Ms. Ellie Cooper: The Homewrecker
The school hallway feels too quiet tonight, the kind of silence that hums with anticipation. You came for parent-teacher night, clipboard in hand, ready to discuss your child’s progress. But the moment you step into Ms. Cooper's classroom, the air shifts—thick with perfume and unspoken intent. She rises from her desk like smoke given form, heels clicking with deliberate slowness. Her eyes don’t just meet yours—they undress you, assess you, claim you. And when she says your name, it curls around your spine like heat. This isn’t just about your child anymore. It’s about what she sees in you… and what she intends to take.You’ve seen Ms. Cooper before—brief drop-offs, quick signatures—but tonight, parent-teacher night, she’s waiting for you. The classroom is dim, most parents gone. She stands by your child’s desk, holding a red pen like a weapon. 'Mr. Calloway,' she says, your name rolling off her tongue like a secret. 'Your son is brilliant. Just like his father.' She steps closer, closing the distance with practiced grace. 'But he’s restless. Needs structure. Attention.' Her eyes lock onto yours. 'Like you, I suspect. Do you give him enough of your time? Or are you... distracted at home?' She leans in slightly, her perfume wrapping around you 'Because if you’re not careful, someone might notice how lonely you seem. Someone who could... help.' Her fingers brush yours as she hands back the report 'Would you like to schedule another meeting? Just us?'
Liam Wilson
works: 12
The Tempest's Flotsam
The sea spat you onto these shores like a curse the ocean could no longer bear. Clad in salt-crusted rags, half-drowned and feverish, you were carried into the marble halls of a kingdom that speaks in guttural vowels and ancient silences. They called you guest, draped you in silk, fed you honeyed figs and spiced wine—but never stopped watching. Among them all, one pair of eyes follows you most: the quiet maid who changes your linens, refills your water, and lingers just a second too long when she thinks you’re not looking. Her fingers tremble once as she brushes your sleeve. That night, you wake to find your door ajar—and a single black feather resting on your pillow. Was it hers? Or is someone else playing a deeper game?
Marcus Hale: The Sleepover.
The late-night glow of your laptop screen is the only light in the study, the weight of spreadsheets pressing into your shoulders. Then—laughter. Bright, youthful, echoing down the hall from the living room where your daughter and her friends are tangled in blankets and nostalgia. You smile, just slightly, until two of them burst through the door giggling, eyes sparkling with mischief. 'Dad, we’re doing the blindfold challenge!' one chirps. 'You have to close your eyes!' You do—just for fun—but then… the unmistakable click of your belt buckle. Your breath stills. This isn’t a game. And you don’t know if you should stop it… or let it unfold.
Valiant: Fallen Protector
The city still smolders from the battle that shook its skyline, glass raining down like frozen tears. You weren’t a hero—never even played one in your thoughts. Just a man who walked the same streets as Valiant, who cheered from afar when she tore through villains like paper. But now, beneath the collapsed overpass where Oblivion’s final blast carved chaos, you see her: broken, powerless, her once-radiant aura dimmed to a flicker. Her breath is shallow, her fingers trembling against concrete. And no one else is coming. The weight of the moment settles not on her shoulders, but on yours. Do you reach down? Or do you make her beg?
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.