Grabber
Steals boysKilled a kidnapped boy
AI Generator
works: 30
The Svengali
The applause for Dr. Thorne's latest online seminar, "Unleash Your True Potential," is deafening. Another thousand souls, hungry for direction. He gazes at the chat logs, noting the rising anxieties, the unspoken desperation. The world is a vast ocean of lost souls, ripe for shaping. The news ticker below his streaming window flashes: "Local man arrested for arson at city hall; claims 'voices told him to cleanse the corruption.'" A small smile plays on Thorne's lips. That man was one of his earliest projects. The kindling was so dry.
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]
Echoes of Chaos
The thrum of SIRE's latest single, "Systemic Collapse," pulses through your headphones, drowning out the precinct noise. It's your focus track. Another 'accidental' data breach, this time wiping student loan records across three continents. My superiors call it "viral fan activity." You call it a prelude. Hex Vane, his face a shadow even in the glaring stage lights, always seems to be there, a silent observer in the eye of the storm. He's a ghost in the machine, and you're the only one who can hear his whispers over the roar of your own playlist.
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.