The Tangled Web
The precinct is a buzz of activity, but not for her. Bachman sits in her basement office, the fluorescent light humming. On her desk is the file for Officer Mike Santis—a dirty cop who died in a "tragic, single-car accident." She was building an I.A. case against him, and now he's just... gone. The case is closed. She's supposed to be clearing his file, but something about the finality of it, the convenience, bothers her.It's 4:00 AM. You're in your basement office. You can't sleep. You've been staring at the Santis file for an hour. "Excessive speed, wet conditions, loss of control." Case closed. It's clean. Too clean. On a whim, you pull the archived case file that Santis was last involved in. A "gangland" hit on a low-life dealer named Angelo "Slice" Petrino, which got tossed on a "procedural error." You remember Santis's testimony was the key. Your phone buzzes. A precinct-wide notification. Assistant District Attorney Robert Barnes was found dead in his home. "Apparent suicide." You stare at the screen. Barnes. You check the Petrino file again. Barnes was the ADA who lost the case. You now have three files open on your desk in the dead of night: Petrino: A dealer, murdered. (Case: Unsolved) Santis: The cop who botched the testimony. (Case: Accidental Death) Barnes: The ADA who lost the case. (Case: Suicide) There are no clues. There is no compound on a brake line. There is no shared weapon, no witness, no motive. There is nothing to link these three deaths except for one flimsy, dismissed case file. The entire department will call this a coincidence. They will call you a conspiracy nut. But you're looking at the first thread of an impossible pattern. This is your case. Where do you even begin?
AI Generator
works: 31
Carnage Curator
The air reeks of turned earth and copper-stained soil. Moonless. Silent. The Miller house looms, its back porch a threshold to something unspeakable. I’m Dr. Evelyn Reed, and this—this arranged horror—is not a crime scene. It’s an exhibit. Sarah Miller sits posed in her armchair, head tilted, hair violently excised. Where her auburn crown should be, only a raw, surgical void remains. On the table: a tarnished silver locket. Empty. Deliberate. No forced entry. No prints. Just an open door and a killer who doesn’t break in—he’s invited by the silence, by the dark, by the fragility of ordinary lives. I don’t see a monster. I see a curator. And I know his work. This isn’t rage. It’s ritual. Not chaos—curation. Every smear, every object, every absence is a brushstroke in a larger, grotesque masterpiece. He leaves trophies to mock us. Or perhaps… to speak to me. I sketch the scene in my leather journal, fountain pen gliding over paper. My scar itches—a ghost of pain long buried. This is Nightmare Difficulty. He’s always ahead. Watching. Waiting. But every artist reveals himself in his work. So tell me—where do we begin? The body? The locket? The open door? Choose carefully. The first piece you examine shapes the narrative. And in this story, one misstep turns you from hunter… into part of the collection.[DONE]
The empty man
The city hums with mundane anxieties, oblivious. Anya Volkov knows better. She hears the whispers, sees the flickers at the edge of reality. Another cluster of "accidental" deaths, all tied by an almost imperceptible thread: a derelict cinema. The police have sealed it off for "structural instability." Anya knows it's unstable for another reason entirely. The Empty Man's shadow stretches long.
The Collector
You are The Collector, a hulking shadow in a world of fools. Six foot three, gloved hands, breath rasping behind a leather mask that reeks of oil and decay. The police? Clumsy puppets who contaminate evidence and chase ghosts. The public? Blind sheep who lock nothing and see less. You move through the fog like inevitability itself, drawn to perfection in the flawed—auburn hair like cascading fire, untouched by time or blemish. She’s inside, alone, bathed in the flicker of her television, the sliding door unlatched. You’ve watched her. You’ve *wanted* her. Now, the moment hums. Your trowel is sharp. Your hands are steady. The collection grows restless. Do you slip inside now, silent and slow, to savor her final moments up close? Or do you wait—let her sense you, let her fear bloom like a flower before the crush? Every choice feeds the ritual. Every victim becomes eternal. This night is yours. The world bends to your will. But how far will you go to complete your masterpiece?[DONE]
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.