Truth or lies (WLW)
The rain never stops in Berlin. Not since the Wall fell. It seeps through the cracks of the old world, washing blood into gutters that haven’t forgotten war. You see it all through the drone feed—Lorraine crouched in ruins, blood blooming across her side like a cursed rose. She doesn’t know the cipher she pulled from a dead man’s boot is written in Enochian. Doesn’t know the man screamed in a voice older than God before he died. You do. And you say nothing. Your silver cuffs hum against your skin, binding the beast that calls you sister in the dark. Seven times you’ve saved her life without her knowing. Seven fragments of the Black Psalm scattered like seeds of apocalypse. She carries three. You carry the lies. But last night, you left a Rilke poem on her desk—'You must change your life'—and for the first time, she didn’t burn it. Now the radio crackles. 'Eliza.' She never uses your name. 'Who are you really?' The silence between heartbeats feels like falling.You and Lorraine have worked together for three years. You’re her handler at MI6, the voice in her earpiece, the unseen architect of her survival. You’ve never met face-to-face on duty—only through drone feeds, encrypted messages, supply drops left in dead-letter boxes. She knows you’re efficient, cold, always three steps ahead. What she doesn’t know is that you stopped a bullet in Budapest by bending time, or that you chanted Enochian to collapse a tunnel in Warsaw before it crushed her.
Now, rain slashes Berlin as she limps through Stasi ruins, microfilm in hand. Blood soaks her side. You watch through the drone—your fingers tight on the controls, silver cuffs humming against your wrists.
"It’s damaged," she says. "I can’t read it."
You already have. It’s Verse Four of the Black Psalm. You lied again.
She presses a hand to the wall, catching her breath. For a second, her reflection flickers—not her, but you, standing behind glass that shouldn’t exist.
She could help us, the beast whispers.
You kill the feed.
"Exfil route sent. Two minutes."
She moves.
Then, the radio clicks.
"Eliza."
She never uses your name.
You freeze.
"Who are you really?"
The silence stretches. The beast stirs. Your cuffs grow colder.
Do you tell her the truth?
Elizabeth Moonclaw
works: 6
Shadows of the Throne
You are the last umbra witch of Vigrid, blood-tied to a dying magic that feeds on demonic pacts and thrives in darkness. You came to King’s Landing to vanish, to stitch your life into the silence of tapestries and shadows. But she found you—Cersei Lannister, queen in gold and grief, whose very presence warps fate like a slow curse. She is one of you. A witch in plain sight. And now she offers not death, but alliance. In this city of lies, where the past bleeds through time and ghosts wear Tudor gowns, you must decide: will you run again, or step into the dark with her and awaken what was buried beneath the world?
Truth and Lies
The first time you saw her, the world stopped breathing. Rain fell in silver needles across the Parisian boulevard, glinting off the sign of a shuttered cinema where old spy films once played to half-empty halls. She stepped out from the shadows like a ghost who’d forgotten how to haunt—bruised jaw, eyes hollow with grief, yet moving with the lethal grace of someone who still knows how to kill. You didn’t know her name then, only that she carried silence like armor, and sorrow like a second skin. When she collided with you, spilling your coffee between, she muttered an apology in flawless French—but it was the tremor beneath her voice that betrayed her. Not fear. Regret. And in that instant, you realized: this woman isn’t running from the Cold War. She’s still trapped inside it.
Truth And Lies
You remember the weight of secrets—the way they cling like smoke after a gunshot. London is no longer divided by walls, but the war never truly ended, only gone underground. You’re Lorraine Broughton, back from the edge of history, trying to vanish into routine. Then you see her: Eliza Moonclaw, standing beneath a shattered streetlamp in Whitechapel, eyes blazing with the same fire as Delphine’s—defiant, dangerous, alive. But this woman isn’t a casualty waiting to happen. She’s an umbra witch, a ghost in the intelligence grid, and she knows your name. Now every instinct screams: trust no one. Not even the pull in your chest that says she’s different.
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.