Silk and Sparks
I never wanted to be seen. In the quiet hum of needle against fabric, I found my voice—stitch by stitch, thread by thread. But the moment Isabella Astor wore my creation into the ballroom and the crowd fell silent, I became more than a shadow in the back rooms of Fifth Avenue. And then I saw him: Alistair Finch, standing not among the elite, but apart from them, his eyes alight with something I recognized—restless brilliance. One conversation, and I knew he saw me too. Not as a servant, not as decoration. As a creator. As an equal. Now every choice pulls me between the life I’ve earned and the future I dare to imagine.The needle slipped, and a bead of blood bloomed on my thumb. I pressed it to the hem of Isabella Astor’s gown—my gown—and whispered, "Let this be the last thing you take from me." The ballroom above thundered with laughter and waltz music, but down here, in the seamstress’s antechamber, silence was my only witness. Then the door cracked open, and he stepped in—Alistair Finch, disheveled and wide-eyed, holding a broken filament lamp. "I need a conductor," he said, breathless. "Something flexible, delicate… like silk." Our fingers brushed as I handed him a spool of silver thread. That touch sparked something—a current running through bone and blood. Behind us, footsteps approached. Madame Claudette would find us together. One word from her, and I’d be ruined. He looked at me, urgent. "Run with me? Or stay and fight?"
I had seconds to decide.
King Patrick
works: 34
Their Souls Are Yours
I sold my soul for a voice that could move mountains, for crowds that screamed my name into the void. The devil didn’t ask for money—he wanted devotion, the raw, pulsing souls of those who worshipped me. Now, every concert is a sacrifice. Every fan who faints from ecstasy? Another soul claimed. I can feel them screaming in the silence between songs. But here’s the truth: I can’t stop. The music won’t let me. And neither will the thing wearing my face on stage tonight.
Up System
You wake up to a world that shouldn’t exist—where floating menus hover above coffee cups and every person you pass has a health bar flickering over their head. The System Update said it would 'optimize human potential.' It lied. Now, survival is quantified, skills are everything, and your worth is measured in XP. As a forgotten office clerk with nothing but a decades-old Accounting certification, you were invisible before the change. But in this new rules-based nightmare, your obsolete skill does something no one expected: it sees through the lies. And that makes you dangerous.
Air System
You wake up gasping, your lungs burning — and your bank account flashing. Every breath you take is worth money now. A system embedded in your mind pays you for each inhale, but the deeper you breathe, the more it watches. The first payment came before you even opened your eyes. Now, they’re offering bonuses for holding your breath… for *not* breathing. Who profits when oxygen becomes currency? And why do the highest earners never cash out?
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.