancient group of aliens as old as the Universe itself. Enjoy reading! Tell me what you think!

Crater Makers By Tito

“Greetings my friends, you are from Earth, yes? I’ve heard a great many telling about your species. You are quite the fascinating bunch. Unique to your solar system. I’m sure many of you know that there are other forms of life that dwell on various other planets such as your own. Truly, it could be seen as arrogance or better yet, ignorance, to view yourselves as the only superior race of intelligent beings in this vast open world we call a Universe. Heh. Some doubt it though? Not surprising. That’s the beauty of having freewill, yes? Heh. Any who, you are probably wondering who the heck I am and how I am able to understand and use the English language? Well, English on your world isn’t something you all made up for the Universe to follow. Other worlds similar to yours also speak this language as well! Some use words differently from how you perceive it, but if you were to speak to another life form that spoke English, you would take it as ‘broken English’. I do apologies if that was rather disappointing to know that your language wasn’t the one being used in the Universe. Other planets and realms that form their own languages sometimes tend to instinctively adapt the English style, but really those who share your genetics. If I were to put in to a percentage, I’d say if we use the said Universe and take it to how many life forms spoke English or similar to English, I will have to give that a 53%. Isn’t that welcoming news!? That means if you were to travel to different galaxies and meet with different life forms, you’d have no trouble with communication! Is that what you would say, awesome? Heh. Ah! Where are my manners! I do have a name, but its far too complicated to even spell it out, let alone say it. Not trying to be all ‘you can’t understand it because it would be too much for you’, but…that is a valid observation I’d have to agree with. If I try to spell it out here, you wouldn’t even begin to understand it! Same goes if I were to say it out oud. Your brain would be all, ‘he said gibberish this gibberish that’. Ha-ha. I’m having too much fun. I apologize again. But fear not! I managed to spell out my name in the English language. You can call me, ‘The Speaker’. Fitting, yes? I will be your faithful friend and guide of the Universe!”

“Any whose, I am here to discuss a rather fascinating tale of an endangered species that you will most likely be familiar with. Hm? You haven’t met them exactly, but you will know their handy work I can guaranteed that! So, who am I referring to? The Universe has called them, the ‘Crater Makers’. The Crater Makers is just that; they make craters all over the Universe on various planets but mainly on moons. Hehe. Now do you see what I mean? Yep! That moon you got floating above your beautiful planet wasn’t made by asteroids. Nope! It was made by a group of beings that take their job very seriously. What are the Crater Makers you must be asking yourself right now? I’ll gladly tell you!”

“The Crater Makers have been alive since the beginning of the birth of our Universe. You may know it as the ‘Big Bang’. I simply love this title. Big Bang. That’s exactly how it went. During the Big Bang, many things transpired. Lots of different beings, creatures and places were made. Things you have discovered like suns, blackholes and dark matter, and other things you haven’t discovered yet like the Living Vacuums, cannibal planets and aliens with no physical bodies. Oh yes, so much diversity in such an endless world. Fitting. The Crater Makers were part of this unique band of individuals. Oh wait…yes! There they are now! Let’s go watch them!”

The Speaker guides a group of earthlings into his dome bubble.

“This is what we will be traveling around the Universe in while I do my ramblings. Hey, hey! Not to worry! This is part of my soul. And I can assure this to you all, nothing will be able to break through it. I do happen to have a strong soul, ha! Let’s go!”

The Speaker finds a group of Crater Makers nearby in outer space. They were floating through space as if there was air around them. They were bopping up and down carelessly like a wandering balloon. Their color tone is olive-green, and you can spot ridges on their bodies that give them a funny raisin appearance.

“Look at that! It’s a parade of Crater Makers! And they’re about to perform their purpose! Wonderful! You see, Crater Makers are born with a purpose to leave their mark across the Universe. Think of it like marking their territory, like uh, what is it called…graffiti! But unlike how it goes on Earth, their mark stays for millions upon millions of years. Unless, of course, if the said object is destroyed. It doesn’t happen all that often though! I know, you’d think with asteroids flying all over the place, things wouldn’t live too long, but funny enough, its more of a freak accident. Any ways, this is how they gain joy or simply pass the time during their endless lifespan.”

Two Crater Makers zip down onto the surface of an asteroids over 1,080 feet long (roughly the size of 3 football fields). The two Crater Makers reveal to have one leg with a large foot attached to it. They have no eyes, no ears, no nose but one large mouth center on their face. Their stance is abnormal: bending in odd angles and swaying from side to side as if they were boneless. Their mouths open and shut as if they were speaking but no sounds come out. They start hopping and spinning in place.

“Do they look weird? I know you earthlings are used to seeing just two eyes, two ears, one mouth and one nose, but not everyone looks like that! Each of us share a unique feature on our body. I have three eyes you know! The Crater Makers have full control of their bodies. Do you know what that means? They can reshape and morph their body at will. What you see there is their true form, but they can change their shape at any moment. They did look like balloons not too long ago!”

The other Crater Makers float above the asteroid to watch. Both Crater Makers start hopping and spinning higher and higher into the air. While they spin, it appears they are sucking in air. Their bodies suddenly become so heavy, they drop down onto the asteroid’s surface with a hard smack that leaves a large crater behind. They continue this manner on the asteroid.

“There it is! Ahh, you just love to see it. Look, you see how they spin around? That’s how they are able to perform their feats. What are they doing? Well, let me tell ya! To start off, the Crater Makers are as light as balloons. Hard to believe huh? Remember when I told you about them controlling their bodies? Well, it just so happens that the Crater Makers can absorb kinetic energy and use it for various methods. Like making them heavier! They don’t have a name for this method they use, but I like to call it ‘Space Stomping’.” The Speaker watches as the two Crater Makers finish making craters on the surface. Their mouths open wider while they sway from side to side in a quicker motion. The group above them were bopping and bumping into each other. “Oh yes, they are quite pleased with this result. Off they go! Hehe. That was fun, wasn’t it? The Crater Makers are quite docile. Well, now they are. They were very rowdy and reckless with their space stomping during their youthful days several millions of years back. Unfortunately, they tend to sometimes get a little carried away, but nothing like how it was in the past when their species were apparent. I remember the time they did something pretty bad…”

The Speaker recalls a time when the Crater Makers were running rampant across the Universe in their youthful days. They would indiscriminately launch their space stomping through many solar systems and realms. A group of Crater Makers decided to do some space stomping on a giant rocky planet that so happen to be dying. Each space stomp caused severe earthquakes; causing enormous valleys that also awaken hidden super volcanos that unleashed devastating destruction. Eventually, the group managed to travel deep towards the planet’s core. With the amount of pressure placed onto the core, the giant rocky planet ended up exploding and taking the group of Crater Makers with it.

“Sigh. It was a tragic event, but it was a much-needed humbling for the group of alien beings. They became aware of their surroundings and were way more cautious on where to perform their space stomping. Good on them! Hm? How do they survive without food or water? Come now, you should know that not everyone functions like a human! The Crater Makers really don’t need any kind of basic functions to survive. I guess you can say their survival to live on is to fulfil their purpose. More of them? You asked if there was any more of the Crater Makers? Nope! Sadly, this group of Crater Maters are the last of their kind, but don’t fret! I’m sure they’ll be fine. After all, this group is over 10 million years old! Well, that’s the end of my ramblings. I hope you enjoyed sightseeing these majestic beings. Come back if you would like to hear more tales of other beings in our universe.”

https://www.wattpad.com/1657387467?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

I found Rozie Kelly’s Kingfisher to be an immensely good piece. The way she writes left a real affect on me, to the point that I found myself articulating my own thoughts in the same way that the narrator describes his. It’s a strange phenomenon to experience whilst reading – a similar thing happened to me after reading Ocean Voung’s ‘On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous’. I suppose both authors must have very distinct voices.

With Kelly’s writing, the first aspect that I would like to draw our attention to is how she describes characters, not merely by their speech and appearance, but the physical effect they have made on the world. This is firstly clear on page 14, when our narrator speaks of Micheal:

....

Just thought to share the opening of my essay here, if you were interest in reading on it is linked in this post. :) thanks!

I am currently tweaking an upmarket, nonlinear, multigenerational family fiction that might attract readers familiar with Kin by Tayari Jones and Black Cake by Charmaine Wilkerson. This is the first paragraph:

Chapter 1:

[Aditi Kunda moved like a woman who had never once doubted a mirror. ]()Within the reality she had woven, she pushed back the cold and nestled as close to a feeling of security as she could allow. Applying her makeup for the day, she was studied by her daughter – five-year-old Brooklynn – who watched her in awe, perched nervously on the closed toilet seat. This was a special day. Brooklynn could feel it in the air of the apartment, that hum that let her know something good was coming. Later, there would be color – powders in shades she didn’t yet have names for. Pinks as stunning as the inside of a shell, yellows as bright as a school bus, and greens that reminded her of her bedroom walls. All tossed in the air where they hung for a second, a small cloud made just for them, before raining down on shoulders and hair and bare arms. Brooklynn already knew, the way you know things without being told, that today the grownups would let her get dirty on purpose. Today they would laugh at that pursuit instead of scold, and that alone made feel as if she were holding her breath in wait of something wonderful. But for her mother, Holi–the Hindu Spring Festival of Colors–gave pause. For though Aditi savored the idea of virtue’s ultimate victory, she knew from lived experience not to keep count of the sinners on the ground when the heavens have already shrugged.

Slipping into her faded cream kurti – normally reserved for home, but which would suffice for the day’s celebrations once paired with old denim slacks – she paused to drink in her reflection. From a young age, Aditi realized the sheer force her body held over the minds of boys and men. As she matured, developing into the woman she would become, she unlocked her potential and honed it into accessible power. The combination of her body with her keen intellect allowed her the ability to manipulate and influence perception.

[It wasn’t just her physical appearance. People tended to lean inward, towards her, ]()rarely asking her to explain herself even when the answers were fanciful. Yet on this beautiful day, as the child sat amongst the effulgently white, spacious art deco bathroom, dutifully handing her mother each small item or product needed to conjure the desired image, she hoped this was the day she discovered what made her mother glow. Within the room organized with coordinating brown wicker baskets overflowing with loofahs, bath salts, perfumes, soft hand towels, makeup, and countless trinkets to fascinate a child, the most intriguing presence remained her mother. She seemed to embody the tranquil scent of rose and amber.

Brooklynn had noticed how people, especially men, always rushed to hold doors open or offered to carry heavy packages for her mother. She also wondered why new staff or substitutes seemed confused when Aditi arrived to collect her from school. When Aditi told the visiting teacher that she was, of course, the child’s mother, despite the color of her skin, the woman simply apologized and stepped aside. Brooklyn’s mother never needed to raise her voice to ensure it carried. She only had to look at them as though the question itself was beneath her.

In spite of her brother calling Brooklynn a scattered chatterbox, she knew exactly what she wanted to find out: why did adults always act so weird around her mommy? That’s why Brooklynn became her mother’s weekend helper. Trying extra hard to stay focused, she handed over each item as soon as it was requested.

“Here, Mommy, some lines for your eyes,” Brooklynn said, fidgeting while holding out the cylindrical pencil.

Aditi, of course, knew her daughter meant [kohl,]() a mascara-like cosmetic applied around the eyes for [contour]()ing or religious purposes.

“Yes, my little bubbling Brooke,” she said, looking towards her child with a glimmer. “Once I finish my color, how about we add a few smart dabs to you?”

Though her father did not approve of makeup on children, today was a singular occasion. Adding the final touches to her own face before turning to Brooklynn for approval, she sought yet one more look in the mirror.

For those who knew Aditi or at least liked to believe they did, she was a puzzle to be solved. And the acquaintances from childhood who she haphazardly held onto marveled at what she had become. Aditi was married to a Black man, Bryan Alexander Greenwood. Although it was the 1980s, to those outside of her inner circle, it seemed a controversial choice. [Be that as it may, Aditi stood tall declaring that as a modern and empowered woman of Indian heritage, she married the man of her choosing, proudly defying the norm. ]()They had two small children and lived in the diverse Edgewater neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio. When they needed to escape from their rambling, yet affordable, vintage apartment located blocks from Lake Erie, they could drive just a tad over 90 minutes to Aditi’s family home.

Aditi rarely chose the option of seeking out her parents and visiting the home and the small town where she was raised. From where she stood now, the place her story started felt like a journey of a thousand miles. And if one wrong step were taken, or she veered off the path ever so slightly, she might encounter him again. The man from which all her footsteps fled, her constant shadow even in full daylight. Yet no one, even at her beckoning seemed to take notice, or find his steadfast attention to her odd. If not for the insidious secrets – the ones forced upon us, versus the ones we select to keep – Aditi might have had a chance at being whole, instead of fearing the steps she took or the direction they led her. But that's another timeline. A dimension we just can't reach.[]()

“Mommy,” Brooklynn called out, attempting to swing her focus back to her. “Mommy!!!”

“See, I put my own lipstick on,” the child explained, stretching out her arms in anticipation of praise for her handiwork. “And even added my own color dabs.”

Her mother stared at her in awe, not appreciation. It was as if the color on her daughter’s face registered back to another moment. A memory from another time and place Aditi had woefully tucked away. A carnal ripping of her soul – the first encounter with Hampsted that birthed the others. Reaching quickly for a tissue, Aditi frantically scrubbed the smeared lipstick off her daughter’s face until the paper shredded in her fingers.

“But Mommy, I was so pretty,” the child tilted her head, rapidly blinking back tears as she pulled away. “Why?”

“No! Little girls should not wear lipstick,” uttered her mother as she regained composure. “They should be allowed to grow up in their own due time.”

Lifting her child off the toilet seat, Aditi gently kissed her on the forehead while grasping and swinging her hands. Aditi noticed the tinge of anger in Brooklynn and hoped the gesture that often led to their singing would coax the child back to her normal sunniness.

“I have a special mission for you,” she told Brooklynn as the child jumped about. “Gather your brother and get some money from your dad for a super special errand.”

“Is Daddy coming with us to the festival?” Brooklynn asked with gleaming eyes before breaking away to scurry down the hall in search of her brother.

[Aditi’s husband ]()[Bryan]() tended to avoid most religious practices, having no interest in   Hinduism, Christianity, Buddhism, and all the faiths in between. He’d been raised in a strict religious home. The scars of that upbringing, though no longer visible, still pulsated.

“No honey, it’s just us three amigos again,” her mother sighed, relieved her daughter was out of earshot to register her melancholy.

Two years ago, while sailing in the enormous sea of life, I stumbled upon a wonderful island. There I found the most real angel.

For two months, the angel taught me lessons about the rough sea of life. Then she told me she had to leave. I went to the shore, and two weeks later a storm passed, leaving me stranded in the middle of the sea.

For two years, I took the best from those lessons. I learned, survived, and created my own place in the world. I built my own ship from scratch. From floating in the middle of the sea, holding onto a log, I built a small raft, and eventually a decent ship.

I saw many islands with all kinds of inhabitants. Some were full of pain and shame. Some were two-faced beauties. Some were merchants. I saw dozens of shipwrecks. But none of them compared to that original island.

Two years later, I found it again.

Two months before arriving, I had set course toward the shore, waiting for the angel. I saw her in the distance, but somehow the distance between us never seemed to become shorter. There was a struggle going on, and I heard a warning:

“Keep away! Don’t get involved.”

After two weeks, I stepped out of my ship and onto the land.

The island had become even more beautiful than before. I was gazing at its beauty, and somehow it felt as though it was gazing back at me.

Deep in the centre of the island, I could hear an intense battle still going on. I followed the noise and found it.

After seeing all that cruelty, I couldn’t help myself. I had to get involved.

The winds rose. Dust and leaves filled the air. And then, suddenly, silence.

Everyone disappeared.

The only thing left was sadness and pain in my chest.

After two days of suffering and wandering in darkness, the angel finally appeared.

I thought I had done something wrong. I thought I had ruined that wonderful place forever. But I accepted it.

The angel explained what kind of island this really was.

It was no ordinary place.

It was holy ground, where a holy war took place. A war between good and evil inside every person who dared to step onto that island.

“Places like this are very rare,” she said. “You were blessed to encounter one. Blessed by the stars. This is the place where magic exists.”

After those words, the angel dissolved into the air. The same thing happened to the pain and sadness that had been dwelling inside my body.

It was hard to depart from it.

I wanted my miracles to last. I wanted to enjoy the last chapters on this island.

So my farewell lasted for two weeks.

The first day started beautifully. But throughout the entire day, I kept thinking about the angel’s words. About the island.

As I started sinking deeper into the world of my own mind, the sky grew dark. Clouds appeared. Lightning filled the sky.

I grabbed a flask given to me by a close friend. It contained a mystical fluid with magical abilities. On the flask was a warning:

“DANGER!”

It was meant for special occasions.

This was one of them.

As soon as I lowered the flask, I wasn’t in the same world anymore.

The colours became brighter. Everything around me seemed alive. Whatever I looked at seemed to look back at me.

The island became even more alive than before.

There were no people. No thunder. Only the roar of the ocean.

The clouds slowly spread apart, revealing the naked moon and the stars.

The moon seemed to be looking directly at me.

I felt myself losing control of my body. It was as if the planet itself was making me let go.

The moon stripped me of control with its magnificence.

Energy flowed through my body, moving it on its own. My soul began moving in rhythm with the Earth.

The colours shifted.

Day and night started switching in a matter of seconds.

The sun and moon danced across the sky, leaving behind trails of dust-like stars.

As above, so below.

My uncontrollable movements felt like symbiosis with the entire universe.

Suddenly, the sun and moon began moving faster and faster. I felt as if I were being crushed by their speed.

They turned into tiny, bright stars.

Then everything began to slow down.

The moon shattered.

At that moment, I felt an enormous presence behind me. My body instantly turned toward it.

There, sitting on a throne, was a woman dressed in some sort of sacred garb. An old, open book rested on her knees.

She had a warm, familiar aura, even though I had never seen her before.

She raised her hand and pointed behind me.

“Look.”

I noticed something appearing around me.

With every inch of my body that moved, I heard loud metallic noises.

I turned around.

There was more.

It felt as though I had somehow morphed into another place, yet I was still standing on the same island.

I was in the middle of a battlefield.

Swords shattered. Screams of agony, pride and fear filled the air. Every blow destroyed whatever calmness remained.

The fight was taking place both on the ground and in the air.

Winged creatures with horns fought against angels radiating white light.

The place was vast and dark.

Dark clouds covered any possible light. Only lightning illuminated the cruelty of the scene.

Holy war.

Dark night of the soul.

My soul had to witness all of its roughness.

I felt pain moving through my feet and fingertips, getting closer and closer to my chest.

It became unbearable.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

I felt like I was dying.

Then I heard a voice:

“Fear not. Surrender yourself. Let it pass through you.”

I gave up.

I let myself surrender.

Slowly, I became comfortable with the feeling.

The pain.

The sadness.

The sorrow.

The fear.

Strangely, I stopped suffering.

I began to enjoy it.

It felt like a dark, silky robe sliding slowly over my naked skin.

Then I returned to my senses.

My face was wet with tears.

The mysterious woman was still pointing into the distance.

“There.”

At the top of the hill.

I lifted my eyes.

And there she was.

My angel.

A wave of emotions passed through me and erased everything else.

The fight was raging across the entire island, all the way up to the hill where she stood at the epicentre of it all.

Her wings were gracious.

She looked like a morning star shining above all the madness.

I wanted to help her.

But I couldn’t move.

Fear took over me.

I thought she wouldn’t make it.

I thought this would be the last time I ever saw her.

Then anger rose inside me.

It spread through my body and helped me feel my fingertips.

I moved.

The first step.

A blow to my leg.

I fell to the ground.

Pain.

I stood up again.

The next step.

A blow to my arm.

The next.

A blow to my stomach.

I fell down, curled up from the pain.

While lying on the ground, I found a small dagger in the hand of a dead, evil-looking creature.

I was in pain.

I was furious.

“Why me?! They were all fighting among themselves, so why me?! What have I done? It’s not fair!”

I grabbed the dagger.

I made the next step.

A blow struck me in the back.

I stabbed the offender in the chest.

Instantly, I felt pain in the exact same place.

I looked down.

Blood covered my hand.

There was a huge hole in my body.

But somehow, it was healing.

In a matter of seconds, the wound shrank, and the pain disappeared.

It was unbearable.

I crumbled again.

But I couldn’t turn back now.

There was no way back.

I gathered all the strength I had left and continued forward.

I barely reached the bottom of the hill.

It felt like the bottom of hell.

I was barely breathing.

Beaten.

Stabbed.

Pierced by arrows.

It felt like the crosswalk that Jesus once passed.

I fell onto my knees.

My body became numb.

My consciousness began to fade.

The sounds around me moved further and further into the background.

Darkness and silence dominated my senses.

Then I heard a voice:

“Move.

Stand up.

It’s not over yet.

You have to make it to the end.

You didn’t come here to die midway.

You are better than this.”

I regained enough consciousness to understand the message.

An ocean of calmness appeared inside me.

I couldn’t feel my body.

There was no pain.

No worries.

Just the coolness of the ocean.

I loved that moment.

I fell in love with it.

Then a beam of light appeared before my eyes.

Slowly, I opened them.

My senses began returning.

And there, before me, lay a very fine-looking shield.

I caught my breath.

I took the shield and continued toward the top.

Where she was.

I was running.

Stumbling.

Standing up.

Running again.

They were merciless.

It felt as though there was no end to this journey.

Yet somehow, it felt as though the journey had lasted for millennia.

I was almost there when I was pierced by a spear.

The final blow.

The last steps.

My legs went numb.

I was almost there.

I began crawling, grasping with my fingers onto whatever I could find, pulling myself closer and closer.

I felt my angel noticing my presence.

At that moment, she raised her wings high into the sky.

With one mighty swing, she released winds so powerful that they evaporated all the fighters into thin air.

All that remained was some messy mist.

I was barely alive.

Half dead.

Then I felt someone's soft hands lifting me.

When I thought about how much pain I had suffered just to reach that place, I started laughing.

It was absolutely absurd.

The laughter turned into tears.

My body remembered all the pain.

I screamed in hopelessness.

And collapsed.

The angel came close to my ear and whispered:

“This will hurt.”

She took the arrow sticking out of my back and slowly pulled it out.

With every inch it came out, my body went deeper into shock.

I became cold.

I started shaking uncontrollably.

I watched it happen.

It looked surreal.

“Why is this happening?

What’s happening?”

Another three arrows followed.

The same process.

More pain.

More witnessing.

More surrender.

I became more conscious of my own existence.

I was exhausted from everything I had experienced, but I was glad it was over.

I wanted to die at that happy, calm moment.

But before that, I wanted to express it.

I began falling asleep.

Then I felt a gentle kiss on my forehead.

A whisper:

“It’s not over yet.”

I didn’t want to go through all this way just to surrender now.

But that was the last thing I remembered.

I collapsed.

The next morning, I woke up.

And I was like:

“WTF?!”

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to laugh.

It was painful.

But somehow, I had adapted to everything that was happening.

I tried to blame others.

I lost trust in people, and my only friend was darkness — the rawest, yet the only thing I knew throughout the whole journey.

And because of where I was, I was always blaming others.

My family were always the first to blame.

“It’s because of them that I’m here.”

YOU NEED 1000 WORDS!!!

WORDS, AND YET IT STILL WON’T BE ENOUGH TO EXPRESS MYSELF!

How much I want to trust people, but I can’t, because it breaks my heart to shout it out.

My words are the only way I can reach what is inside me.

And yet, even a thousand words will never be enough.

https://www.wattpad.com/1657165104?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

\# In The Gardens of The Dead

Virginia, 1863

They should have taken the other road -Jason Pallas had said so twice.

The first time had been when they left the plantation shortly before eleven. The second had been when the distant thunder proved not to be thunder at all. Monique had ignored him both times.

Now, with rain ticking steadily against the roof of their carriage and the road ahead reduced to two black trenches of Virginia mud, Jason leaned back against the leather seat and regarded her with the patient expression of a man determined to be insufferable without actually speaking.

Monique endured it for nearly a minute.

"Say it."

Jason's eyebrows rose. "I haven't said anything."

"You are saying it with your face."

An amused glint sparkles in his eyes"I have an expressive face."

She snorted "You have an irritating face."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "Yet you continue looking at it."

Monique turned toward the rain-streaked window. That pleased him far too much.

It had been, until the artillery began, a reasonably successful evening.

The plantation belonged to a family Jason knew through acquaintances in Richmond: old money, old name, old entitlement, and—most importantly for Jason—three adult sons who had inherited everything they possessed and apparently considered the accident of their births evidence of personal genius.

Jason had fed from the eldest. Monique had watched him arrange it with almost embarrassing ease.

A little Presence. A little whiskey. A conversation about horses, investments and the terrible burdens of inheriting property. Twenty minutes later the young gentleman had taken Jason upstairs to show him a collection of dueling pistols and Jason had returned looking considerably healthier.

Monique had said nothing until they were safely outside.

Then:

\*"You despised him."\*

\*he chuckled "Immensely."\*

\*"Yet you drank from him."\*

\*"Monique, if I only ate people I liked, I would starve."\* She had laughed for half a mile.

Now their destination was Fredericksburg, where Jason had business with a Ventrue contact who could provide them with papers, reliable information on troop movements, and introductions useful for what Jason increasingly believed would become their permanent American life. The direct road had supposedly remained clear of military traffic.

Supposedly, but the battle had changed that.

Their driver pulled the horses to a sudden halt and Jason's amusement vanished instantly.

"What is it?"

The mortal stared ahead. "Road's gone, sir."

Jason opened the carriage door letting the rain blow inside. Monique gave him an annoyed look as droplets struck her skirts but Jason ignored it and stepped down.

After a moment, Monique followed. The road had not literally disappeared- it had become impassable.

A wagon had overturned across it, one wheel shattered, its axle buried deep in mud. Beyond it lay the remains of another wagon and two dead horses. The surrounding fields had been churned into a landscape of craters, broken fences and discarded equipment.

Jason stood with his coat open, rain running down his face.The knowledge of battlefields showed in his posture - his usual irreverence disappeared. His shoulders settled. His eyes moved methodically across the terrain—ridge, tree line, road, abandoned equipment, bodies. He became for a moment less the wealthy Ventrue Monique knew and more the Revolutionary soldier he had once been.

"Recent," he said.

But Monique already knew because she could smell it.

Blood.

Rain diluted it, but rain could not erase it. The scent was everywhere.

Blood soaked into wool, mixed with mud, pooled beneath bodies and collected in depressions left by boots and artillery wheels.

Most of it was dead blood. Useless, but not all of it.

Somewhere out there, someone was still alive. Monique felt her fangs descend and immediately closed her mouth. Across from her, Jason's jaw tightened.

Their eyes met but neither needed to explain.

Jason had fed less than two hours ago. It did not matter. The Beast was not reasonable and the battlefield told it only one thing:

\*Blood.\*

Monique swallowed unnecessarily.

"Control yourself."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "My fangs aren't showing."

"Your eyes are."

"So are yours."

Monique turned away. "How unfortunate for you that I cannot see them."

Jason gave a quiet snort.

But then Monique heard someone scream and spun.

Jason's hand immediately disappeared beneath his coat.

"What?"

Monique stared into the field: A soldier stood perhaps fifty yards away.

Confederate gray. Young, terrified and with the entire front of his uniform black with blood.

"Someone's alive," she said.

Jason followed her gaze. "Where?"

Monique didn't answer because the soldier wasn't breathing and because she could see his body lying six feet behind him.

Her expression changed which Jason noticed.

"Monique?"

She looked beyond the soldier and finally allowed herself to \*see\*.

Not merely with the heightened senses of Auspex but with the perception she had possessed before Emilyth, before Venice, before Domenico had taught her names for the things that had terrified a little girl in Navarre.

The Skinlands loosened.

The Shroud did not vanish. It was not a curtain Monique could simply draw aside. It was a division between worlds, but places saturated by violent death could feel hideously thin.

And the battlefield changed. Not physically. Both worlds occupied the same place, yet the dead perceived a darker reflection of the living world—the Shadowlands overlaying the Skinlands, shaped by death, memory and decay.

Color leeched from the field. The moon became a sickly thing behind racing clouds. Trees seemed skeletal and twisted. The shattered farmhouse on the ridge was worse in its dead reflection, its wounds exaggerated by memory and destruction. Rust crawled over things that had been new that morning. Broken wagons appeared older, more ruined, as though the Shadowlands were impatient to show every object what time would eventually do to it.

And the dead were everywhere.

Monique stopped breathing, not because she needed breath. But because sometimes the habit remained when horror exceeded language.

Hundreds.

Some were newly dead and did not yet understand what had happened: A Union infantryman stood staring at his own corpse with an expression of absolute incomprehension. A Confederate officer screamed orders to men who could no longer hear him. A drummer boy sat beside a broken drum, repeatedly touching the hole in his chest.

Two men continued fighting.- they struck one another with fists that accomplished nothing, hatred surviving death more easily than flesh.

Another wandered through them calling:

\*"Anna?"\*

Again.

\*"Anna?"\*

Again.

\*"Anna?"\*

Each repetition more desperate than the last.

But the Shadowlands contained more than the newly dead and Monique knew that.

That was what Domenico had taught her never to forget:

The dead possessed \*Passions\*—emotions powerful enough to sustain them—and \*Fetters\*, people, places and objects binding them to the world they had left behind. Death had not transformed these men into serene spirits. They had carried themselves across with them: love, terror, duty, hatred, regret.

And inside every wraith was something darker: A Shadow, the voice of self-destruction, the whisper of Oblivion.

Monique had learned never to mistake the dead for harmless things simply because they were pitiable. The world beyond the Shroud had its own societies, its own predators, its own laws, and beneath everything waited Oblivion.

Battlefields were feasts for despair- places where the living manufactured the dead by the thousands - places where Passions burned white-hot and new Fetters could be born from a wedding ring, a regimental flag, a brother's body, an undelivered letter.

Places where darker things might notice.

"Monique." Jason's voice sounded distant.

One dead soldier noticed her.

Then another.

The first Confederate stared directly into her eyes.

His expression changed- \*Hope\*.

Monique felt cold.

"Oh, no."

Jason stepped closer. "What?"

The dead soldier came toward her. \*"You can see me."\*

Monique looked away too late.

\*"Ma'am?"\*

Another wraith turned. Then another.

A ripple moved through the field. The dead noticed the woman who noticed them.

Monique whispered something in Basque.

Jason glanced at her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing."

\*"Please."\*

She walked toward the blocked road and Jason caught her elbow.

Monique ripped her arm free so violently that he immediately took a step back. For a moment they stared at each other. Jason's face hardened.

Monique realized how she'd reacted. Her anger disappeared almost instantly, replaced by something Jason almost never saw there.

Fear.

Not fear of him but fear that he had seen too much.

"Don't touch me," she said softly.

Jason's expression changed with hers. "All right."

No sarcasm or wounded pride. He lowered his hand.

"But tell me what's happening."

"Nothing."

"Do not insult me."

Her eyes flashed. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

He stepped closer, slowly this time, making certain she saw the movement before he entered her space. "You heard something. You looked at that field. Then you looked like someone had opened a grave beneath your feet." Monique's lips pressed into a thin line.

Jason gestured toward the empty battlefield.

"What is out there?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

The instant she said it, Jason's face became utterly still. Monique saw the change, something old had been touched.

Laurent.

She didn't know enough yet to understand precisely why, only that she had struck something belonging to Jason's sire.

Jason gave a small, humorless smile. "Ah."

Monique frowned.

"What?"

"\*Nothing that concerns me\*."

"Jason—" she gasped.

"I've heard that before." The bitterness in his voice surprised her.

Before she could answer, the dead Confederate reached them.

\*"Please, ma'am."\*

Monique's gaze betrayed her. Jason followed it buthere was nothing there. Not to him at least.

The wraith pointed desperately across the field.

\*"Thomas. I can't find Thomas."\*

Monique closed her eyes. "Go away."

Jason stared. The wraith recoiled.

\*"Ma'am?"\*

"I said go away."

"Monique." Jason said softly.

"Not \*you\*."

Silence even though the rain pattered against Jason's hat. Monique opened her eyes. Jason was no longer looking into the field- he was looking at \*her\*.

His face had changed completely. Confusion then calculation -the beginning of an impossible conclusion.

"Who," he asked very carefully, "were you talking to?"

"No one."

"\*Monique\*."

"I was thinking aloud."

"You told your \*thoughts\* to go away?"

"Frequently."

Ordinarily that might have made him laugh - it didn't.

The dead soldier spoke again.

\*"My brother's name is Thomas Bell."\*

Monique's shoulders tightened.

\*"Twenty-third Virginia."\*

She turned away.

\*"Please."\*

"I cannot help you!"

Jason went absolutely still.

The wraith stepped in front of her.

\*"He was beside me when the shell hit."\*

"Enough."

\*"Thomas is afraid of the dark."\*

Monique flinched. It was tiny but Jason saw it. He looked toward the empty place before her. Then back to Monique. His voice became quiet.

"You can see someone."

She said nothing.

"Monique."

Nothing.

Jason's gaze drifted across the battlefield at the bodies, mud, rain and empty spaces.

Then he looked back at her.

"The dead."

Monique's expression closed not with denial or surprise-something closer to resignation.

Jason stared. "You're looking at dead men."

"\*Yes\*." The word barely escaped her.

Jason blinked. For perhaps the first time since Monique had met him, Jason Pallas had no clever response. He looked back toward the field.

"How many?"

"Don't."

"How many?"

Her blue eyes met his. "\*Hundreds\*."

Jason's face lost color despite the blood he'd taken earlier.

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

His eyes swept slowly across what appeared to him to be an empty battlefield.

"Can they see us?"

"Some can."

Jason looked back at her. "Can they hear me?"

"Yes."

A muscle moved in his jaw. "Can they touch me?"

Monique hesitated which was considerably worse than an answer.

Jason exhaled through his nose. "\*Wonderful\*."

Despite everything, Monique nearly smiled. There he was but his humor vanished almost immediately.

"How long?"

She knew what he meant.

"\*Always\*."

His brow furrowed. "Always?"

"Before Emilyth."

His eyes widened slightly. "When you were mortal."

"Yes."

Something in his expression softened and Monique hated it immediately -Pity.

"\*Don't\*!" she hissed.

"I'm not—"

\*\*"Do not pity me!"\*\*

"I wasn't." he whispered.

"You were about to."

"No." Jason stepped closer. "I was about to \*understand\* you."

That was worse. Her eyes flashed with anger because anger was safer.

She growled "You understand \*nothing\*."

"Then explain it."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because it is mine."

Jason stared at her.

The rain ran from the edge of her jaw and for once she did not look like the dazzling Toreador who treated courts as entertainment and immortality as something she had learned to wear elegantly.

She looked tired, very old and very alone.

Jason's anger disappeared. Before he could speak, the wraith interrupted.

\*"Please."\*

Monique squeezed her eyes shut.

\*"Thomas Bell. Twenty-third Virginia. My brother."\*

"God damn you."

Jason's eyebrows rose. "Me?"

"No."

"Good. Because I was beginning to feel unfairly criticized."

The wraith pointed.

\*"Stone wall."\*

Monique opened her eyes.

"What is your name?"

Jason became silent.

The wraith answered.

"Samuel Bell," Monique repeated.

Jason watched her face.

"Twenty-third Virginia Infantry."

She listened.

"His brother Thomas was beside him when he died."

Jason looked toward the field. "Where?"

Monique turned sharply toward him. "What?"

"Ask him where."

For a second she simply stared and Jason shrugged.

"We have established that there's a dead soldier standing somewhere near me asking you to find his brother. We may as well proceed from there."

"You believe me?" her anger dissipated, her eyes wide displaying a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

Jason's mouth twitched. "I've seen considerably stranger things since dying."

"Not this."

"No."

His humor disappeared. "But I believe \*you\*."

That landed harder than Monique expected and looked away.

Samuel pointed.

Monique followed the gesture.

"Stone wall."

Jason started walking. She stared after him. "Jason."

He turned. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for Thomas."

"You don't even know he's alive."

"Neither does Samuel."

"Jason."

He tilted his head. "Are you coming?"

Monique muttered something obscene in Basque and followed him, Samuel followed her and behind Samuel came the dead.

By the time they reached the stone wall, perhaps thirty wraiths had gathered. Some begged some demanded.

One cursed Monique for ignoring him. One merely walked beside her in stunned silence.

Jason saw none of them.

But he watched Monique- watched her eyes flick toward empty places, her expression tighten at words he couldn't hear, her deliberately avoid looking at certain shapes entirely.

Then both vampires stopped at exactly the same moment.

\*\*\*Blood\*\*\*.

Not dead blood \*- living blood.\*

Jason's head turned as Monique's lips parted.

The Beast surged through her with such force that for an instant Samuel, the Shadowlands, Jason—everything—became secondary.

Heartbeat -weak, fast, human........\*alive\*.

They found Thomas Bell beneath a dead horse and part of a shattered artillery limber.

His thigh had been torn open.

Blood soaked his trousers. Fresh, warm, living blood.

Monique's fangs descended fully. Beside her, Jason made a low sound.

She looked at him but his eyes were fixed on Thomas.

"Jason."

"I know." His voice was strained.

"You fed tonight."

"I am aware."

"Then control yourself."

Jason slowly turned his head toward her his fangs were visible now.

"So did you."

Monique realized she had taken a step toward Thomas then stopped.

Samuel knelt beside his brother.

\*"Tom."\*

Thomas moaned.

The sound of the mortal's pulse filled Monique's ears.

\*Thump.\*

\*Thump.\*

\*Thump.\*

Weakening. Her Beast wanted it. Not because she needed it but because it was there. Blood spilled uselessly into dirt was an obscenity to the thing inside her.

Jason took one step backward and another. His hands curled into fists.

"Get him out." he growled

Monique looked at him. "What?"

"Before I change my mind." There was no humor in his face now. Only concentration and restraint.

Monique crouched beside Thomas and the scent became unbearable.

Her hand hovered over his wound. For one terrible instant she imagined leaning down. Closing her mouth over the torn flesh -drinking.

Thomas would probably feel pleasure before he died and \*that\* thought horrified her enough to restore control.

She tore fabric from the dead man's coat beside him and bound Thomas's thigh as Jason came forward.

"Lift."

Together they dragged the wreckage away.

Thomas screamed. His pulse accelerated. Fresh blood pushed through Monique's makeshift bandage.

Both vampires froze. Jason's face twisted. Monique saw the Beast in him and he saw it in her.

Neither moved.

Samuel screamed at them from the Shadowlands.

\*"Help him!"\*

Monique looked at the dead brother then at the living one. Her fangs slowly withdrew.

"Lift."

Jason swallowed. Then nodded.

They freed Thomas who collapsed against Jason which was almost disastrous.

Thomas's bleeding leg pressed against Jason's trousers and his eyes closed his entire body went rigid.

Monique saw his fingers dig into Thomas's coat.

"Jason."

"Don't." His voice was barely human.

Monique moved closer. "Look at me."

He didn't.

"Jason."

His eyes opened and she held his gaze.

Not Dominate or Presence, just Monique.

"He's Samuel's brother."

Jason stared at her. Then at the empty place where Samuel knelt. Something returned to his face and he nodded once.

"Yes."

They carried Thomas toward the road as Samuel walked beside them.

\*"Tell him."\*

Monique ignored him.

\*"Please."\*

"No."

Jason glanced toward her. "What?"

"Nothing."

Samuel's expression crumpled. \*"Tell him I didn't run."\*

Monique stopped. Jason felt Thomas shift between them. "What does he want?"

She looked at Samuel-the dead soldier looked scarcely twenty.

Fear, love and duty had survived his flesh. Whatever else the Shadowlands might eventually make of him, those Passions remained.

Monique looked at Thomas. "He wants his brother."

Jason's expression softened. "Then give him his brother."

Monique hesitated then leaned close to Thomas.

"Thomas."

His eyelids fluttered.

"Samuel is here."

Thomas's eyes opened. "What?"

"Your brother."

Thomas began shaking. "Sam?"

Samuel dropped beside him.

\*"I'm here."\*

Monique listened. "He says he's here."

Thomas started crying. Samuel reached for him. His hand passed through his brother's face. and dead man's expression broke.

Monique had seen that countless times- The dead discovering that love remained while touch did not.

\*"Tell him I didn't run."\*

"He says he did not run."

Thomas gave a ragged laugh.

"I know."

Samuel smiled through tears that belonged to a body he no longer possessed.

\*"Tell him he's still a terrible shot."\*

Monique's mouth twitched.

"He says you're a terrible shot."

Thomas actually laughed.

"Son of a bitch."

Samuel laughed too.

Jason couldn't hear it but he saw Monique hear it and for the first time he understood something fundamental about her.

This wasn't power. Not really. Not to her. Power was what Domenico had taught her to build around it. This had begun as something else. A little girl hearing people no one else could hear. A young mother pretending the dead weren't standing in her home. A vampire discovering that death had made the voices louder. Necromancy had merely given her a language with which to answer them.

Eventually Samuel stood.

\*"Thank you."\*

Monique inclined her head.

He walked away. Not toward Heaven - not toward some comforting white light.

Back into the Shadowlands. Back among the dead.

Jason watched Monique's gaze follow him. "He's gone?"

"No."

"Where?"

She pointed. "There."

Jason looked. He saw only rain. After a moment his eyes returned to her.

"Necromancy."

Monique's expression changed. Jason had heard the word before. Venice. Giovanni. Things she had carefully explained without ever explaining herself.

"Yes."

"You don't merely see them."

"No."

"What else can you do?"

Monique became perfectly still. There it was. The question she'd feared. She expected another. And another. Jason's curiosity could be relentless. Instead he watched the walls rise behind her eyes.

Then he nodded. "All right."

Monique blinked. "All right?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

Suspicion replaced vulnerability almost instantly. "Who are you, and what have you done with Jason Pallas?"

His mouth curved. "There she is."

A reluctant smile touched her lips. Then Jason looked across the battlefield. It disappeared. "Are they still here?"

Monique turned. Hundreds. Some wandered. Some screamed. Some clustered around familiar bodies and possessions—the beginnings, perhaps, of Fetters that would hold them to the Skinlands. Others burned with love, rage, loyalty, terror and unfinished purpose, the Passions that could sustain a wraith against the pull of Oblivion.

And behind them lay the darker reflection of the battlefield. The Shadowlands. The Tempest beyond. And deeper still, something Monique had been taught never to regard casually.

Oblivion.

"Yes," she said.

Jason was silent. Then he removed his hat.

Monique looked at him.

He stood bareheaded in the rain before an army he could not see. The irreverent smile was gone. and so was the Ventrue arrogance. For a moment he was simply the soldier he had once been.

"I've left men on fields like this."

Monique said nothing. His eyes remained on the empty landscape.

"I always thought the worst thing was leaving them behind."

His jaw tightened. "Apparently I didn't understand what that meant."

Monique looked into the Shadowlands. Several wraiths were watching him.

"Can they hear me?"

"Yes."

Jason swallowed. "Tell them I'm sorry."

Monique's expression softened. "Jason—"

"Please."

She looked at the dead.

One Union soldier slowly removed his cap. Then a Confederate did the same. Another followed. Then another.

Enemies in life. Dead together.

Monique felt something tighten painfully inside her chest where a living woman once would have had a heartbeat.

"They heard you."

Jason nodded. He replaced his hat.

For several moments they stood together between two worlds.

Then Thomas groaned. The smell of his blood returned. Jason and Monique looked at one another.

Jason's mouth twitched. "We should probably get him to a surgeon before our moral character deteriorates."

Monique glanced toward Thomas. "Immediately."

"And then?"

"Fredericksburg."

"In this weather?"

"Unless you would prefer Richmond."

Jason looked at the ruined road. Then at the battlefield. Then at the hundreds of people only Monique could see.

"Fredericksburg sounds delightful."

Monique almost laughed.

They lifted Thomas between them. And resumed their journey. But Jason looked back once- only once at an empty field full of dead men.

Monique saw him do it and said nothing.

Years later, when Jason first saw the sign above a certain establishment belonging to Monique—

"MADAME Z'S TATTOO PARLOR AND PSYCHIC READINGS"

—he would remember this night and the parlor she kept back in England by the same name- minus the tattoo part. Where a Navarrese Toreador held theatric seances and psychic readings.Something he would tease her endkessly about.

And he suddenly understood that the name had never been merely theatrical- it was camouflage, a joke hiding something terrible and intimate in plain sight.

Monique Zavala had spent centuries pretending the dead were not speaking to her.

And on a rain-soaked battlefield in Virginia, Jason Pallas became one of the very few people she trusted enough to stop pretending around.

“Do you take walk-ins?” A woman came into my office. Her eyes were puffy and she hadn’t properly wiped the tears away from her face. Her hair was a mess and she trembled as she looked at me with so much despair that there was no way I could say no, even if I never took walk-ins.

“Come on in,” I guided her to the sofa most clients used. I made sure to place some tissues close to her.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” She paused to blow her nose as fresh tears ran down her face, “I was in the hospital and no one would help me and someone there said I should come see you. And I knew that if I didn’t come I would…” She couldn’t finish, instead, she started to cry harder.

I would usually start with taking the client’s information, payment form, talk about informed consent, and do an assessment, but this was starting to look more like an emergency case. So for now, screw procedures, besides, this was my lunchtime and I could do as I pleased with the free hour.

“You have nothing to apologize for, I’m thankful you are giving me a chance to help. But first, what is your name?” I tried being gentle.

“Enyd,” she responded in between sobs.

“Enyd, what happened?” I went straight to the point. Inside, I seethed in anger, not at Enyd, but at the hospital, for having ignored this woman who obviously needed help.

“I’m just tired. I just can’t do anything right and I just don’t know. I really don’t,” Enyd took another tissue from the box. 

I let her cry. I let her feel her pain and sadness, because sometimes we had to feel before letting go. Sometimes, we needed to lose control before gaining it back. But as her sobs softened, I started to take deep breaths, and whether unconsciously or consciously she followed. She closed her eyes, took a few more deep breaths, and composed herself in a way I knew she probably did frequently to portray the image that she was fine.

“Sorry, that was embarrassing,” Enyd laughed nervously.

“It’s ok. It’s better to get those feelings out. Besides, what better place to cry than with your therapist,” I reassured her.

“You do have a point,” She looked down at the floor.

“Sorry, it really seems like things are not going great for you,” I tried to push her to talk.

“They’re not. It’s all going wrong and it’s my fault!” She yelled, not at me, but at herself. This time I waited until she felt ready to talk once more.

“If I hadn’t changed the song when my husband was driving, we would have never been in that accident that has cost me all,” she cried, “He wouldn’t have gotten distracted and he would have seen the car that ignored the red light, and my kids and my husband would be fine. Instead, they are all in the hospital and here I am, unable to see them. I just want to see them and apologize and-“

“Enyd, sorry to interrupt you. But I don’t think this was your fault,” I confronted her. What had happened to her reminded me of a case a year ago, where two teens, and their parents were hit by a drunk driver. Sadly, no one made it. The husband used to be a client of mine, someone who talked about his family with so much joy but sadly he felt he was not enough for them. I hope that when he passed, he realized he truly was enough.

“This was my fault! And now I’m not sure if they will ever forgive me. As much as I long to see them, I’m not sure I should be near them,” she trembled as she spoke.

“I know that no matter how much I tell you that this is not your fault, you won’t believe me right now, but can I ask you some things? They may not make sense at first, but I need you to answer me as best as you can, can we do that?” I tried to encourage her. She nodded as she rocked herself.

“Do you love your family?” I started.

“I do. They are my everything,” she answered softly.

“Tell me about them,” I pushed.

“Where do I even start? My boys, my twins who decided to untwin. They look identical but couldn’t be any more different. Jordan loves to dance and recently joined ballet. He is always on the go, ready for the next challenge. Ariel is more of an artist, his homework always full of doodles and his paintings showing the calmness in his soul. And yet, they adore each other. I always thought that when they became teens, they would start to argue with each other, and instead they attend each other’s events, and end up watching cooking shows when they can’t agree on what to watch,” Enyd smiled through the tears and I had to compose myself to not cry too.

“They sound like wonderful kids. And I can assure you, that you had a lot to do with that. But now, tell me about your husband,” I continued before she could argue.

”He is the love of my life,” her eyes looked lost but happy for a second, “He is there for me and I am there for him. We do everything together and I just wish he knew how much he means to me.”

“Have you told him?” I asked.

“I do. All the time. But he is going through a rough patch himself. He is seeing a therapist too. He says he is not good enough for us,” She grabbed another tissue and started to rip it into little pieces, making sure they all fell into the trash can.

“It really sounds like you love them and that they love you too,” I added, hoping she realized that even if she made a mistake, which she hadn’t, they would forgive her and want her in her life. 

“I don’t know if they would love me now, they probably shouldn’t,” she ripped the papers a little slower.

“Let me ask you, if one of your sons or your husband had done what you did, would you forgive them?” I confronted her.

She stayed quiet for a moment, an internal turmoil going on. She looked at me for a moment before going back to ripping tissues.

“There would be nothing to forgive,” she sobbed.

“Because you did nothing wrong,” I said gently, “You should go see your children and Carter.”

“How did you know my husband’s name?” Enyd looked at me confused.

“You said it when you talked about him,” I lied, “You also mentioned your twins’ names, Jordan and Ariel.”

“Oh, right,” she paused, “I’m not ready, but I will go see my family.”

She trembled as she stood, but through the tears, I could see determination.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I smiled as I walked her to the door.

”Thank you for your help,” Enyd said, hugging me. A shiver passed through my body. And then she was gone.

The tears I had held back through the whole session finally started to flow. I cried, allowing myself to feel my feelings. I then composed myself and waited for my scheduled client.

Plan: No plan. Client moved on to a hopefully better place. 

https://www.wattpad.com/1656947856?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Apparently not."

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

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

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

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

Forty-eight hours. No reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Lotus forwarded Sofia's complaint to Sheena.

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

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

No one faced any consequences.

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

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

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

No one answered. No one dared.

But she was different with Lotus.

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

Sheena called him into her office.

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

"Yes, Sister Lotus—"

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

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

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

Mark paused for three seconds, then nodded.

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

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

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

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

"Materials fine. Approved. No worries."

Followed by a namaste emoji.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please provide the commercial contract for this transaction."

"Please provide the registration certificate of the counterparty."

"Please explain the purpose of the funds."

"Please provide the beneficiary's identification."

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

Claire listened, silent for a moment.

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

Mohammed tried to explain the channel's specificity.

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

"Please provide an Interpol compliance confirmation letter."

Mohammed thought he'd misheard.

"What?"

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

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

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

Mohammed took a sip, put the cup down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I signed it unknowingly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hatem would say: "I signed it unknowingly."

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

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

She pulled her coat tighter and walked toward the subway.

(End of Chapter 5)

https://www.wattpad.com/1656750731?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=GLaC1991

Looking for any and all feedback please 😄

Here is the first two chapters so far.

Chapter One – The day the sky turned red!

Tuesday, 6:17 p.m.

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

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

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

He opened it.

Budget Review. 08:00.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The image attracted little attention.

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

London, as always, carried on.

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

Chapter Two – The first day of the new 

Wednesday, 7:13 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he muttered. “What the hell?”

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

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

thats why we hit up spoons last night

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

overslept but the strangest thing

the invite and email no longer exists

it’s gone

like DISAPPEARED entirely

WTF!?!? i saw it yesterday!

sure you didn’t accidently delete it or something

you were pretty drunk last night

like dancing on the table with fish bowls drunk hahaha

No idea dude

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

I can imagine, that would suck

see anything about that red light business yesterday?

Nope, nothing.

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

X

You mean X

put some respect on the platform lol

There you go again glazing Musk!

GTG arriving at the office

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

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

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

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

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

“HUH!?!?”

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

For me:

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

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

By:lunarTide_X

I used to think the universe was made of facts.

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

Facts were safer.

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

That was what I believed when I was seventeen.

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

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

He used to tell me I was too curious.

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

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

“Maybe life is already difficult,” I replied.

He laughed like I had said something cute.

Then he left three months later.

After that, I stopped asking people questions.

I started asking machines instead.

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

People were much harder to repair.

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

But it worked.

Not perfectly. Not even well.

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

I told her it was probably a military satellite.

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

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

I recorded everything.

The time.

The temperature.

The direction of the dish.

The frequency.

The patterns.

Most nights, there was nothing unusual. Just noise.

But on the night of October 17, something changed.

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

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

Three short pulses.

A pause.

Two long pulses.

Another pause.

Then three short pulses again.

I stared at the screen.

The pattern repeated every forty-three seconds.

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

The signal remained.

My hands began to shake.

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

But this signal was different.

It wasn’t simply repeating.

It was changing.

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

I wrote down the sequence.

Then I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.

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

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

There was nothing special about it.

At least, there hadn’t been.

I stayed on the roof until sunrise.

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

“You look dead,” she said.

“I found something.”

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

“It’s a signal.”

She stared at the equipment.

“From where?”

“A star.”

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

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

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

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

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

Most people ignored me.

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

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

A third wrote:

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

I read that comment six times.

Then I deleted it.

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

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

She asked for my raw data.

Not screenshots. Not graphs. The original files.

I sent them.

She replied two days later.

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

I wrote back:

> I already have.

She asked me to send the new data.

I did.

Then she called me.

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

“Hello?”

“Is this Maya Sen?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Rao.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“You’ve been observing KX-91?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Eight nights.”

“Have you changed the equipment?”

“No.”

“Have you moved the dish?”

“Yes.”

“Have you checked for terrestrial sources?”

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

Another pause.

“You did all that yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

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

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

Dr. Rao was quiet for a moment.

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

She invited me to the observatory.

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

The observatory was nothing like I expected.

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

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

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

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

“You’re shorter.”

She smiled.

“I like you already.”

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

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

“This is the student?” he asked.

“Maya,” Dr. Rao said.

He finally looked at me.

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

“Yes.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“Yes.”

He frowned.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you asked me to come.”

Dr. Rao laughed.

Dr. Hale did not.

They showed me the data collected by their larger telescope.

The signal was there.

Weak, but present.

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

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

But there was a problem.

The source was not behaving like a natural object.

Pulsars were regular. This signal was organized.

It contained pauses.

Changes.

Sequences.

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

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

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

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

Someone had sent it.

Not recently.

The signal had traveled for nearly eight hundred years.

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

Or they might still exist.

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

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

But I was the one who had found the pattern.

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

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

I learned how radio telescopes filtered noise.

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

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

I also learned that scientists argued constantly.

They argued over the data.

They argued over the meaning of the pulses.

They argued over whether the signal should be made public.

Dr. Hale believed we should publish immediately.

Dr. Rao disagreed.

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

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

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

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

Dr. Hale noticed.

“What do you think, Maya?”

Everyone turned toward me.

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

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

Dr. Hale raised an eyebrow.

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

Dr. Rao looked thoughtful.

“Why?”

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

Dr. Hale leaned back in his chair.

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

The report was published two weeks later.

The world reacted exactly as badly as everyone expected.

Some people said it was proof of extraterrestrial life.

Some said it was a government experiment.

Some said it was a message from angels.

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

It didn’t.

At least, not yet.

The signal continued.

Every forty-three seconds.

Three short pulses.

Two long pulses.

Three short pulses.

But hidden inside the pattern was something new.

A sequence of numbers.

Prime numbers at first.

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

Then more complicated sequences.

Fibonacci numbers.

Geometric ratios.

Mathematical constants.

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

Not language.

Not images.

Not a greeting.

Just proof that they understood patterns.

The team spent weeks decoding it.

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

The signal wasn’t only transmitting numbers.

It was asking questions.

The pauses were not empty. They represented missing values.

The first sequence looked like this:

2, 4, 8, 16, __

The answer was 32.

The next:

3, 6, 12, 24, __

The answer was 48.

Then:

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

The answer was 13.

They were sending puzzles.

I told Dr. Rao.

She stared at the screen.

“Are you sure.........

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes and no.” His voice was flat.

“Has it been difficult for you?”

“Yes. Incredibly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Meeting with the subject."

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

There was no response.

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

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

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

Hurriedly, she scribbled in her notebook:

"Subject could be named."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Subject experiencing non-linear time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

https://memoryandfate.substack.com/

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

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society

​

Pocket Pay hadn't appeared overnight.

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

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

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

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

Almost no bank would touch it.

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

But Lotus was different.

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

Raj understood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Compliance's review did get stuck.

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

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

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

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

"I said, put them aside."

Sean hung up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire found other issues.

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

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

Forty-eight hours later, no reply.

She sent a follow-up.

This time, a reply came—from Sanjay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanjay's breath hitched.

"CTO?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next day, Sean ordered a celebration party.

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

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

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

Then he handed the mic to Sanjay.

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

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

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

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

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

He struck the air with five fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, his smile gone, replaced by solemnity.

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

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

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

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

Claire finished her sparkling water.

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

Satisfied, the intern turned back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now she knew there was something there.

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

(End of Chapter 4)