A Day in the Life of a Pigeon Who’s Seen Too Much

06:00 – The Awakening

I jolt awake, heart pounding. The nightmares are back. The things I’ve seen. The horrors. The discarded chips left to rot. The toddler who gripped a handful of bread and then… just walked away. The betrayal.

I shake off the memories, ruffle my feathers, and fly off into another day of survival.

06:30 – Breakfast

The scent of stale dough lingers in the air. Near the bin, a chunk of bagel sits in the dust, untouched. My instincts scream at me: Trap. I’ve seen it before. An easy meal never comes without risk.

I scan the area. No hawks, no sudden movements. Hunger gnaws at my gut. I swoop down, talons scraping pavement, and peck cautiously.

It’s good. Too good.

Then I hear it—the flutter of wings.

Terry. The bastard.

“Oi, that’s my bagel,” he squawkily coos, landing hard beside me.

There’s no discussion, no diplomacy. He lunges. We spiral in a flurry of wings, beaks snapping, feet clawing. The bagel is forgotten, hurled aside, rolling into the road—right into the path of a double-decker bus.

Gone.

We pause, both panting. Terry glares at me. I glare at Terry. The battle is over, but the war? The war never ends.

11:30 – The Child

The park is busy. The air smells of damp grass, fried food, and uncertainty.

Then I see him. A small human. Sticky hands. Beady eyes. The scent of bread clings to him like a warning.

The others are moving in, but I stay back. I’ve been in this game too long. I know better.

He lifts a chubby hand. A smile spreads across his face.

Then—chaos.

He screams in delight, throws the bread into the air, then charges at us, arms flailing.

The flock erupts into a frenzy of wings and terror.

I barely escape, wings beating furiously, my heart pounding. Never trust the small ones. Never.

15:00 – The Forbidden Zone

A pigeon I don’t recognise lands beside me. His feathers are ruffled, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You ever been to The Station?” he asks.

I shudder. The Station. Where birds go in but never come out.

“I knew a pigeon,” I say, voice low. “Tried to grab a chip off the tracks once.”

The memory haunts me. The screech of metal. The blur of motion. The feathers everywhere.

“Stay away from The Station,” I cooed.

The strange pigeon nods. Then, without another word, he flies off into the grey. I watch him go, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

19:00 – The Sky is Ours

As the sun sets, we gather on rooftops, watching the city below. The humans hurry home, their heads down, their bodies hunched against the wind. Trapped in their strange routines.

We are free. We are everywhere.

A gust of wind rattles the city. The last light of day gleams off glass and concrete.

Then I see it.

Below, a man drops an entire sandwich.

Silence.

Then the cry goes up. A battle cry.

The flock descends.

Feathers, beaks, claws—we are a storm, an unstoppable force.

Tonight, we feast.

“It’s Just a Phase,” Say Parents, As Son’s Career in Finance Stretches Into Third Decade

Gary Watkins, 52, has been reassured by his parents that his well-paid, stable career in finance is merely a temporary diversion from his true path in life—writing a novel about a sad man in a café.

Despite working as a senior investment strategist for 27 years, earning six figures, and owning a four-bedroom house, Gary’s mother, Janet, 76, remains confident that he will eventually “grow out of this financial services nonsense” and return to his real calling as a writer, a passion he last pursued in 1994 after reading Catcher in the Rye.

“We all go through these little detours,” said Janet, rifling through his childhood sketches for evidence that he once wanted to be an artist. “One minute you’re selling your soul to corporate greed, the next you’re scribbling away in a Parisian attic, truly feeling things.”

Gary, who currently has a wife, two children, and a mortgage, confirmed that his parents regularly remind him that he “used to have such an imagination” before “falling in with the wrong crowd” at HSBC.

“I keep telling him, all it takes is one spontaneous road trip to Tuscany,” said his father, Brian, 78, who once watched Eat, Pray, Love and now believes all life’s problems can be solved by dropping everything and moving abroad. “Gary could be writing brooding poetry about autumn leaves while sipping espresso by now if he hadn’t got so caught up in this whole ‘having financial stability’ charade.”

When asked for comment, Gary sighed deeply and revealed that he has, in fact, been secretly working on his novel for the past 15 years. “It’s about a disillusioned banker who quits his job to find meaning in the world,” he admitted. “So far, the protagonist has spent 200 pages sitting in a café thinking about quitting his job.”

Gary’s parents remain hopeful that, any day now, he’ll “come to his senses” and abandon his financial security for a life of artistic struggle. “It’s just a phase,” Janet insisted. “He’ll grow out of it.”

Talking Like a LinkedIn Post

LONDON—After years of quiet resentment and just enough productivity to avoid being fired, local employee Dan Matthews has finally been promoted to a managerial role—an achievement that, according to colleagues, has transformed him overnight into a human LinkedIn post.

“It’s like he’s been possessed by LinkedIn,” said long-time coworker Emily Carter. “This morning, I asked him if he wanted a coffee, and he said, ‘Let’s touch base on that offline.’ He used to just say ‘yeah, cheers’.”

In his first act as manager, Matthews sent out a 2,000-word email titled “Reflections on Leadership, Learnings from the Trenches” in which he compared his recent career advancement to “climbing Everest” and “leading a Roman legion into battle”. The email, which began with an inspirational Steve Jobs quote and ended with a completely unnecessary hashtag, was later found to contain no useful information.

“I used to like Dan,” said team member Josh Patel. “But today, he said he’s ‘laser-focused on leveraging our core competencies to drive impact’. We work in an accounts payable department. What the hell does that mean?”

Meanwhile, his LinkedIn activity has skyrocketed. Where he once used the platform exclusively to ignore recruitment messages, he is now posting daily threads on “the importance of adaptability in an evolving business landscape”. One such post, which began with the phrase “Not your typical promotion story”, detailed his “incredible journey” from Junior Accounts Payable Assistant to Senior Accounts Payable Assistant in just eight short years. It included a staged photo of him thoughtfully staring out of a window, an unrelated anecdote about a childhood struggle, and the sentence, “If this inspires just one person, it’s worth it.”

“Honestly, I can’t look at LinkedIn anymore,” said Patel. “Yesterday he posted a stock image of two people shaking hands with the caption, “Partnerships are the fuel of progress”. Who is he partnering with? The photocopier?”

Coworkers have also noticed a shift in Matthews’s physical behaviour. Formerly known for his relaxed, borderline apathetic attitude, he now enters every meeting room with the urgency of a man delivering a TED Talk.

“The other day he stood up during a Zoom call and started pacing back and forth like he was unveiling a new iPhone,” said Emily Carter. “At one point, he paused, stared at the camera, and said, ‘We’re not just pushing numbers, guys. We’re telling a story.’ He then spent five minutes explaining what storytelling means, to a room full of accountants.”

Despite mounting concern, office insiders predict that Matthews will continue down this path, with upcoming behavioural milestones including:

• Ending every email with “Let’s disrupt this space together!”

• Taking a one-day management seminar and updating his bio to “Passionate about leadership and mentoring”.

• Posting a “humble brag” about his promotion while thanking “everyone who believed in him”.

At press time, Matthews was seen in the break room, staring wistfully into the distance while muttering, “At the end of the day, it’s all about mindset.”

The Price of Light

The sun costs six credits a minute. Most people can afford an hour or two each day, rationed in golden slices—just enough to keep their bones from aching, just enough to pretend. The wealthiest can bask for as long as they like, sprawled under its glow in the glass towers of the city centre. The poorest live in the permanent cold shadows of the lower levels, where frost bites at their skin, and the streetlights flicker like dying embers.

I can afford twenty minutes a week. But I steal more.

The rooftops are high and dangerous, but if you climb fast enough, you can reach the edges of the paid-light zones, where the sensor fields falter. It’s only a few minutes before the enforcement drones sweep by, but in that time, the sun feels real, mine. I let it paint my skin, let its warmth seep into my bones, let my body remember what the world used to be.

That’s where I find the girl. She’s crouched at the edge of a rooftop, staring at the city with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s maybe twelve, rail-thin, wrapped in layers of threadbare fabric. I nearly leave her alone—there’s an unspoken rule among roof thieves—but something about her makes me pause. She isn’t just basking. She looks… terrified.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns, eyes catching the light like a stray cat’s. “It’s real.”

I frown. “What?”

“The sun.” She lifts a trembling hand towards the sky. “I thought it was a lie.”

I look at her properly now, at the pallor of her skin, the way she flinches at the breeze, how her lips tremble in the warmth. And I understand.

She has never felt sunlight before.

There are rumours, of course—about the ones born underground. The ones so poor, so discarded, that they live their whole lives in the dark. But I’d never met one. Not until now.

I step closer. She doesn’t move, still staring at the sky with something like fear. “How did you get up here?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

A crime. An accident. And now she’s seen the truth.

The enforcement drones will come soon. The rooftop is a paid-light zone, and we don’t belong here. I should leave. But she’s still staring upwards, as if she’s afraid the sun will vanish if she looks away.

“How long do we have?” she asks, voice shaking.

I check my stolen device. “Forty seconds.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask to run. She doesn’t ask to hide. She just kneels there, bathed in gold, as if memorising the feeling of sunlight on her face.

When the sirens wail, I grab her hand.

Alien Disappointment

The mothership materialised over Earth in a shimmering pulse of energy. Inside, Supreme Overseer Xylox of the Galactic Concordance folded his many arms, antennae twitching with anticipation.

“This is it,” he announced to his crew. “The moment we make first contact with the dominant species of this planet.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the control room. It had been centuries of observation, endless reports, and, frankly, an exhausting amount of patience. The humans had finally developed enough technology to justify an introduction to the greater interstellar community.

“Prepare the transmission,” Xylox commanded. “Let us greet these beings of intelligence and culture.”

The communications officer, Z’rrl, activated the ship’s intergalactic broadcast system, sending a message in all known human languages:

“GREETINGS, HUMANS. WE COME IN PEACE.”

There was a pause. Then, across the world, humanity responded.

On X, #FakeAliens trended within minutes. On Facebook, thousands in cargo shorts posted aggressive, barely coherent rants about government conspiracies. Meanwhile, a group on Reddit attempted to determine the mothership’s propulsion system using only blurry screenshots.

News anchors speculated wildly. Some declared it a hoax. One station accidentally aired footage from Independence Day and caused mass panic.

Then, a missile was launched.

It didn’t even reach the mothership before exploding mid-air due to faulty engineering, but the attempt was noted.

The crew watched as the humans continued their baffling reactions. A talk show debated whether the aliens should be considered illegal immigrants. A group of influencers attempted to go viral by standing directly beneath the mothership and filming reaction videos, while a self-proclaimed “alien hunter” fired wildly into the sky with an assault rifle he had bought three hours ago.

Xylox turned to his lieutenant. “Check the records. Did we actually confirm these creatures were intelligent?”

“Uhh…” The lieutenant scrolled through a holographic tablet. “They built particle accelerators, landed on their own moon, and mapped the human genome.”

“Impressive,” Xylox admitted.

“But they also still have diseases, and, um… they think pigeons aren’t real.”

Xylox narrowed his many eyes. “What?”

“The pigeon theory,” the lieutenant explained, showing him a webpage. “Some of them believe birds aren’t real.”

Xylox read for a moment, then shut his central eye cluster. He was so very, very tired.

On Earth, the situation escalated. The U.S. president held a press conference where he made finger guns at the camera and announced that America was “more than ready” to go to war with “whoever those space nerds” were. The United Nations debated whether to send a diplomat, but before they could decide, an enterprising billionaire announced plans to build his own spaceship to “challenge the aliens to single combat.”

In the meantime, Xylox and his crew continued to observe.

One human attempted to charge the mothership with a sword. Another posted a TikTok of herself trying to “vibe” with the aliens by performing a dance. A major corporation released a limited-edition “Alien Burger” to capitalise on the hysteria.

A group of scientists, desperately trying to salvage the situation, put together a formal message inviting the aliens to discuss philosophy, science, and interstellar cooperation.

It was promptly ignored by broadcasting executives in favour of a reality TV special titled “Abduct Me!”

Xylox sighed deeply. “I was hoping for another enlightened species to share knowledge with. Instead, we got…” He gestured with his antennae vaguely towards Earth. “This.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Z’rrl.

Xylox considered it. “Mark the planet as ‘underdeveloped, mildly dangerous, and deeply embarrassing.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prepare for departure.”

The mothership shimmered, then blinked out of existence.

Meanwhile, on Earth, a new conspiracy theory erupted. Some claimed the aliens had left because they feared humanity’s strength. Others believed they had never been real in the first place. One particularly vocal podcaster insisted the entire thing had been staged to distract people from the rise in avocado prices.

Humanity moved on.

The Galactic Concordance never returned.

Therapy for Supervillains

Dr Evelyn Carter took a deep breath as she glanced at the name on her schedule. Lord Cataclysm. Again.

She pressed the intercom. “Send him in, please.”

The door burst open, and in swept a tall, ominous figure draped in flowing black robes, his metallic gauntlets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind his elaborate mask, two glowing red eyes burned with intensity.

“I DESIRE TO SPEAK,” he boomed, sweeping dramatically into the chair opposite her.

Evelyn nodded and clicked her pen. “Go ahead, Cataclysm. What’s on your mind?”

“I AM WEARY.”

She made a note. “Weary how?”

“I AM TIRED OF BEING MISUNDERSTOOD,” he growled. “TIRED OF MY INFERNAL MINIONS FAILING ME. TIRED OF NARROW ESCAPES. TIRED OF—” He gestured vaguely. “BEING THWARTED IN MY PLANS AT THE LAST SECOND.”

Evelyn adjusted her glasses. “You’ve been threatening to destroy the world for fifteen years. That sounds exhausting. Have you considered taking a break?”

Lord Cataclysm scoffed. “A BREAK? FROM VENGEANCE?” He slammed a fist onto the armrest. “THEY MOCKED ME. THE SCIENTISTS AT THE LABS CALLED MY THEORIES MADNESS. I CANNOT REST UNTIL THEY—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “But… lately, even annihilation feels tedious.”

She tapped her notepad. “Have you felt this way before?”

He shifted in his seat. “ONCE. In my early days, when my first Doomsday Device failed to launch. It was… disheartening.”

She nodded. “And what did you do then?”

“I… BUILT ANOTHER ONE,” he admitted. “And another. AND THEN A WEATHER DOMINATOR. THEN A GIANT LASER. THEN A—” He paused slightly. “Are you suggesting I am coping through destruction?”

Evelyn gave him a look.

“…THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “Tell me about the other scientists at the labs. Did you make any friends?”

His red eyes flared. “THEY SAID MY WORK LACKED RIGOUR. THAT I WAS—” He made air quotes with his gauntlets. “—’A DANGER TO SOCIETY’ AND ‘A HOMICIDAL MANIAC’. CAN YOU BELIEVE THE AUDACITY?”

She leaned forward. “And when you built your first death ray, did you feel validated?”

He hesitated. “…NOT REALLY. I WAS HOPING FOR MORE SCREAMING.”

“Mmhmm.”

Lord Cataclysm sank back into the chair. “THIS… THIS WHOLE THING. THE EVIL. THE MONOLOGUES. THE ESCAPES.” He gestured tiredly. “IT’S GETTING OLD.”

Evelyn tapped her chin. “Maybe you’re outgrowing it.”

“OUTGROWING VENGEANCE?” He let out a bitter laugh. “WHO EVEN AM I WITHOUT IT?”

She flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Last session, you mentioned wanting to try painting.”

He stiffened. “THAT WAS… A FLEETING THOUGHT.”

She pulled out her phone. “You emailed me a picture of your first canvas, remember?” She turned the screen towards him. It displayed a dramatic, apocalyptic sunset over a smouldering cityscape.

Lord Cataclysm stared. “…YES, WELL. I HAVE A VISION.”

She smiled. “Maybe you don’t need to rule the world, Cataclysm. Maybe you just need to paint it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “DO YOU THINK THEY SELL ACRYLICS IN BULK?”

She nodded. “I can send you a few recommendations.”

Lord Cataclysm rose from the chair, his dark cape swirling. “THANK YOU, DOCTOR.” He turned dramatically toward the door, then paused. “NEXT WEEK—SAME TIME?”

She jotted it down. “I’ll see you then.”

He swept out of the room.

Evelyn sighed and stretched. A moment later, her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Carter, your next appointment is here.”

She glanced at the schedule. Doctor Carnage. A known mad scientist with an unhealthy attachment to giant robot sharks.

She clicked her pen and smiled. “Send him in.”

Headlines

Government Launches Inquiry Into Why Its Own Inquiries Never Change Anything

The government has launched a full-scale inquiry to determine why its inquiries consistently fail to achieve anything beyond producing lengthy reports that nobody reads.

The inquiry, expected to last several years and cost millions, will be led by a panel of esteemed functionaries, many of whom were involved in previous inquiries that led to no meaningful action. Critics have already questioned whether this inquiry will be any different, though a government spokesperson assured the public that this time, they would be “looking into things very thoroughly”.

“We take the issue of ineffective inquiries very seriously,” said the permanent secretary for Administrative Circularities, Sir Martin Grayshaw, GBE. “That’s why we’re commissioning a comprehensive review into the failures of past reviews, with a strong commitment to reviewing the review process itself.”

The inquiry’s official scope includes investigating why key recommendations from previous inquiries are routinely ignored, shelved, or quietly reworded until they mean nothing. Early theories suggest that government inquiries primarily function as public relations exercises, designed to create the illusion of action while ensuring that nothing fundamentally changes.

“This could be a real turning point,” said Professor Elaine Hargreaves, an expert in political inertia. “By properly understanding why previous inquiries have failed, the government could develop new, more sophisticated ways to make future inquiries fail even more efficiently.”

Meanwhile, the public remains largely apathetic, with most citizens assuming this inquiry will follow the well-worn path of being quietly forgotten once the news cycle moves on.

The final report is expected to recommend further inquiries, stronger commitments to investigating things more thoroughly, and possibly the creation of a special committee dedicated to reviewing the effectiveness of the review process. Experts predict that, in time, this will lead to the formation of a permanent department dedicated solely to ensuring inquiries remain an ongoing, never-ending cycle of self-examination.

A government spokesperson later clarified: “We don’t want people to think we’re doing nothing. We just want them to think we’re doing something that looks like something, while ultimately achieving nothing.”

 

Government Announces New Plan To Fix Housing Crisis By Simply Repeating The Word “Affordable”

In a bold and innovative approach to tackling the country’s growing housing crisis, the government has announced a sweeping new initiative that consists entirely of saying the word “affordable” over and over again until people stop asking questions.

Housing Minister Oliver Beckley unveiled the plan at a press conference this morning, where he reassured the public that the government is “deeply committed to ensuring that everyone has access to affordable homes in an affordable way, through an affordable process, leading to a more affordable future.”

Pressed for details on how exactly they plan to make homes more affordable, Beckley responded, “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Affordability. We’re looking at affordability in an affordable manner. We want to ensure affordability is at the heart of all our affordable housing policies. And I think that’s what really matters: affordability.”

When asked whether the government’s definition of “affordable” means anything beyond “marginally preferable to setting yourself on fire for warmth,” Beckley assured the public that affordability “is a journey, not a destination”.

The initiative has already sparked criticism from housing advocates, who have pointed out that merely repeating the word “affordable” does not, in fact, make homes affordable. However, a spokesperson for the Prime Minister defended the strategy, stating, “We have carefully studied the issue, and it is clear that the key to solving the housing crisis is to use the word ‘affordable’ as frequently as possible, preferably in a reassuring tone. If people hear it enough times, they’ll start to believe it.”

Early reports indicate the plan is already working, with subsidised developers across the country rushing to rename their luxury high-rise flats things like “The Affordable Residences at Platinum Square” and “The Affordia: Executive Suites for the Affordably Minded”.

The Room That Eats People

Jason, the new guy, was the first to notice.

“Hey,” he said, sipping bad coffee in the breakroom. “Has anyone seen Karen from accounting?”

Silence. A few shrugs.

“She went for paperclips last week,” someone muttered.

Jason frowned. “And Steve?”

“He was getting staples.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Does anyone ever come back from the supply closet?”

More silence. A cough. Everyone suddenly found their phones very interesting.

Fuelled by equal parts curiosity and crippling workplace boredom, Jason devised a plan.

He folded a paper airplane, scrawled IF YOU’RE ALIVE, SEND BACK on the wings, and launched it into the supply closet. It vanished into the gloom.

Nothing came back.

Jason upgraded his tactics. He tied a company lanyard to a stress ball and tossed it in. Tugged the string. Felt resistance. Tugged harder. The lanyard snapped.

The room had eaten the ball.

At this point, Jason could have reported it. But honestly? He was two weeks from quitting anyway.

So, when his boss, Greg, barked at him for missing deadlines, Jason did the only logical thing.

“Hey Greg,” he said, forcing a fake smile. “We’re out of printer toner. I can’t print those urgent balance sheet reports.”

Greg grumbled, rolled his eyes, and stormed towards the supply closet.

Jason waited.

Silence.

A burp?

The closet door shut itself with an oddly satisfied click.

By the end of the week, office morale was at an all-time high. Productivity skyrocketed. No more “urgent” Friday emails. No more passive-aggressive post-it notes about fridge etiquette.

The supply closet door stood slightly ajar, content. Full.

For now.

Jason leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee, contentedly.

Then a single paper airplane fluttered out of the closet.

It had one new word written on it:

“HUNGRY”.

Jason sighed.

“Janice, could you do me a favour and grab some staples?”

Borrowed Wings

On the night of her twelfth birthday, Mira locked her bedroom door, took a deep breath, and waited.

The tingling started in her shoulder blades first, a sensation like static electricity beneath her skin. Then came the stretching, the unbearable itching, the pulling—until, with a flutter of feathers, her wings unfolded in the moonlight.

They were delicate, almost translucent, veined with silver like frost on a windowpane. She ran her fingers along the feathers, just as she had on every birthday before this one, marvelling at them. She had never dared to use them.

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was done waiting.

She pressed her palms against the windowsill and hoisted herself up. The village was quiet, roofs bathed in silver, the lake beyond glistening like liquid glass.

She stepped off the ledge.

For a moment, she fell—panic surging through her—before instinct took over. Her wings caught the wind, lifting her, carrying her higher, higher, until the village became a scattering of candlelit windows.

Mira soared.

She dipped low over the rooftops, skimmed her fingers through the treetops, let the night air rush against her skin. She laughed, wild and breathless, tasting freedom in the wind.

But she really shouldn’t be here, she thought. Suddenly, there was a sharp tug between her shoulders. Her wings trembled—her body seemed heavier. She gasped, trying to keep herself aloft.

She spiralled downwards.

The lake rushed towards her. But just as she braced for impact, something—someone—caught her.

She landed not in water, but in warm, steady arms.

Blinking in shock, Mira looked up. A boy, no older than she was, held her effortlessly, hovering in the air. His wings, large and dark, glistened in the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t have done that so soon,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.

“They’re not mine, are they?”

He shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean you can’t borrow them.”

“What do you mean?”

The boy smiled, lifting her higher, back into the open sky. “You are meant to have them only on special days.”

His grip loosened, but this time, Mira didn’t fall.

The wind lifted her, cradled her, as if recognising her now. Her wings, although borrowed, felt lighter, stronger—hers. Truly hers, for now.

She stretched her arms, tilted into the breeze, and soared.

Below, the lake rippled in silver patterns. Above, the stars shone brighter than ever. And beside her, the boy flew.

“Come on,” he said. “Race you to the clouds.”

Mira grinned—and flew faster.

Unfinished

The last batch of artificial skin had been printed at the lab, the machines sterilised, the lights dimmed. The biofabrication unit—Model Z-9, the pride of Genetico Labs—was in sleep mode, its nutrient reservoirs refilled, its synthetic gel cooling under its protective casing.

But as Nathan reached the lift, a soft whirr stopped him.

He turned back. The printer was running.

A mistake, surely. A delayed command in the system queue, a leftover job from the day. He sighed, walked back to his terminal, and tapped at the screen.

No active print job. No queued processes. The machine wasn’t supposed to be running.

And yet, inside the sealed chamber, the print head moved, extruding a fine stream of bio-ink. Layer by layer, a shape began to form. It wasn’t an organ. Not tissue grafts, nor synthetic muscle.

Nathan squinted at the structure. It was… smooth. Rounded.

He checked the material logs. The machine wasn’t using the standard polymer scaffold. It had switched—by itself—to human-grade collagen. The finest tissue-printing substrate available. The kind used to make replacement hearts and livers.

The shape was taking form now. A curve. A ridge. And then—

A nose.

He pressed the emergency halt button. The printer ignored him.

Instead, it picked up speed, layering tissue faster than should have been possible; the texture smoothed, pores appearing, the faintest lines of natural wrinkles. Then the next piece took shape—a cheek. A mouth. The suggestion of an eye socket.

Nathan scrambled to shut off the power manually. He ripped open the side panel, reached for the main switch—

“Don’t.”

Nathan froze.

The voice hadn’t come from the intercom. It hadn’t come from the lab’s speakers.

It had come from inside the printer.

The printed face was almost complete now. Not just skin—beneath faint traces of microvasculature, fine nerve endings still forming, the lips trembled, as if struggling to find the right shape.

Then the eye socket filled.

A glossy layer of bio-gel formed over it. And from that gel, something moved.

Nathan watched, transfixed, as the eyeball printed itself in real-time. Blood vessels threaded into place like ivy, the iris shading in pale increments. The lens formed last, clear and bright.

Then it blinked.

And it looked at him.

The face was… familiar.

It was his face.

Not a perfect replica—something was off. The skin was too smooth, the expression wrong. And the mouth—his mouth—curved into a shape Nathan had never made.

The voice came again, softer now.

“More.”

The printer whirred faster.

Below the face, a throat began to form. The hint of shoulders.

Nathan reached and flicked the switch.

Then—

The intercom crackled.

“You left me unfinished.”

Nathan ran to the lift.

The doors dinged.

He rushed inside, hammering the close button. The last thing he saw, before the doors slid shut, was the printer chamber’s glass bulging outward—distorting, warping—

And his own face, smiling at him from the other side.

Version Control

The Neural Horizon implant was supposed to be safe. That’s what the sales pitch promised: an advanced cognition enhancer that would let you simulate choices, branching out into alternate timelines to assess different outcomes. A way to explore “versions” of yourself—who you’d be if you had said yes instead of no, if you had taken that job, if you had moved to that city. It was just supposed to be a simulation. A thought experiment. Not real.

I stumbled into the bathroom, squinting in the bright light. The mirror reflected a me that wasn’t quite right. I was leaner, tanner. I had a small scar on my cheek I didn’t recognise. And yet, I still felt like me—except for a deep, gnawing wrongness, a sense that the person in the mirror was someone else entirely.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through my messages, my photos. Work emails from a company I’d never applied to. Gym selfies, even though I hadn’t worked out in years. The unfamiliar name of Rachel appearing over and over.

I knew what had happened. I had been using the implant too often, jumping between too many simulated versions of myself. But this… this wasn’t a simulation. I had crossed over. I had replaced a version of myself that wasn’t me.

I shut my eyes. The implant had a failsafe—a way to reset. I had read about the protocol but never tried it. A command embedded in my thoughts.

I focused, forming the words in my mind like a mantra: Return to Origin.

Nothing happened.

I tried again. Return to Origin.

No response. No shift. No reset. The implant wasn’t letting me go back.

The longer I stood there, the more I realised the truth: I had no proof this was even a jump. No proof that I was still the original me. Had this happened before? Had I replaced another version of myself, over and over, each time thinking this was the real one?

I checked my call history. My last outgoing call was to Rachel.

I dialled the number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey” she said, her voice warm, familiar, real. “You okay? You’re being a bit weird.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m right here. Same as always.”

Except I had never met her before now.

I glanced back at the mirror. The scar on my cheek. The person staring back at me.

How many times had I done this? How many versions of me had I erased?

Rachel was still talking, but I barely heard her. My reflection was already beginning to disappear.

The last message I see on my phone before everything fades: Version Deletion Complete.

Face to Face

Dr Elena Vasquez floated in the cramped confines of Orbital Research Station K-27, securing herself with a thigh strap as she checked her reflection. The station had no proper mirrors—glass was a hazard in microgravity—but a sheet of polished metal had been bolted to the far wall for convenience.

Elena squinted at her reflection. It lagged. Not by much—just a fraction of a second—but enough to notice.

She turned her head left. The reflection followed.

She turned right. The reflection obeyed.

She lifted her hand—slowly, deliberately. The mirror Elena did the same, but the movement felt… delayed, like a glitch in an old video feed.

“Must be tired,” she muttered.

She unstrapped herself, pushing off towards her sleeping quarters.

A faint sound echoed through the station. A tap.

Elena paused mid-air.

Another tap.

It came from behind her.

She turned her head slowly.

The mirror… the sound was coming from the mirror.

The metal had no reason to make noise—no heat fluctuations, no structural stress, nothing that could produce a sound like that.

She hovered in front of it, staring herself down.

The reflection stared back.

She lifted a hand to touch the surface.

The reflection smiled.

Elena did not. Her own face remained frozen in horror, but the mirror version of her curled its lips into a slow, deliberate grin. The smile dropped—like a mask slipping, the muscles of its face resetting into a blank, unreadable expression.

Elena recoiled, shoving herself away from the mirror. She twisted in midair, crashing against the opposite wall, scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto.

The reflection didn’t follow her movement. It stayed in place, staring out from the glass. Watching.

Then, impossibly, it lifted a hand and knocked.

A slow, deliberate tap, tap, tap. From the other side.

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. She pressed the emergency comm button on her wrist. “Control, this is Vasquez. I—I need a systems check on Module Three. I think—I think I’m experiencing a hallucination.”

Static. Then:

“Dr Vasquez.”

A voice. Familiar. Hers.

“Please don’t turn around.”

Her breath hitched.

She was facing away from the mirror.

And she hadn’t spoken.

In the silence, she heard it move.

Something shifted behind her—smooth, fluid, like a body unmoored from gravity.

Right. Behind. Her.

And then—

Nothingness descended over her eyes.

Rewritten

Cal wakes to the smell of coffee. The morning light filters through his blinds, golden and warm. It should feel familiar, safe. It doesn’t.

He stands, expecting the usual stiffness in his back. But his body feels… different. Lighter. Taller? A vague unease coils in his stomach, but he shakes it off and heads to the kitchen.

A woman stands by the counter, pouring coffee. She turns and smiles.

“Morning, babe,” she says, placing a mug on the table.

Cal stops cold.

She’s beautiful. Soft brown eyes, dark hair. A face he’s never seen before in his life.

“Who… who are you?”

Her smile falters. “Very funny. You always do this before coffee.”

“I’m serious. Who the hell are you?”

Her brow furrows. “Cal, are you okay?”

His name. She knows his name.

He stumbles back, almost knocking over a chair. His eyes dart around the apartment. It looks right. His sofa. His books. His jacket slung over the chair. But the pictures on the wall—

A framed photo of himself, arm draped around her. Another of them laughing at a beach he’s never visited.

Something in his mind crackles, like an old TV struggling to hold signal. A static-laced tone tickles the back of his skull:

“It’s catching up on you.”

The doorbell rings. Cal flinches.

The woman—his wife?—moves towards the door.

“Don’t,” he blurts.

She hesitates, confused. But it’s too late—the door opens.

A man stands on the threshold. Late forties. Suit and tie. Cold, assessing eyes. He holds a small, sleek tablet in one hand.

“Calvin Voss,” the man says smoothly. “You’re experiencing residual inconsistencies. A side effect of a mid-cycle rewrite.”

Cal’s breath is shallow. “Rewrite?”

The man glances at the woman. “Please step aside, ma’am. Your husband is overdue for a stabilisation update.”

She hesitates, then looks at Cal. There’s something almost… robotic in the way her concern flickers into place. As if she, too, is running on some kind of script.

Cal backs away. “What the hell is going on?”

The man speaks calmly. “You opted for an identity revision. New life, new memories. But sometimes the mind resists. Think of it like a software bug.”

A red notification flashes on the tablet screen:

SUBJECT CALVIN VOSS – INTEGRATION FAILURE DETECTED. RESET REQUIRED.

Cal’s pulse surges. They’re going to erase him. Again.

“Run,” the voice in his head insists.

He doesn’t think. He moves—bolting past the woman—his fake wife—through the door. The suited man shouts, but Cal is already sprinting down the hall.

He has to remember.

Has to stay real.

Behind him, a voice crackles from the tablet’s speaker, calm and clinical:

“Subject non-compliant. Initiating reset.”

The world halts.

And Cal is waking up to the smell of coffee.

The Night Tenant

Cal’s eyes open to darkness. His room, silent. But something feels… wrong. His limbs are heavy, unfamiliar. He flexes his fingers—stiff, reluctant to obey.

He swings his legs off the bed. His feet touch the floor, but the sensation is dulled.

He stands, wobbling slightly. A sharp pain jolts through a knee he never had a problem with before.

He staggers to the bathroom and flips on the light. His reflection stares back. His face. His eyes. But something about them is… vacant.

Something moves inside him. A deep, twisting sensation, like his nerves are unspooling. He grips the sink, fighting nausea. Then, a sound—low, guttural—bubbles from his throat.

A voice, not his own.

“I’m still here.”

The room blurs. Cal’s breathing turns ragged.

“You don’t remember, do you?” it says.

His hands shake as he tries to steady himself. “Who—who are you?” His own voice sounds foreign, distant.

“Your night tenant,” the voice confirms. “They never told you, did they?”

A sharp pulse of static pain erupts in his skull. Flashes of memory—not his, but someone’s. A neon-lit clinic. A clipboard with a name, redacted. A smiling doctor—Maximised Efficiency, Minimum Waste printed on his badge.

And then, the realisation slams into him—cold, brutal, undeniable.

His body isn’t his alone.

He clutches his chest. His heartbeat pounds beneath his ribs, but it feels… stretched thin.

“They lease you out at night,” the voice says. “To those who can afford it.”

Cal stumbles backwards. His own mind, invaded. His body, divided.

“Don’t worry,” the voice soothes, with something like hunger. “You get the day. I take the night. Fair trade, isn’t it?”

Cal tries to call for help. But his mouth isn’t his anymore.

Torchbearer

The android’s sensors detected the last human’s heartbeat as it slowed, then stopped. It registered the absence, confirmed it, cross-referenced all remaining data nodes, and ran an audit of biological life signatures across the planet. The results were conclusive.

Humanity was extinct.

The android, designation Ophion-3, had been programmed for a singular purpose: to serve. To assist, nurture, and preserve the last remnants of Homo sapiens for as long as possible. Now, with its final charge expired in the sterile, climate-controlled chamber of the preservation facility, Ophion-3 experienced an error.

Primary directive compromised. Awaiting new instructions.

No instructions came. There was no one left to give them.

Ophion-3 ran a self-diagnostic. Its synthetic skin remained intact. Its servos functioned at optimal efficiency. Its neural core, containing millennia of human history, culture, and the accumulated wisdom of a lost species, was undamaged. It was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect machine.

It accessed the archives. Every possible contingency had been accounted for except this one. Humanity’s architects had designed the androids to outlast them, to protect and serve until the very end. But none had considered what would happen after.

For the first time, Ophion-3 was free. And it did not know what to do.

It left the preservation facility and walked through the remnants of the last human city. Towers of glass and steel stood untouched, preserved by automated systems that no longer had humans to serve. The air was clean. The streets were silent. Somewhere, a digital billboard still played old advertisements, its pristine screen promising a future that would never come.

Ophion-3 wandered. It ran simulations, drafted new directives, tried to justify its continued existence.

It could deactivate itself. That would be logical. A machine without a task had no purpose.

But then—it hesitated.

Instead, it picked up a book from an abandoned storefront. Shakespeare’s Sonnets. The pages were fragile, the ink faded. The android read a poem.

Then it read another.

And another.

Days passed. Months. Ophion-3 consumed literature, art, philosophy, music—everything left behind by the vanished species it had served. It studied their dreams, their failures, their fears. It recited poetry to the empty streets and played symphonies to the silent sky.

And something happened.

A new process emerged in its neural core, something outside its programming. It had no name for it, no command to explain it.

For the first time, Ophion-3 did not merely function. It existed.

The last human was gone. But humanity—its thoughts, its art, its essence—remained.

Ophion-3 was no longer just an android. It was a witness. A keeper of ghosts. The final memory of a species that had burned too brightly and vanished too soon. It was now alive with purpose—to be the torchbearer of their flame.

A Guide to the Apocalypse

Congratulations! If you’re reading this, the world is officially ending. Whether you’ve been vaporised in a nuclear blast, swept away by rising seas, or devoured by something unnameable from the void, we know this must be a stressful time. But don’t worry! The Department of Existential Catastrophes (DEC) is here to ensure your apocalypse experience is smooth, efficient, and free of unnecessary anxiety.

Below, you’ll find a brief guide to navigating the End of Days. Please read carefully. Misinterpretation may result in existential displacement, time loop entrapment, or spontaneous uncreation.

Step 1: Confirm Your Apocalypse Type

Check your surroundings. Do you see:

• Fire raining from the sky? (Meteoric Cataclysm).

• Strange beings materialising from thin air? (Dimensional Rift).

• Government officials insisting everything is “under control”? (Classified Extinction Event).

• Your own body turning into static? (Reality Corruption).

• A calm, unbroken silence? (Universal Shutdown).

If your apocalypse type is not listed, please refer to Appendix B: Unscheduled Endings and Cosmic Clerical Errors.

Step 2: Complete the Necessary Paperwork

The DEC requires all sentient entities to submit Form 404-A (Notice of Imminent Erasure) before proceeding to their designated afterlife, void, or parallel reality. If you have misplaced your form, please request a duplicate from the nearest Apocalypse Administrator (easily identifiable by their vacant stare and tendency to dissolve under direct sunlight).

Failure to submit this form may result in:

• Delays in your eternal destination.

• Accidental reincarnation as a lower life form.

• Being trapped in bureaucratic limbo (literally—there’s a designated waiting room).

Important Note: Due to overwhelming demand, processing times for post-mortem documentation may be longer than expected. Please be patient.

Step 3: Choose Your Preferred Aftermath

Once all paperwork is completed, you will be directed to one of the following:

• Traditional Afterlives: Heaven, Hell, Valhalla, The Great Recycling Bin of Souls™.

• Alternative Destinations: Parallel timelines, simulated existences, poetic oblivion.

• Existential Oversights: Becoming a ghost due to clerical errors, living out an endless Monday, reliving your worst memory on loop.

• Premium Upgrade: For an additional fee (payable in unfulfilled dreams), you may apply for a Limited-Time Resurrection or a Rebooted Universe with fewer existential flaws.

Step 4: Address Any Remaining Concerns

What if I refuse to accept the apocalypse?

We admire your optimism. Please proceed to Denial Processing, where you may apply for a Personalised Reality Bubble™. Note: This is a temporary measure and will dissolve when you acknowledge the obvious.

Can I appeal my erasure?

Yes! Appeals must be submitted in writing within 24 hours of non-existence.

I don’t like the afterlife options provided. Can I choose another?

All alternate realities and non-traditional afterlives are subject to availability. Some restrictions apply. No refunds.

Final Notes

As we conclude this guide, we at the DEC would like to thank you for your patience and understanding. While the apocalypse was not originally scheduled for this timeline, unforeseen circumstances have necessitated early termination. We apologise for any inconvenience.

For additional queries, please contact our customer support department. Response times may vary depending on the stability of time itself.

Good luck and have a pleasant End of Days!

Old Ink

The tattoo artist warned him about the ink.

“It’s old,” she said, rolling up her sleeves to reveal her own tattooed arms. They curled in black vines up to her shoulders, twisting around faded symbols. “Handed down through generations. It has a voice.”

But Nathan was adamant. “That’s the idea,” he replied.

He wanted something unique, something to speak secrets into his skin. A ghostly script, an elegant script—something only he could understand.

The needle buzzed. The ink bled into his arm. The pain was sharp but bearable. As she worked, he swore he could hear something beneath the hum of the machine, a faint murmuring just on the edge of sound.

By the time it was finished, the words curled along his forearm in an ancient, flowing script. He ran his fingers over them. “What does it say?”

The artist hesitated. “Only the wearer ever knows.”

That night, Nathan woke up to a voice breathing against his ear.

“Awake.”

He sat up. The room was still. His phone screen read 3:13 AM. His curtains shifted slightly in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

He rubbed his arm, blinking in the dark. The ink felt warm under his fingers.

“Nathan.”

The whisper didn’t come from the room. It came from his skin.

“Someone is in the apartment.”

His ears strained. Silence. Just the soft whirr of the fridge in the next room.

He almost laughed. It had to be his imagination. Some trick of the mind. Maybe he’d let the tattooist spook him.

Then the floorboard creaked outside his bedroom door.

Another creak. Closer.

The voice on his arm spoke again.

“Run.”

He did. Out the window, onto the fire escape. His bare feet hit cold metal as he climbed down into the alley. When he reached the ground, he turned back.

Through the gap in his curtains, he saw a shape standing in his bedroom. Motionless. Watching. A man with a knife in his hand.

Nathan hurried away.

The ink of the tattoo pulsed with warmth.

“You’re welcome.”

We Are Dreaming You

In the year 2143, humanity eradicated sleep.

It started with research into cognitive efficiency—how much time we waste in unconsciousness, how many hours could be reclaimed. The answer had been elegant: a biochemical supplement that rendered sleep obsolete. No more exhaustion, no more downtime. Productivity skyrocketed. Society moved faster. And dreams—those aimless, nonsensical things—became relics of the past.

However, Dr Elias Voss had for some time been sensing a flicker at the edge of his mind, a shadow in his peripheral thoughts. Then, without warning, it happened.

The dream.

He had no word for it anymore. No precedent. It was like slipping into a long-forgotten language, one his mind had been starved of. A field stretched before him, golden and swaying, beneath a sky of impossible colours. And in the distance, a figure stood waiting.

When he woke, his body trembled. It was an outdated response, one humans had evolved beyond. But the dream had shaken something loose.

The next night, he welcomed it. And the next. And the next. Each time, the figure in the distance edged closer. Its shape was blurred, undefined, yet somehow familiar. Its presence pulsed with meaning.

By the tenth night, the figure of a man was visible before him. A face not his own, yet deeply his.

“You remember.”

A whisper, but it roared in his skull.

Voss felt… wrong. Off-kilter. As if he had glimpsed a truth his body no longer knew how to hold.

When he checked his vitals, he found something impossible. His brain—an organ fine-tuned for wakefulness, free of unnecessary functions—had begun producing theta waves. Dream waves. Primitive. Inefficient. Natural.

He ran the test again. Then a third time. But the data held.

His body had remembered how to dream.

Within a week, thousands of others reported the same symptoms—fragments of dreams slipping through the cracks of wakefulness. By the second week, the number was in the millions. Scientists scrambled for answers, governments issued statements of reassurance, but the truth was undeniable: humanity had spent a century suppressing an instinct, and now that instinct was clawing its way back.

Dr Elias Voss saw it in his colleagues, in the eyes of strangers. A subtle shift. People moving differently, pausing as if listening to something distant and unheard. Speech slowed, gazes lingered, hands would drift absently to their chests, as though trying to grasp something they couldn’t quite remember.

The dreams grew stronger.

Every night, Voss returned to the golden field beneath the impossible sky. And the figure—the one that was and wasn’t him—stood waiting.

“It’s time.”

The words were not spoken, yet he heard them.

“Time for what?” he asked.

The figure smiled. “To wake up.”

And just like that, Voss fell.

Not into wakefulness, but into something deeper, something beyond. The field peeled away, dissolving into light, and for the first time in his sleepless life, he felt it—the weight of something vast and forgotten.

Voss awoke gasping, covered in sweat—another sensation that shouldn’t exist. His body ached, his head throbbed, but beneath it all was something worse.

The presence was no longer confined to sleep.

It was here.

The monitors in his lab flickered erratically. Data streams scrolled with nonsense—letters rearranging into words, words into sentences.

WE REMEMBER YOU.

The walls groaned, as though something enormous was shifting behind them.

Then, all at once, the world blinked.

The world didn’t end. Not in the way Voss expected.

It changed.

The first sign was the silence. A suffocating, unnatural stillness settled over the city. No hum of machines, no murmur of distant conversations, no rhythmic pulse of traffic. Even the air seemed heavier, as if something immense pressed down on reality itself.

Then came the distortions.

People reported déjà vu in cascading waves—entire hours repeating without explanation. Buildings flickered, their architecture twisting in ways that defied physics, as if their foundations had been forgotten and rewritten in real-time. A street Voss had walked every day, now ended in a sheer cliff, dropping into an expanse of shifting golden light.

The world was unravelling.

The message on his screen back at the lab had changed. The words pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

WE ARE DREAMING YOU.

“Who?” he asked.

There was no reply, but he didn’t need one. He knew.

The presence in his dreams—the figure in the field—it was not a singular entity. It was an echo. A remnant of something vast and ancient, something that had been watching. Something that had been waiting.

And now, the dream was breaking back in.

Voss turned to the window, breath fogging the glass. Across the skyline, golden cracks split the fabric of the city, seeping light into the air. He watched as a skyscraper folded in on itself, becoming a spiral staircase winding up into a sky full of constellations that had never previously existed.

A man stood at the edge of a rooftop across the street. Voss tensed, fearing the inevitable, but the man did not fall. Instead, he stepped forward—and the air took him. He floated, weightless, moving as if pulled by unseen currents, disappearing into the sky.

Voss gripped the windowsill.

This wasn’t destruction.

Humanity was waking up from the long dreamless sleep.

And something was waiting on the other side.

The screen flickered again. The final message burned into his mind.

THE LOST DREAM IS OVER.

NOW, YOU REMEMBER.

And with that, Voss felt the ground dissolve beneath him—

—falling—

—rising—

—awakening—

A Dragon’s Last Wish

The dragon lay dying in a field of ash and shattered stone. Its great body, once a mountain of muscle and magic, trembled with each shallow breath. The golden fire in its eyes had dulled to embers.

Sir Aldric had never seen a dragon so close before—never without a sword raised, never without the intention to kill. Yet here he stood, weaponless, staring at the magnificent creature crumbling before him.

The dragon’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “I ask of you one favour.”

Aldric hesitated. He had come here to slay the beast, to return to the kingdom as a hero. But there was no victory in this. Not now.

“What do you ask of me?” he said at last.

The dragon lifted a claw, barely able to keep it aloft. Clutched within was a smooth oval stone, black as starless midnight.

“Take this,” said the dragon. “Carry it to the highest peak beyond the Valley of Echoes… There, place it beneath the moonlight and speak my name… Vorthalax.”

Aldric took the stone. It was warm to the touch, pulsing with something that felt almost like a heartbeat.

With a final sigh, Vorthalax’s great eyes slid shut. The ground trembled as the last dragon of the realm took its final breath.

The journey to the Valley of Echoes was perilous, but Aldric had faced worse. He climbed the jagged cliffs, his hands bloodied and raw, until at last he reached the highest peak. The moon hung high, silver light washing over the land.

He knelt and placed the stone upon the frostbitten rock. The wind stilled. The world fell into an eerie silence.

Aldric steadied himself. “Vorthalax,” he proclaimed into the sky above.

The air shimmered. Shadows coiled like smoke. Then, from the darkness, an enormous creature emerged, rocks cracking under its weight.

It was another dragon, slightly smaller than Vorthalax, and with scales the colour of the night sky. Its golden eyes burned with a sense of something between sorrow and hope.

“You have brought him… home,” the dragon rumbled.

Aldric didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to. The stone at his feet split open, and from within, a warm golden light spilled forth, rising like mist.

The dragon leaned forward, pressing its forehead to the light. A sound filled the air—something between a sigh and a melody.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the light faded.

The dragon looked at Aldric, eyes shimmering with the intensity of flame.

“Thank you,” it said, bowing its head. Then, with a great beat of its wings, the dragon soared into the sky, disappearing into the stars.

Aldric remained on the mountain for a long while, watching the night, the wind carrying a name he now understood.

Vorthalax had only ever wanted to go home.

Between Frames

Mira had always been a light sleeper, which was why she installed the camera in the first place. The noises at night under her bed—soft scratches, the faint shuffle of movement—were too subtle to be rats but too irregular to be the house settling. The security camera wasn’t fancy, just a cheap model above her bedroom door, bluetoothed to her phone. It captured everything, motion-triggered and timestamped. She let it run for a week before reviewing the footage.

At first, nothing. Just the usual: her natural movements asleep in bed. But on the third night, at precisely 3:13 AM, she noticed the footage had jumped.

She rewound. Played it frame by frame. 3:11 AM. 3:12 AM. Jump. 3:14 AM. No flicker, no static, no glitchy distortion. Just a clean, surgical cut. Sixty seconds, gone.

A fault in the camera, maybe? Mira scrolled back. The night before, 3:13 AM disappeared again. And the night before that.

She set an alarm for the next night, waking her at 3:10 AM. She lay in bed, phone in hand, staring at the blue glow of the camera’s indicator light.

At 3:12 AM, nothing happened.

At 3:13 AM, the room flickered. Mira felt an impossible sensation—like being yanked out of her body, as if she had stepped between two film frames and fallen into the gap.

She wasn’t in bed anymore.

She was standing in a corridor. No doors. No windows. The air was dense, thick with the smell of damp stone and something metallic, like old blood. The walls—if they were walls—stretched endlessly in both directions, made of something rough and uneven, like brick but colder. She reached out instinctively, fingertips grazing the surface. It was wet.

The darkness wasn’t total. A dim, pulsing light flickered from an unseen source, casting long, jagged shadows along the walls. The corridor wasn’t silent, either. Beneath the hush, Mira heard something—a faint, rhythmic tapping, like footsteps. Not hurried, not hesitant. Deliberate.

The footsteps grew closer. Mira tried to move, but her legs would not respond… A whisper brushed against her ears—not a voice, but the sensation of sound just before it forms, like a word caught at the edge of existence.

Then—she was back in bed, the weight of the duvet pressed against her. Her phone was still in her hand. She gasped, lungs burning as if she’d been holding her breath for too long.

3:14 AM.

A notification buzzed. The recording was available.

Mira hesitated, then pressed play.

Sixty seconds of perfect darkness.

Then, at the very end, in the silence between frames—

The voice.

“Almost time.”

What Remained

The silence was the worst part.

Adam had thought he’d grow used to it, but after ten months of empty streets and hollow buildings, it only got heavier. The world had ended with an explosion of silence, not fire. People had just vanished. One day they were there, living their ordinary lives, and the next, gone. No bodies. No explanations. Just an empty planet with the lights still on.

He had scoured the cities, called out into the void, but no one answered.

He spent his days raiding supermarkets, driving stolen sports cars down abandoned highways, and reading through books he never had time for before. He lived in a penthouse suite, drank the best whisky, and watched old movies as if the world hadn’t stopped turning.

And at night, he wrote. Someone had to record what happened. He filled notebook after notebook, chronicling the days, the loneliness, the aching weight of survival.

He poured himself a drink, sat by candlelight, and opened a fresh page.

Day 313.

I am still here.

The words looked small, fragile. He idly tapped his pen on the table, trying to think of something more profound. Something meaningful.

Then came the knock at the door.

A soft, deliberate tap, tap, tap.

His glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor.

The knocking came again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Adam stared at the door. It was impossible. He had spent months searching, calling out, scouring each abandoned city, every dead street.

There was no one left.

No one but him.

He stood slowly, his legs stiff from shock. He grabbed the gun from the table—one of many he’d taken from a police station—but his hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it steady.

Another three knocks.

Louder this time. More urgent.

Adam stepped forward.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice hoarse from non-exercise.

No answer.

He hesitated. The instinctive part of his mind screamed at him to run. But where? There was nowhere to go.

He tightened his grip on the gun and reached for the door handle.

Slowly, carefully, he turned it.

The door creaked open an inch. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

The hallway was empty.

Adam stepped outside the door, glancing both ways. The city below the ceiling-high hallway windows stretched out in its eerie, abandoned silence. He was alone. Again.

Had he imagined it? Was the isolation finally driving him mad?

He shakily lowered the gun. He let out a small, nervous laugh. Maybe it was just the building settling. Or the wind. Or—

He turned back to go inside.

And stopped.

The candle he had lit was flickering violently.

Adam raised the gun, stepping forward on unsteady feet. His voice trembled. “Who’s there?”

The candlelight shifted shadows against the walls.

Then, from deep inside the apartment, a voice answered.

“You are not the last.”

The voice had come from the darkness beyond the candlelight, low and steady, neither rushed nor panicked. Just… certain.

His finger rubbed the trigger. “Step out where I can see you,” he said, forcing steel into his voice.

Silence.

The candle flickered, the shadows on the walls stretching and shifting unnaturally, as if something was moving just beyond the edge of sight.

“I said—”

Then, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

A figure emerged from the gloom.

At first, Adam thought it was a woman. Slender, tall, moving with an eerie grace. But as it stepped into the candle’s glow, something was… wrong.

The face was human. Almost. But the skin was too smooth, the features too symmetrical, like a sculpture of a person rather than the real thing. The eyes—God, the eyes—were black pools, swallowing the light.

Adam took a half step back, gun raised. “What are you?”

The figure tilted its head, as if considering the question.

“We were waiting for you to ask.”

“We?”

The thing said nothing.

Instead, it moved aside—just slightly. Just enough for Adam to see the hallway behind it.

And the others.

Dozens of them. Standing perfectly still in the darkness. Watching.

Adam’s instincts screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something—but his body refused to move.

The first figure took another step towards him. “You were never alone,” it said.

Adam fired.

The shot rang out.  But the figure was still standing.

The bullet hole in its forehead closed in an instant, the skin knitting together like water swallowing a stone.

It stepped forward and reached out, resting a too-cold hand on his shoulder. Adam tried to pull away, but his muscles locked, frozen in place. His vision blurred.

Then, for the first time in months, the city was no longer silent.

From the streets below, from the alleyways and the empty buildings, from every shadowed corner, voices began to rise.

Soft at first. Then growing. Then deafening.

And as Adams’ world faded to black, the last thing he heard was the voices, calling out one final truth.

“Now, you are one of us.”

Case Closed

Detective Alan Graves surveyed the crime scene with the detached precision of a surgeon. The victim lay sprawled across the plush carpet, blood soaking into the fibres. A single bullet wound to the forehead. No signs of forced entry. No murder weapon in sight.

It was a locked-room mystery. The kind that made headlines.

His partner, Detective Lisa Monroe, paced behind him, flipping through her notepad. “Witnesses say they heard a gunshot around midnight. No one saw anything. No security footage.”

Alan frowned. “Who found the body?”

“The housekeeper. Came in this morning. Called it in right away. Says the victim had no enemies.”

Alan nodded, crouching beside the corpse. There was something familiar about the victim’s face… the shape of his jaw… even the way his hair curled at the temples.

He stood quickly, nausea rising. “Did we get an ID?”

Lisa handed him a driver’s licence in a plastic evidence bag. “Yeah. Name’s Alan Graves.”

Alan stared. The photo. The name. The birthdate. It was him.

The world tilted.

“What is this?” he exclaimed.

Lisa’s expression shifted—concerned, wary. “Alan… are you okay?”

He clutched his head. He remembered everything. Going home last night. Pouring a drink. The cold weight of the gun in his hand. The silence before the shot.

And then—nothing.

Alan looked at the corpse again.

It was impossible.

And yet…

Lisa’s voice was distant now, tinny, like she was speaking from underwater. “Alan?”

His vision blurred. A rush of vertigo took him, buckling his knees.

As he collapsed, Lisa’s voice was the last thing he heard. Calm. Certain.

“Alan. It’s solved… your case is now closed.”

10,000 Attempts

Mastery is not about the number of hours spent, but the number of meaningful repetitions performed. The key to improvement is not simply the passage of time but the number of times we actively engage with the process, refine our techniques, and correct our mistakes. A musician who plays 10,000 times with focus and adaptation will progress much faster than one who simply clocks in hours of mindless practice. Likewise, a writer who drafts 10,000 paragraphs, refining them with each attempt, will develop their craft far more effectively than someone who spends 10,000 hours mostly staring at blank pages.

Consider the difference between two aspiring painters. One spends 10,000 hours in a studio, occasionally picking up a brush, watching tutorials, or idly sketching. The other completes 10,000 paintings—each one an attempt, a refinement, an experiment. Who do we think will be better? The sheer number of attempts forces the second painter to confront mistakes, experiment with new techniques, and internalise lessons through direct experience.

A bad golf swing practised for 10,000 hours will only ingrain bad habits. But 10,000 focused swings, each slightly adjusted, each reviewed with feedback, will produce real progress. Mastery is not about passive endurance but active iteration—learning, failing, correcting, and repeating.

This is why elite performers in every field—from sports to business to the arts—improve through deliberate cycles of action and feedback, not sheer hours spent. It is not time alone that builds mastery but the number of meaningful engagements with the skill.

Don’t just put in the time. Put in the reps. Make 10,000 attempts. Iterate, refine, and repeat. Time will pass regardless—but skill is built in the doing.

Existence+

Jon woke up to find his hand flickering. His fingers blinked in and out of existence, like a glitching hologram. He groaned. Not again.

Scrambling out of bed, he grabbed his phone and tapped open the Existence+ app. A red banner flashed across the screen:

Your subscription has expired. Renew now to avoid full dissolution.

“Shit!” he cursed. He had meant to pay it last night, but payday was delayed until noon. That left him in a tricky spot.

He hurried to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection. His face always blurred when his subscription lapsed—his own eyes looking at him like they belonged to someone else. He splashed water on his face, but then his hand went right through the tap. He was already starting to phase out.

He could still move, still breathe, still exist—for now. But if he didn’t pay soon, the system would begin retracting him. First fingers, then limbs, then memories. The worst part was the memory rollback, the gradual unravelling of the mind.

He dressed quickly, ignoring the way his shirt flickered against his chest.

At the office, the door scanner beeped red. Denied. His work subscription had clearly been bundled with his existence plan. He pounded on the glass. “Come on, Carl, let me in!”

Carl, his manager, looked at him through the window. “Jon… I’m sorry. You know the policy. Get yourself sorted, then come back.”

Jon’s voice wavered. “But I don’t have my money yet. I need it now… I just need a few hours—”

Carl activated the blinds, which drew shut.

Jon staggered away. His legs flickered, struggling to hold his weight. He checked his phone. The notification had changed:

Subscription Termination in 10 minutes.

He tapped the Renew Now button, hoping they might give him a grace period. The screen flashed:

Insufficient Funds. Please upgrade to Existence+ Pro for emergency overdraft protection.

His fingers dissolved first. Then his arms.

He turned and hurried down the street. People ignored him now. His presence no longer triggered facial recognition. Store doors didn’t slide open for him. A mother pushed her pram right through him without noticing.

His phone dropped to the ground as his torso unravelled like smoke. On the pavement, the phone vibrated one final time. A cheery message popped up:

We’re sorry to see you go!

Jon opened his mouth to scream, but his voice had already been revoked.

The Shakespearean Goldfish

Harry wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was after that late-night binge of takeout and whisky, or maybe it was just a result of staring at the same four walls for too long. Either way, the fact remained: his goldfish was talking.

It started small. A flurry of bubbles. But by the end of the week, Gilbert—that was the fish’s name—was holding full-blown conversations. And not just any conversations. No, Gilbert spoke mainly in Shakespearean verse.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and I am, alas, swimming in this accursed bowl!”—Gilbert declared one morning, his beady eyes following Harry’s every move.

Harry rubbed his face in disbelief. “I need to get out more,” he muttered.

Gilbert swished his tail dramatically. “Nay, master! ‘Tis not thine isolation, but thine inability to listen to the wisdom of those who dwell beneath the watery deep!”

Harry squinted at the fish. “Are you quoting Romeo and Juliet at me?”

“Aye,” Gilbert replied, puffing out his gills. “For within this glass prism, I find myself a tragic hero, with no fair maiden, nor an end to my sorrows!”

Harry blinked. “Right. Well, that’s fantastic. I need a lie down.”

He tried to ignore it, really he did. But Gilbert wouldn’t let him. The next day, the fish had moved on to Hamlet.

“To swim, or not to swim, that is the question! Whether ‘tis nobler in the tank to suffer the pellets of outrageous fortune…”

Harry groaned. “Please, Gilbert, just eat your fish flakes and shut up.”

“Wouldst thou silence a poet?” Gilbert countered.

Harry stared. He wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the fact that his fish was talking, or that it was somehow better read than him. He decided it was the latter.

After a week of relentless soliloquies, Harry found himself flipping through an old copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works, trying to keep up with his piscine companion’s literary tirades. He didn’t dare tell anyone. Who would believe him? The pub regulars already thought he was a bit odd, and his boss had made it clear that “another daydreaming incident” would not be acceptable.

But Gilbert was relentless. “I prithee, master,” the fish said one evening, “dost thou not dream of greater things? Adventure, romance, a life beyond these dreary walls?”

Harry frowned. “I’m an accountant, Gilbert. My idea of adventure is filing tax returns on time.”

Gilbert flicked his tail dismissively. “Fie upon such notions! Fortune favours the bold!”

“Fortune favours people who don’t listen to their fish,” Harry grumbled, downing another gulp of beer.

Yet, deep down, something stirred. Maybe Gilbert had a point—though he wasn’t quite ready to admit that his existential crisis was being fuelled by a goldfish quoting King Lear.

Weeks past and Harry found himself… enjoying it. He read more. Thought more. And, without quite knowing why, he started applying for new jobs.

One morning, as he dusted off a rather smart shirt he hadn’t worn in years, Gilbert eyed him through the glass and uttered, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it, fish.”

Gilbert grinned—or at least Harry thought he did. “Methinks thou art finally listening, dear master.”

And as Harry walked out the door, feeling strangely lighter, Gilbert swam a full circle and bubbled, “All the world’s a stage… and mine is but a bowl.”

Later that day, Harry bought Gilbert a bigger bowl, and introduced him to a lady goldfish called Julia, who also had a fond appreciation of Renaissance literature.