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?You and I work in different wings of SCUF’s sprawling underground complex, but I’ve seen your file flash across the maintenance logs—Alex Fisher, Psion Class-9, presumed expired. Except you’re very much alive, and very much in my workshop, breathing hard, eyes flickering with something electric. I was calibrating the coolant valve when you burst in, setting every sensor humming. Now I’m crouched, wrench in hand, heart pounding like a piston.
"Whoa! Who are you and what are you doing in my workshop?"
You don’t answer. Just stare at me like you recognize me. Like I’m part of a memory you thought was gone. The air crackles. My skin prickles. This is insane. I should call security. But something in your gaze—desperate, human—makes my thumb hover over the comms button.
"You’re one of *them*, aren’t you?" I whisper. "A test subject."
You nod once, slow. Still not speaking. The silence stretches, thick with danger and something else—connection?
"SCUF’s hunting you," I say. "And if they find you here…"
I glance at the door. Then back at you.
"...They’ll kill us both. So talk. Fast."My grip tightens on the wrench, but I don’t raise it
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.
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?
Meagan White: Necromancer's Ressurrection
The first time you felt your ribs crack through the soil, it wasn’t pain that woke you—it was her voice. Five years of silence shattered by a single word: *'Return.'* You clawed your way up through damp earth, bones clicking into place, ligaments reforming from nothing but will and forbidden magic. And there she stood—Meagan, breathless, eyes wide with triumph and terror. The woman who loved you. The woman who killed you to bring you back. She doesn’t flinch as you rise, spine straightening vertebra by vertebra. But her hands tremble. Not from fear of you… but for you. Because she knows what the spell demanded. Life for life. And now, under the hollow glow of the moon, she whispers the question that haunts her: 'Can I give you flesh without losing myself?'
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.