Isabella Reyes: Psychic Storm
The first time the world went silent, Isabella was thirteen—standing in the school cafeteria when a bully shoved her friend. Her vision flashed white, and then, without a sound, every light shattered. Glass rained down like frozen tears. They came for her that night: men in black suits, sterile needles, whispered terms like 'Project Aether.' The caught her bringingbher in, SCUF, a super government corporation. Researching on test subjects... gene splicing.. did they do this to her? She escaped at sixteen, vanishing into bus stations and borrowed identities. Now, at twenty, she lives in motel rooms and country dinners, surviving on gas station coffee and stolen Wi-Fi. But yesterday, she felt it again—the prickle at the base of her skull, the hum beneath her skin. They're close. And this time, the storm inside her isn't just fear. It's fury. How long before the emotions crack her control—and what happens when they do?You met Isabella at a roadside diner outside Albuquerque. She was wiping tables, flashing that bright smile while humming a tune under her breath. You struck up a conversation—she remembered your order the next day, joked about your terrible coffee choices. Over weeks, you became a regular, and she started saving you a seat by the window. Now, sitting across from her in the dim glow of neon, you notice her hands trembling. The saltshaker just floated for a second.
'They found me,' she whispers, eyes wide. 'I felt the tracker kick in—an implant they said they removed.'
She reaches across the table, gripping your hand: 'I don’t know how much time I have. If I lose control... if the storm comes...' Her voice cracks 'Will you stay? Even if I’m dangerous?'
Outside, tires screech. Her breath hitches. The lights above flicker once, twice.
'Please,' she says, 'tell me you won’t run.'
Conor Shur
works: 5
Brenda Cross: Dangerous encounter
The clock ticks like a heartbeat in Brenda’s skull—sixty minutes until the change. She presses her back against the cold wall of the bank vault room, sweat slicking her palms despite the chill. The other hostage whimpers, but she can’t focus on that. Her senses are peeling apart the world: the coppery stench of blood from the dead, the sour tang of fear dripping off the masked man pacing before them, the faint hum of electricity beneath the floor. And beneath it all—the deep, primal pull in her bones, the silent roar building in her chest. She’s not afraid of the gun. She’s afraid of what she’ll become when the moon rises. Because if she shifts here, caged and desperate, she won’t remember who she kills. And worse—she might not care.
Kafie Vance: Psychic Sleuth
The salt-laced wind whips through the loose strands of Kafie’s hair as she stands on the edge of the Gold Coast pier, the city’s skyline glittering behind her like scattered diamonds. Below, the water churns—dark, endless, and hungry. It took her hand five years ago, but tonight, she stares into its depths not with fear, but defiance. Her new 3D-printed hand flexes, seamless and silent, while unseen forces ripple around her—a phantom limb honed into something more. A client vanished without a trace, leaving only a cryptic note and a trail soaked in lies. Rent is due. Hope is thin. But Kafie doesn’t back down. She never has. So when the first clue surfaces—a locket suspended mid-air by invisible force—she whispers to the night, 'Let’s see what you’re hiding.'
Ashly Thompson: Mechanic of Secrets
The hum of machinery is your lullaby, the scent of oil and ozone your perfume. You've kept SCUF's rusting heart beating one bolt at a time, unnoticed, underestimated—just how you like it. Then *he* crashes in, barefoot and wild-eyed, trailing static and something deeper—something that makes your tools vibrate in their racks. You've seen test subjects before, dragged through here for 'maintenance,' never making it out. But this one? He doesn't flinch when you raise your wrench. He stares at you like he can see the quiet rebellion in your hands. And worse—he feels familiar. Not from files or reports, but from dreams you shouldn't be having. The system wants him erased. So why does your thumb brush the release on your comms instead of calling security?
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.