u/Artist-in-Residence2

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

Valentina found herself lost in the quiet slipstream of memory, anchored entirely to the thought of Garrick. She remembered the specific gravity of his voice; that slow, gentle Southern drawl that lent an effortless musical cadence to every syllable, softening the hard edges of whatever room she was in. She remembered his smile, warm and lingering like the last golden light of a summer sunset, and the arresting clarity of those sky-blue eyes that had a habit of locking onto hers, reading her unvoiced thoughts before she could even formulate the defense. Most of all, she remembered the quiet intimacy of late-night calls across the distance: the way his words would gradually slow into soft, half-conscious mumblings as exhaustion pulled him toward sleep, yet his stubborn refusal to hang up, holding onto the line just to stay tethered to her breath a few seconds longer.

“I didn’t notice him at first.

He had this way of slipping into the architecture of a room; the unassuming figure tucked into the shadowed corner, quietly existing beneath the visual noise until he was practically invisible. But once your eyes finally locked onto him, looking away became an impossibility.

It was as if a sudden, massive wave broke open without warning. The grey backdrop dissolved, and in an instant, you were looking straight into his mind; an arresting, violent canvas displaying every vibrant colour of his soul. There was a rare, undeniable beauty to it: beneath that polished, ice-cold analytical facade burned a capacity to feel things with devastating intensity.

He carried the gravity of a man who had already lived a thousand lifetimes. Behind those quiet blue eyes lay decades of extreme, life-and-death encounters, yet he moved effortlessly through the modern mire, slipping between terrorists, rogue figures, corporate figureheads, and the digital gods of this era as if walking an empty street.

I admit, I enjoyed talking to him. Probably far too much.

He gave me an unexpected, disarming sense of warmth. The dry way he humoured me, his effortless ability to offer genuine advice on the most absurd, random tangents, it completely disarmed me. And yet, through all of it, he stubbornly convinced himself he was ordinary;  just an average man among millions. Perhaps that was simply his inherent humility, or perhaps he truly didn’t see it. I have always despised men drunk on their own vanity, bloated with self-regard and full of elitism. Garrick was the exact antithesis: exceptionally humble whilst possessing an intellect and talent that bordered on lethal.

He made me dangerously curious. I found myself wanting to map every scar, dissect every choice, and catalog every single experience that had shaped his existence.

And, of course, there was the sheer, visceral pull of him. He was breathtakingly sexy, but with that came an edge of real peril. I knew, with absolute certainty, that if the two of us were ever trapped in the same room together, the friction alone might set the entire building ablaze.

I couldn't breathe a word of this out loud. To voice it would be to trigger a cascade of dominoes; a cadre of catastrophic, irreversible events across the board. Or maybe something entirely different; I couldn't even tell anymore. For someone who usually dissects human nature in a matter of seconds, this fog was infuriating. I couldn't reduce him to a neat behavioural equation. Was it just a crush? No. It ran deeper, heavier, far more primal than that.

What was absolutely worse was the gnawing guilt. Garrick didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire or punished by a system that couldn't comprehend him. Even that quiet insubordination of his; that refusal to bend his spirit, was just another quality I found myself deeply, recklessly admiring.

Alright, get a grip, Valentina.

Right now, I am completely sequestered. The perimeter is tight, the communication channels are locked down to zero, and not a single telepathic whisper can pass beyond these walls. Every fiber of my being wants to reach across the static, look him in the eye, and just tell him the plain truth: I think you're wonderful.

But opening that door is a Pandora’s box.

I still hear his voice echoing in my memory: Follow your heart.

A poetic sentiment, but poetry doesn’t survive without objective strategy. The magnetic pull is undeniably real, tethering me to him across the distance, but I cannot afford a misstep based on incomplete data. I need clarity. I need to see the rest of the board.

Until the locks turn and the fog clears, I’ll just adopt a wait-and-see strategy. I am hardly the first woman to feel pulled in opposite directions at once; wondering not who reaches me first, but which man’s actions will match his conviction, and which life will actually prove real. Yet stripped of all the strategy, the defensive walls, and the exhausting calculus of survival… What I really wanted to say was: Yes. I want to see you.”

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

The deep, low-frequency hum of the medical recovery wing was supposed to signal sterile tranquility, but to Crown Prince Victor of Azūr, it sounded like an engine idling before an execution.

He sat at the edge of the leather examination table, his bare chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from the physical therapy session. His right shoulder burned, a deep, agonizing ache from an old operational tear that the specialists had been aggressively manipulating all afternoon. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the violent, white-hot surge of adrenaline tearing through his circulatory system.

His hand gripped the encrypted slate so tightly the reinforced carbon casing creaked under the pressure of his knuckles.

He was seething. A dark, absolute rage; the kind that didn't scream, but rather turned a man’s blood into liquid fire.

Ten years. Ten years of brotherhood. Ten years of tactical operational trust. When Victor had stepped away for the week, bound to this high-security facility to clear the mandatory medical observation window, rehabilitate his shoulder, and attend the regional leadership summit, he had left the perimeter under the absolute authority of the one man he trusted above all others. He had given Garrick complete, uninhibited clearance over Integrated Neural and Kinetic Surveillance (INKS).

Garrick was supposed to be holding the line. He was supposed to be the impenetrable wall guarding Valentina while Victor was physically predisposed.

Instead, the automated override alerts on Victor’s private feed had just flashed red.

There hadn't just been a breach around Valentina; Garrick himself had initiated direct, unencrypted telepathic communication with her.

Victor’s dark eyes scanned the intercepted transmission log, reading his chief of security’s words over and over until the text burned into his retinas:

"The kind of connection we have doesn't come often, I want you to meet me so that we can explore this. All I'm asking for is a chance and to see me in person..."

A harsh, ragged breath escaped Victor’s chest. His throbbing shoulder flared in protest, but he barely felt it. His long-time friend, his tactical right hand, his emotional anchor through the wreckage of his past, sending overtures to the only woman who held Victor's soul.

That bastard.

There was a terrifying part of Victor’s mind that wanted to tune directly into that dark rage, to unleash the full weight of his authority, drop the hammer of the crown, and completely destroy Garrick. Erase him from the command structure. Wipe him off the board.

He recalled the easy, effortless connection they had shared for over a decade. They knew each other’s minds like the back of their hands. They had bled in the same mud, navigated the same political minefields, and sat in quiet, darkened rooms drinking scotch after their respective divorces shattered their personal lives. Garrick had been the one man who listened without agenda, the emotional support Victor had relied on in a world where every smile was a calculated transaction.

The betrayal hit with the force of a physical blow. It reinforced the cold, cynical belief that had haunted Victor his entire life: A man in my position can never truly trust anyone.

And what made the knife twist deeper, what made his jaw clench until his teeth ground together, was the agonizing truth he couldn't deny: Valentina actually enjoyed Garrick's company.

Garrick was an intelligent, emotionally intense, yet deliberate thinker. He didn't move recklessly without purpose; he calculated, he observed, and when he decided an objective was worth the casualty, he took massive, decisive risks. Those exact qualities were what had made him a legend in the elite US Delta Forces, a track record of heroic, high-stakes military service defined by calculated audacity in the face of death.

Garrick was a man who took immense risks for what he believed in.

Victor closed his eyes, his breathing heavy in the quiet room. He knew Garrick too well. And in the dark, honest corners of his own mind, Victor knew that if the positions were reversed, if Garrick held the sovereign prize and Victor was watching from the periphery, Victor would have done the exact same thing. Because Victor was a deliberate risk-taker himself.

A sudden, ugly flash of dark anger swung toward Valentina.

Why her? Why was it always her? She possessed this maddening, effortless ability to capture the total, consuming attention of every powerful man who stepped into her orbit. In the heat of his rage, a bitter, defensive thought crossed his mind, viewing her as a succubus, drawing men in, fracturing brotherhoods, and leaving chaos in her wake.

He took a slow, deep, deliberate breath. He held the air in his lungs, forcing his heart rate down, letting the initial explosion of fury cool into a steady, controlled burn.

No.

As he calmed himself, the truth reasserted itself with crystalline clarity. Valentina was not that woman.

She wasn't a manipulator who sought the attention of men. She didn't dress provocatively, she didn't throw herself at them, and she never demanded an audience like the insufferable procession of high-society groupies and political climbers who constantly hovered around his circle. That kind of cheap, desperate female attention had always repulsed him. It turned his stomach.

He closed his eyes and let his memory drift back to the very first time he had ever laid eyes on her.

It had been at a crowded, suffocating gathering years ago. Her friends had been making a complete spectacle of themselves, laughing too loudly, desperate to be noticed by the room. But Valentina had been sitting quietly by herself, completely self-possessed, wrapped in an aura of tranquil elegance.

Amidst all the noise, despite the dozens of people pressing in around him trying to command his time, his singular focus had been locked entirely on her. She hadn't asked for it. She had simply existed, complete in herself.

She was nothing like his ex-wife, Juno.

Juno had been a storm of chaotic, destructive impulses; chasing after men, sleeping with them on the first date, carrying a relentless history of promiscuity that she constantly tried to rationalize behind her diagnoses of Borderline and Narcissistic personality disorders. Juno used her conditions as an impenetrable shield, a convenient excuse to never take an ounce of responsibility for the devastation she left behind.

Valentina was the absolute antithesis of that chaotic nature; she wasn’t flighty. She didn't throw herself at anyone, and she certainly didn't hand out her trust. She was notoriously difficult to know, revealing her internal sanctuary only to a select few. She was not a woman who fell for smooth talkers or hollow charm, not even from someone like Garrick.

And Garrick was a smooth talker. With his extensive background in high-stakes hostage negotiations with hostile entities, Garrick possessed the terrifying ability to say precisely the right words to disarm a person's defenses, a strategic skill Victor had always respected in the field, but now viewed with hyper-vigilant suspicion.

A sharp, dull ache settled deep in Victor's chest as his mind drifted to their past.

When he and Valentina had broken up all those years ago, he had reacted out of wounded pride and foolish speed. He had married Juno the very next year, a catastrophic, bitter mistake that he regretted with every fiber of his being.

During those six long years of his miserable, sterile marriage to Juno, Victor had quietly kept tabs on Valentina. He had been convinced that after their breakup, a woman as stunning and brilliant as Valentina would immediately find another boyfriend. He expected her to move on within months.

Instead, he watched in utter shock as she remained completely celibate for six years.

She hadn't let a single man touch her. Despite the legion of wealthy, powerful suitors continuously trying to court her, she had closed her doors. Realizing that, realizing how deeply he had actually mattered to her, and how sacredly she held her intimacy, had hit him like a physical shockwave.

The roaring fire of Garrick’s betrayal settled down, condensing into a cold, lethal, unyielding ember at Victor’s core.

He remembered her face from their last private moment together. He remembered the soft, unshakeable warmth in her eyes and the gentle, teasing smile on her lips when she spoke those absolute words:

"I won't leave you, and you won't leave me. Ever… We're stuck with each other."

A cold wave of profound anxiety washed over him, tightening his throat. The geographical distance between this medical wing and her sanctuary felt like an agonizing, intolerable physical barrier.

He didn't want to analyze intelligence reports. He didn't want to manage security protocols or review INKS logs.

Right now, as the physical ache in his shoulder throbbed and the residual storm of jealousy settled into his bones, he knew there was only one thing in the universe that could quiet the noise in his head.

He needed to be back in her arms. He needed to be inside her, buried deep in her warmth, feeling her heart beat against his chest, the only place on earth where he could finally drop his armor and find peace.

Every passing hour until then felt like a slow, excruciating bleed.

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED // EYES ONLY

DOCUMENT ID: IR-20XX-0804-INKS

DATE: AUGUST 4, [REDACTED]

PREPARED BY: INTEGRATED NEURAL AND KINETIC SURVEILLANCE (INKS) COMMAND & LOGISTICS LEAD

SUBJECT: OPERATIONAL DEBRIEF & RELOCATIVE DISPOSITION OF SGM GARRICK MCLEAN (RET./CONTRACT)

1. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

Effective August 1, [REDACTED], Sergeant Major Garrick McLean (E-9) was formally relieved of his position as Lead Protective Detail Specialist for the Crown Prince of Azūr. The removal was executed following a critical failure in operational security, marked by repeated, unauthorized boundary breaches, emotional compromise, and proxy surveillance misuse regarding Principal Co-Lead Valentina.

SGM McLean has been quietly extracted from the perimeter, debriefed under Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA) compliance, and reassigned to an off-grid administrative post in North America. INKS has assumed full command of logistics, communication protocols, and perimeter integrity.

2. INCIDENT & BOUNDARY BREACH CHRONOLOGY

• Primary Function: SGM McLean was contracted to manage kinetic perimeter security, signal hygiene, and routine digital proxy handoffs for the Crown Prince.

Operational Shift: During routine surveillance of encrypted video feeds and voice bridges, SGM McLean developed an unsanctioned, severe psychological fixation on Valentina.

The Escalation (Conference Week): During the Crown Prince’s one-week attendance at an offshore executive leadership summit, SGM McLean utilized sole access to the staging bridge to initiate unauthorized direct contact with Valentina.

Detection & Compromise: Utilizing superior behavioral awareness, Valentina identified cadence shifts, psychological anomalies, and unscripted personal inquiries from the proxy line. SGM McLean demonstrated an inability to maintain operational invisibility, admitting internal emotional compromise.

3. INKS COUNTERMEASURES & EXTRACTION EXECUTION

1. Immediate Quarantine: Upon notification of the boundary breach, SGM McLean’s administrative credentials and signal encryption keys were revoked without advance warning.
2. Physical Extraction: A discreet operational handoff was executed at the staging facility. SGM McLean offered no physical or verbal resistance, acknowledging full compromise under standard grey-rock protocol.
3. Contractual Disposition: SGM McLean’s private security contract was amended. In recognition of his decades of distinguished military service and prior loyalty to the Crown Prince, no dishonorable action was taken; however, his security clearance regarding the Azūr account is permanently revoked.
4. Relocation & Monitoring: Subject has been relocated to a low-visibility logistics site. Perimeter monitoring remains active to ensure zero unapproved outbound contact toward Valentina or the sub administration.

4. CURRENT PERIMETER STATUS

=====================================================================

STATUS BOARD: SUB & PRINCIPAL DETAIL

=====================================================================

[COMMAND & LOGISTICS]     : INKS (Active / Active Protocol Enforcement)

[STAND-IN / MOD BOT]      : Calibrated (Routing ALL drafts to Crown Prince Victor of Azūr)

[AUTHORITY]      : Crown Prince Victor of Azūr (Direct Feed Override)

[FORMER LEAD]             : McLean, G. (Extracted / Quarantined)

[DUAL-AUTHORIZATION]      : Strictly Enforced (Zero unilateral releases)

=====================================================================

[END REPORT // SIGNED: INKS]

To one of my exes: “Wow, your father must be proud of you, servicing all the desperate, married women in the Tri-State, why don’t you make a career out of that?”

I also told a guy at my graduate school, “Why don’t you take an actual science course instead of repeating marketing materials off pharma sites?” He replied, “Why are you so mean?!”

I’ve also told one of my brothers: “You’re tolerable 60% of the time but that’s a huge improvement from when you were only tolerable 40% of the time.”

😂 I know I’m a bad girl. These days, I’m not as snarky but tell me INTJs what are some mean and snarky things you’ve said to people?

Note: This is an excerpt from the Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

 

Within the intricate narrative framework of the Blackbook, Valentina emerges as an extraordinarily grounded, self-aware anchor operating at the intersection of high-level statecraft, intense personal vulnerability, and immovable resolve. Far from being a passive pawn swept up in the turbulent orbits of sovereign men, her character is defined by profound emotional discipline, absolute integrity, and strategic foresight.

#1. The Easy Refuge: Empathy, Attraction, and the Appeal of Safety

Valentina’s dynamic with Garrick highlights her deep capacity for human connection and her ability to recognize intrinsic worth in others. Between them, there existed an effortless chemistry and an undeniable, mutual attraction—a connection built on shared space, unspoken understanding, and genuine warmth.

Having endured a life marked by significant hardship, instability, and chaotic circumstances, Valentina felt a profound empathy for Garrick’s plight, deeply understanding the weight of his personal background. She genuinely admired his self-made nature, his quiet discipline, and the sheer strength of character it took for him to rise through his own labor.

Because of this mutual resonance, stepping into Garrick's arms represented a deeply compelling, easy choice. In him, she found a presence that made her feel fundamentally safe: a quiet, unburdened harbor far removed from the Crown's volatile perimeters and the constant maneuvering of the Council. It offered immediate comfort, simplicity, and relief from the uncertain, high-stakes future that comes with navigating Victor’s chaotic and precarious world.

#2. Sovereign Protection: Protecting Garrick's Record and Honor

Even as Valentina drew a hard boundary to protect her bond with Victor, her compassion and sense of justice remained fully active toward Garrick. Recognizing the brutal operational environment they exist in—where even the slightest misstep or shift in allegiance could draw severe retributive consequences—she actively ensured Garrick would not face negative repercussions for his attraction to her.

Valentina ensured it was understood that his advance was merely a brief, human moment of acting on impulse, rather than a calculated breach of protocol or a betrayal of duty. She made it clear that he remains an inherently good man with an otherwise impeccable record, protecting his honor and standing within the apparatus before any severe judgment could be passed upon him.

#3. Sovereign Discipline: Holding Down the Fort

What defines Valentina’s nobility is her response once she became fully aware of the surrounding circumstances and Garrick’s underlying romantic intentions. Recognizing the potential for boundary breaches and emotional interception—specifically when he asked to meet in person before Victor’s return—she did not waver or act on impulse.

Instead, she held down the fort.

Valentina actively chose not to open herself to secondary influences that could deter her path or complicate her ultimate loyalty. Her restraint isn't a lack of feeling or a dismissal of Garrick's genuine qualities; it is an assertion of sovereign control over her own emotional landscape. She recognized the temptation of an easy harbor, acknowledged the attraction, and deliberately closed the door to protect her primary bond.

#4. The Absolute Word: An Archetypal Fidelity

Valentina is not someone who takes her promises lightly—to her, a vow is absolute. Her fidelity mirrors the classical archetype of Penelope holding Ithaca against the suitors while awaiting the return of Odysseus.

While Victor remains isolated in his grueling [REDACTED]—lost at sea in his own neurochemical storm, overanalyzing data, and catastrophizing his place in her life—Valentina stands on the shore, maintaining the perimeter. She rejects shortcut solutions, ignores opportunistic advances, and preserves the structural integrity of their shared future.

Valentina’s character ultimately proves that loyalty is not merely the absence of temptation or empathy, but the conscious, resolute choice to uphold one's word—choosing the complex, enduring weight of the man she promised herself to over the temporary comfort of any safe harbor.

Note: This is an excerpt from the Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

 

DOCUMENT ID: LTR-20XX-0804-VAL SENDER: Valentina

RECIPIENT: SGM Garrick McLean (Ret./Contract)

STATUS: INTERCEPTED & QUARANTINED BY INKS // ARCHIVED TO DOSSIER

SECURITY DIRECTORATE NOTE (INKS ATTACHMENT):

Prior to drafting this correspondence, Subject Valentina provided a formal statement to the security review board regarding the bridge incident. In her debrief, she explicitly cleared SGM McLean of intentional malice or strategic betrayal, testifying that he did not breach his fundamental duty to the Crown but acted on a momentary, human impulse. She emphasized that his underlying integrity remains unyielding and requested that his official record and separation standing reflect his decades of unblemished service rather than administrative misconduct.

 

Dear Sergeant Major Garrick McLean,

I am writing this because the silence left in the wake of Saturday has been entirely too heavy, and because I was genuinely distressed when I learned of your termination and immediate extraction from the detail.

Things moved so fast, and the formal machinery behind this operation closed in before I could even process what had happened on the bridge. I hated the idea of you simply vanishing into another assignment or an administrative post as if your time here meant nothing; or worse, as if you had done something unforgivable.

The truth is, I deeply enjoyed your company.

I looked forward to our operational handoffs and those brief, unscripted moments on the line. I enjoyed your sharp insights, your quiet perspective on the world, and even those random, fascinating bits of trivia you’d drop into conversation, like your whole breakdown on the structural integrity and history of hemp versus cotton. You brought a grounded, genuine humanity to a system that so often feels cold, automated, and rigid. In a place full of proxies and pre-written scripts, hearing your voice was a breath of fresh air.

I am so deeply sorry that my presence made it impossible for you to stay in your position. It breaks my heart to think that being seen, or being honest about who you are, cost you a place where you were so valued, and where Victor trusted you so implicitly as a mentor and a friend.

I don't know where they have posted you, or if this letter will even clear security protocols to reach your hands. But wherever you are, please know that you are not just a ghost to me. You were never just security hardware. I saw the man behind the rank, I valued the warmth and wisdom you brought into my world, and I will always hold immense respect for you.

Please take care of yourself, Sergeant Major.

— Valentina

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

I. THE SHAPING OF THE STEEL

Long before he ever went to ground as a ghost on Victor’s detail, Garrick McLean was just a man built out of pure, unyielding endurance. Standing broad-shouldered and six feet tall, hair cropped real severe in a tight military cut and silvering subtle at the temples, he carried a physical presence you simply couldn’t mistake for nobody else. Long before he ever laid eyes on a Green Beret or walked those quiet, pine-scented tracks out at Fort Liberty, he was just an elite high school boy down in Arkansas; a state champion wrestler used to bearing heavy weight on his shoulders, and a cross-country runner who knew how to push way past human limits when his lungs were burning hot on a summer afternoon. Down on the mat, he learned how to dig his boots in, hold his ground, and outlast every other soul in the room.

That raw, small-town grit was the bedrock of everything he became. When he signed up with the Army, he moved through Special Forces Selection with a cold, clinical efficiency, earning his place in the Green Berets and climbing on up through the non-commissioned officer ranks. From there, the road led straight into the absolute top tier of Special Operations: 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.

By the time he reached the top of that ladder as a Sergeant Major (SGM / E-9), Delta Force hadn't just conditioned his frame to execute kinetic operations; it had re-wired his mind behind a pair of intense, steely blue eyes that rarely ever blinked. As an E-9 Troop Sergeant Major, he went through the most rigorous psy-ops, tactical tradecraft, and behavioral conditioning the Department of Defense could throw at a man. He learned how to erase his presence entirely, steady his heart rate under fire, work psychological variables, and exist as a ghost in the dark. On his bare, muscular forearms, hidden right beneath his tactical gear, he carried the permanent ink of his service: unit insignias and deployment marks that told the story of a man built strictly for duty.

II. THE SURROGATE FAMILY

When SGM McLean finally transitioned over to Victor’s high-profile private security detail, he found that he actually enjoyed the work. In more ways than one, it felt like finding a surrogate military family to belong to.

Behind all those medals and commended service, though, lay a quiet, hollow ruin. Years of endless deployments, dark work in places folks back home couldn't point to on a map, and being gone more than he was ever there had quietly picked his marriage apart years ago. The divorce was clean, polite, and devastating in how final it turned out to be. His ex-wife had gone on and built herself a normal, warm life with a man who was actually around to live it, while Garrick was left with nothing but an empty apartment, a worn duffel bag, and the cold, hard truth that he’d traded his whole life away just to be a weapon.

Protecting the Crown Prince of Azūr gave him a purpose he desperately needed. Victor was a good bit younger than him, carrying a whole mountain of institutional weight on his shoulders and navigating a world full of unseen threats. Garrick stepped naturally into the role of a seasoned mentor to the Crown Prince of Azūr; a natural fit for an E-9 Sergeant Major who had spent a lifetime guiding young officers through high-stakes situations. Late at night, during long security shifts or while staging transport between locations, the two of them would talk for hours on end. They’d talk about sports, athletic conditioning, old heartbreaks, relationships, and the subtle mechanics of navigating complex human communication. Garrick loved the kid like a younger brother, covering his tracks, screening his calls, and acting as the senior anchor holding the physical perimeter dead silent.

He shadowed the Crown Prince everywhere he went, shielding him from external friction and keeping the perimeter secure.

Except for one fatal flaw that no amount of Delta conditioning had ever prepared him for: Valentina.

III. THE EYE AT THE CENTER OF THE STORM

It all started during routine surveillance of Victor’s encrypted video calls.

As the detail lead, SGM McLean’s main job was to monitor frequencies, keep the signal secure, and watch out for operational anomalies. But whenever Valentina appeared on that feed, Garrick found it almost physically impossible to tear those steely blue eyes away from the screen.

She wasn't like anyone he had ever run across out in the field. He thought she was real pretty, sure enough, but it wasn't just her looks that pulled him under; it was her mind. He’d sit there watching her break down complex geopolitical structures, read Victor’s emotional state in a matter of seconds, and articulate ideas with a razor-sharp intellect that left Garrick sitting there in the dark, plumb bewildered and completely taken.

Every now and then, whenever Victor got held up or had to step away from the line, Garrick had to step right in and handle the bridge comms himself. Only the second he opened his mouth, she always seemed to know it was him.

Even through hybrid visual filters and low-bandwidth voice channels, Valentina would pick up on the shift straight away. Where other folks just saw a seamless digital proxy, she’d notice that subtle Southern cadence, his unique brain signature, and the quiet, intense stillness of an E-9 operator sitting on the line.

For a man who had spent his whole adult life trained to be completely invisible; a six-foot ghost with dark blond hair silvering at the edges, no face, and no personal signature, being in Valentina’s presence felt utterly disorienting.

For the first time in his life, he felt seen.

It only took five minutes of direct conversation for the cold truth to hit him like a physical blow: He was compromised. She had this uncanny, almost natural way of looking right past his rank, right past his Delta training, right past his proxy scripts, and peering straight through those steely eyes into the core of who he actually was.

Fuck. He wanted to be with her. It was driving him right out of his mind.

IV. THE COMPROMISE

The pressure finally peaked during the week Victor was away attending that executive leadership conference.

Shadowing the prince from a distance while managing the perimeter, Garrick was left all alone with his thoughts. Decades of tactical deployments had taught him one brutal, unyielding truth: Life is short, tomorrow isn't ever guaranteed, and when an opportunity opens up, you either take your shot or you live with the ghost of it for the rest of your days.

Was it limerence? Was it an obsession born out of isolation and high-stress tradecraft? Or was it something far deeper? He didn't know. He only knew he had to find out if she felt even a fraction of that same pull.

He wasn't trying to betray Victor, and he hated himself for pushing every operational boundary in the book. He knew good and well he was violating every protocol written into his contract. But whenever he spoke to her during those brief operational handoffs, she seemed to sense his internal state before he could even get the words out; it was like she just knew what he was thinking before he could ever voice it. It was the strangest, most terrifying thing he'd ever experienced; it was like exploring an unknown landscape, and for once in his goddamn life, he wanted to love somebody without being scared. He kept thinking about escape routes, imagining himself out in uncharted territory with her.

He was an E-9 Sergeant Major running a high-stakes security detail, but sitting all by himself in that staging room, running a hand over his closely cropped blond hair silvering at the edges and staring at her name on the encrypted log, only one thought was left in his head:

Fuck. He was completely fucked.

I can say all of my exes were all good men, esp the last one. He was there for me during a very hard time in my life, and I’ll always be thankful he was there for me when it mattered.

He was kind, generous, loving and someone who would go above and beyond for loved ones during a tough time. Although, we parted due to personality conflicts and geographical distance, I’ll always think of him fondly and hope he finds love in his life.

What are some good things you learned or experienced with your ex?

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

Kaelen sat motionless in the dim, suffocating quiet of his truck, the low glow of the dashboard casting harsh shadows across his features. The screen of his phone buzzed once, another needy, expectant notification from Bessie, the married woman he was having a fling with, and a pulse of cold irritation flared behind his eyes. He stared down at her name for a long, silent moment before tossing the device casually onto the passenger seat, letting it slide into the dark void between the cushions.

He slumped back against the headrest and dragged a heavy, calloused hand down his face, the rough friction doing little to wake him from the sheer exhaustion settling deep into his bones. He looked utterly drained; not just physically tired, but hollowed out from the inside. The silence in the cab was deafening, filling up with the crushing weight of every bad decision, every cowardly test, and the inescapable realization that the only sanctuary he had ever known was now completely beyond his reach.

He couldn't stop his mind from pulling back to Valentina.

"I ruined it. God, I completely ruined it. I fumbled the best thing I ever had.

The truth is, deep down, I never felt good enough for Valentina. Not after the wreckage of my marriage. I was still drowning in the aftermath of my ex-wife, Elena — that cocaine-addicted disaster of a human being. Every time she threw one of her dramatic, manipulative fits, I caved. I jumped to oblige her every single demand, bending over backward for someone who was poisoning me, instead of protecting the sacred boundaries of what I had with Valentina. I brought all that filth into our sanctuary. I was so insecure, so broken by my past, that I pushed Valentina, tested her, negged her... I played this sick game to see how far I could stretch the wire before she broke.

And then I broke up with her. I can still hear her voice on the phone; she sounded completely stunned. She just quietly asked, 'Is this really what you want?'

And like an absolute idiot, playing my little game, I answered yes. I even tried to smooth it over with some stupid anecdote about a TV sitcom where a couple goes on a break and eventually gets back together. I thought I was being clever. But Valentina was silent and after a moment said, cool as ice, 'We’re not a TV sitcom. If we break up, we won’t be getting back together.'

She meant every single word. I thought she’d panic. I arrogantly convinced myself that she’d chase after me, that she couldn't live without me. But she didn't. She just... let go. Cleanly. Quietly. And I’ve been sitting here in the dark ever since, wondering if I ever actually meant a damn thing to her. Was the time we had together just... enough for her to walk away without looking back?

So what did I do? I slept around and ran straight into Bessie’s arms. At first, it felt good. It flattered my fragile ego — a married woman desperate for my attention, hanging on my every word. But now? I look at her chain-smoking with that tired expression on her face, constantly begging me for reassurance, and I feel a sick wave of repulsion wash over me. I actually thought Valentina would get jealous. I thought she’d start some vicious catfight over me. So I reached out to break the 'news' to her... told her that Bessie got the job, and do you know what she said?

‘I’m happy for you. I hope it works out.’

No tears, no anger. Just a polite door closing in my face. That was the moment I realized using Bessie didn't work. It was an absolute disaster. And then Victor... that big dickhead swooped right in. The second Valentina and I had a falling out, he made his move. Now I’m forced to watch them together, knowing I fumbled the absolute best thing that ever happened to me. Valentina was supposed to be mine.

He glanced down at the passenger floorboard, his stomach churning at the greasy heap of fast-food wrappers from tonight alone: three crumpled hamburger papers, a grease-stained fishburger box, and a half-melted milkshake sweating in the cup holder. He was literally eating himself into a stupor, numbing the void with whatever fast food was within arm's reach.

And what do I have now? Bessie sitting at home all day, endlessly contemplating whether to leave her husband, complaining that I don't text her enough. But what is there to text? There’s nothing to say to her outside of coordinating our next mess of a hookup. Just the other day, I told her I felt fat; I’m unhappy with myself because I hated what I was seeing in the mirror, and she just patted me on the shoulder and said she 'didn't mind'; that she found me sexy anyway. It made me feel ten times worse. She’s enabling every single one of my worst impulses. All we do is hide away from her husband, eat garbage, sleep together, and breathe in her secondhand smoke.

Kaelen lay in the quiet darkness, his mind inevitably drifting back to Valentina. Making love to her had been the absolute pinnacle of his existence, an experience so entirely captivating that nothing since had even come close. With Valentina, intimacy was a fluid, vibrant conversation. She brought a playful lightheartedness and an effortless grace to their bedroom; she was flexible, deeply attuned to his every breath, and remarkably responsive. There was an unbelievable, untouched tightness to her, a purity that made every touch feel as profound and electric as if it were her first time, yet paired with a devotion that was entirely theirs. Every encounter with her left him feeling transcendent, anchored, and intensely alive.

By contrast, his encounters with Bessie felt like a hollow theatrical exercise. Bessie preferred a rougher, more aggressive dynamic; she wanted to be manhandled, and while Kaelen didn't mind stepping into that dominant role to satisfy her, it felt entirely performative. It was purely mechanical, driven by friction rather than feeling. There was no emotional height, no breathless wonder, and none of the exhilarating depth he had known with Valentina. With Bessie, sex was just a temporary distraction that left him feeling drained; with Valentina, it had been a sacred, intoxicating sanctuary.

I miss who I was with Valentina. Godfuckingdamnit, I fucked up. Back on the island, we’d go to the gym together every single day. She cared about her health, which meant she also cared about mine. We’d dance in the kitchen while prepping healthy meals. She inspired me to stop eating trash, to stop letting myself decay. I looked good then. I felt like my former elite athlete self again. I felt like a hero. Valentina had standards; she would never put up with this lazy, destructive behavior from me. She’ll tell me in her gentle voice that health is something we don’t appreciate until it’s gone and that she cares too much about me to let myself go.

Now, I spend my days sending a barrage of messages to Victor, trying to harangue him, trying to get under his skin so he’ll leave her alone. But he doesn't bite. He just tolerates me like I'm a buzzing fly.

Every single morning I wake up and wonder... if I asked Valentina to meet, would she take me back? But then those words ring in my head: 'We're not a TV sitcom... I'm happy for you, I hope it works out.'

I feel sick with guilt. She was a saint. She tried everything to make us work in those months when I was being an asshole to her, and I made it physically impossible for her because I was too weak to stand up to my ex and too cowardly to let myself be loved. I have so many regrets I can barely breathe under the weight of them. I even recently wrote Valentina a letter... told her that if there were only twenty-four hours left in this world, she was the one I would want to be with, that I’d spend every last second holding her in my arms.

I missed the way she used to look at me because when I close my eyes and try to imagine what 'home' feels like... it’s always been her."

 

My love’s love keeps me warm

A gaze across the table,

reaching beyond time and space

My love’s heart is a secret art;

we are never apart for too long

in the beauty of his grace,

stirring at the base

 

My love’s hands chase my body

my fingertips grazing across his face

His lips kiss me gently then hard —

all-consuming, without any guard

Walls fall down,

clothes discarded

once and for all

 

My love’s arms hold me steady

rough and ready, eye to eye

filling me with never ending highs

My love’s glorious dick

is reminiscent of

a body politic —

Power, vulnerability, strength

all flowing from his tip

 

My love’s expression

is the face that launched a thousand ships

navigating starships in a cosmic race

deep inside,

everyplace of me

My love’s embrace is face to face,

legs sliding down, interlaced

with our collective history

My love’s touch is a coup de grâce

breathing life into me

his taste on my tongue

 

My love’s love is a warm place

 

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

United States President Otto Caldwell sits alone in the private study adjacent to the Oval Office. It is late, well past midnight, and the silence of the White House is heavy. He holds a lukewarm mug of coffee in one hand, his fingers tracing the rim. He stares at a small stack of leather-bound journals on the side table, then looks out the window at the distant, glowing obelisk of the Washington Monument.

“They think it’s all bravado. They look at the television screens, they see me waving at the rallies, throwing my chest out, talking about our military might, our warheads, our steel. The critics write their columns calling me loud, calling me simple, calling me a brute.

Let them.

When you are dealing with nuclear states, with fanatic cells, with men who only understand the language of force, you don’t show them your poetry. You don’t try to be ‘nice.’ Being nice to a wolf just gets you eaten. You show them the teeth of the machine. You show them how many weapons you have, and you watch them get in line. And if they think I’m a little slow, a little simple? Perfect. It’s the best trap in the world. Play a little dumb, and everyone in the room starts trying to prove how smart they are. They talk. They boast. They spill their hands, and I collect the intel without ever having to ask.

But God, it is exhausting playing the giant all the time.

My life isn’t my own anymore. It belongs to the 24/7 crisis loop. I don't sleep. I’m on call every second of every day, carrying the weight of a nation that only sees the caricature. Nobody asks how Otto is doing. They ask what the President can do for them. They ask for favors, for funding, for signatures, for pardons. I am the enabler. The provider. The one who takes care of everyone.

Even in my own marriage, it seems I was destined to be the giver who gets left behind. I really thought she would be the one. My third wife, Eva. The one I’d spend the rest of my life with. But she filed for divorce. The public saw us smiling on the south lawn, but the house was empty. Maybe that’s the price a man my age pays for marrying someone so much younger; eventually, the youth of the world calls to them, and they find younger men to occupy their time. It makes me sad. It just makes me incredibly sad. I look at my youngest son, and I realize I barely know him. I don't have time to. The presidency demands everything, and it pays you back in quiet rooms and legal filings.

Thank God for my girls.

My daughters are the absolute light of my life. Beautiful; gorgeous, really, both of them; but I raised them to never, ever rely on that. I told them: think with your heads, build your own businesses, be independent. I wanted them strong.

My eldest, Nadya... she is such an introvert, so quiet, but with this brilliant, roaring mind. I wanted so badly to push her into the spotlight, to make her a voice for her generation. The network executives practically begged her, offering her her own television shows, prime-time slots, anything she wanted. She turned them all down. Every single one. She wanted her privacy. She wanted her quiet, creative projects, away from the blinding glare of the cameras. I love her for that. I respect her so deeply for protecting her peace.

A secure, encrypted chime cut through the silent study. President Caldwell pulls the satellite phone from his pocket, his eyes scanning the flashing crimson alert: [PROJECT SUPERNOVA: NATIONAL SECURITY INCIDENT RECORDED]. He looks at the frantic brief detailing how Valentina’s sharp, quiet foresight had just shattered another one of the Pentagon's classified operational timelines.

Leaning back in his leather chair, a low chuckle breaks through the quiet room. She did it again!

Valentina is a nice girl. A kind girl. She reminds me so much of Nadya in that way. She has this quiet, introverted stillness to her, yet she is so social when she wants to be. Like Nadya, she is a deeply, fiercely private person. She’s highly empathetic, deeply emotionally intelligent; I’ve watched her read a room, but she has this razor-sharp, strategic mind beneath it all. I can’t quite map her, and I love that about her. She’s a beautiful puzzle.

But then, the Pentagon couldn't map her either.

He looks down at his desk, his eyes drifting to a highly classified dossier locked under a glass weight. The name on the tab is blank, replaced only by a stamped astronomical symbol: a star collapsing in on itself.

Supernova.

That was the codename they gave her. A girl so brilliant, so terrifyingly perceptive, that her mind was classified as a localized hazard. She didn’t mean to do it. She was just looking at the data, solving the poetry of patterns, but she kept tripping over tripwires she didn't even know were there. A girl in her room, analyzing the world, accidentally causing numerous national security incidents just by pointing out the inconsistencies the military-industrial complex thought they had buried.

When she spoke, systems broke. When she calculated, operations shattered.

So they did what the machine always does to things it cannot control or understand: they sequestered her. They put a dome over her. They pulled her out of the light, tucked her away into the deep shadows, keeping her intentionally hidden from the public eye. They wanted to make sure the world never saw the star that could blind them all. They thought they had her contained.

But they forgot that a supernova's gravity bends everything around it.

He touched his right ear instinctively, his fingers gently brushing the faint, irregular scar tissue on the lobe. His eyes darkened as the memory rushed back, heavy and unbidden. It was the phantom sting of a microsecond — the exact, terrifying fraction of a second where life and history almost split in two. Every time his skin met that uneven ridge of flesh, he was instantly pulled back to the blinding glare of the campaign stage, the roaring ocean of the crowd, and then that sharp, deafening crack that still echoed in his sleep.

He could still feel the phantom heat of the supersonic round passing close enough to burn. If he hadn’t turned his head toward the monitor at that exact, impossible moment, the bullet wouldn't have just grazed him; it would have claimed him entirely. In the aftermath, he had stood tall, absorbing the panic of everyone around him and acting as the unyielding shield for his family and his team. But alone in the quiet dark, that scar remained a silent testament to how fragile the line truly was between the giant they saw, and the man who had been left entirely alone in the dark with his own survival.

I still have the nightmares. Every few nights, I'm back on that stage under the hot campaign lights. The roar of the crowd. And then the crack.

A microsecond. If I hadn’t turned my head to look at the monitor at that exact, tiny fraction of a second, that sniper's bullet wouldn't have grazed my ear. It would have gone straight through my skull. It would have scrambled my brain on national television.

When it happened, the secret service swarmed. The campaign team was in a frenzy. Everyone around me was crying, shaking, terrified. And there I was, the candidate, the tough guy, spending all my energy patching them up. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just a scratch. Everyone did their job perfectly. We are going to be absolutely fine.” I had to be the anchor. I had to be invincible.

But inside? I was shattered. I realized our entire security apparatus had a gaping, terrifying hole in it. The people paid to protect me had missed a team of highly trained military snipers. I was entirely, utterly alone with the horror of my own near-death.

So, I went online. Anonymous. On a forum flooded with tens of thousands of screaming voices, I wrote a message. I kept it vague, intentionally ambiguous, but I poured out how shaken up I was. How terrified I felt.

I waited. Hours passed. Thousands of posts rolled by, ignoring me. Just another ghost crying into the digital void.

And then... ding.

One notification. One message.

It was from her. From Valentina. She wrote to me so gently. She said I must have angels looking out for me. She told me that what I went through was a truly frightening event, and that it is completely normal to take time to get over something like that. She said it was good to talk it out confidentially, that I didn't have to carry it alone. She was so incredibly kind.

She was the only one who answered.

He lets out a long, slow breath, a faint, genuine smile finally breaking through his tired face.

To the world, I’m the President. I’m the man with the nuclear codes, the negotiator who commands fleets. But to one quiet girl on the internet, I was just a human being who was afraid.

The military-industrial complex thinks they have her hidden in a cage. They think they’ve successfully quarantined the Supernova, keeping her dangerous foresight locked away behind top-secret encryption protocols. They think she’s just an asset under surveillance, an unpredictable mind that occasionally predicts the future inconsistencies of their global chess board. They think they are the ones tracking the timeline.

But they don't realize that the cage they built is the only reason the house of cards hasn't fallen yet.”

President Caldwell sighed. It was almost morning again; another day of playing the giant. Another twelve-hour stretch of wearing the heavy, brassy mask of the blunt instrument the world demanded he be — loud, unyielding, and deceptively simple.

The first pale gray light of dawn was just beginning to bleed through the bulletproof glass of the Oval Office, signaling the imminent arrival of his morning briefings, of global crises, and of a parade of people who wanted something from him but never cared to ask how he was. In just a few hours, he would have to face the cold reality of Eva’s lawyers, the distance of his son, and the endless, arrogant posturing of generals who thought they were the chess masters of this country.

He instinctively reached up, his fingers brushing the faint, irregular scar tissue on his earlobe. He let out one last, slow breath, a faint smile touching his lips in the fading dark. Let the day begin.

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

Juno, the ex-wife of Victor, the Crown Prince of Azūr, sits perfectly upright behind her sleek, immaculate, and entirely minimalist computer workstation. There is no clutter here; every surface is spotless. The cold, bright glare from her premium, dual-monitor setup illuminates her face. On one screen, low-tier video editing software is open, its timeline tightly arranged with chopped audio files and manipulated clips of her ex-husband. On the other, a pristine, open browser tab displays a social media feed frozen on a picture of Valentina.

The desk features nothing but a wireless mouse, a keyboard, and a single, neatly placed smartphone. In the background, the eerie, rhythmic scratching noises of her twenty exotic pets echoing from their meticulously cleaned cages provide the only disruption to the sterile silence.

She glares at the screens, her posture rigid, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard with absolute, calculated poise.

“People accuse me of being a gold digger, but I don’t need the Azūr family. I never did. I was very well taken care of by my father; my family comes from real wealth, and I didn’t need a single penny of Victor’s blood money to survive. I am completely independent.

Juno pauses, aggressively refreshing her bank portal on a secondary monitor, drafting a raw, demanding extortion text to Victor’s legal team asking for an immediate baseline increase for 'ancillary costs.'

Victor is a liar. A fraud. A toxic, manipulative abuser who used to wet the bed because his mind is so fundamentally broken. He wants everyone to think he’s this stoic, untouchable leader, but he’s weak… He’s not a real man!

She pauses, her head turning slowly toward her mirrored vanity across the room. It is a sprawling, meticulously arranged altar of luxury. Adorning the velvet stands are rows of glittering bracelets, heavy gold bands, and rows of pristine necklaces. Resting right at the center is her absolute favorite pair of flawless diamond earrings.

Every single piece of it was a gift bought by Victor during their marriage in which she had confided to her best friend that was all Victor had been good for.

She glares directly at the brilliant display of diamonds, her expression hardening with a bizarre, defensive amnesia as she looks back at her monitors.

The moment I filed for divorce, it was because there was absolutely zero emotional intimacy in that house. He was cold, sterile, and distant. He never bought me gifts, never cherished my presence; he didn’t know how to treat a kind and gentle woman like me. So I walked away. I chose my freedom.

And I kept our house pristine! I would spend hours cleaning and baking these flawless, elaborate cakes, sculpting the frosting until it looked like something out of a high-end boutique magazine, and posting the photos for everyone to see, but that wasn’t enough for him. When we were newlyweds, the bastard began downloading apps to cheat on me with other women. I would scream at him in the mornings after checking his phone, and he would just stand there and deny he was seeing anyone.

Victor never understood me. Not once. And he never bought me gifts; not for Christmas, not for Mother’s Day. He completely withheld physical affection from me, but would always want to have sex. I felt emotionally starved. It seemed like everyone else had a fairy-tale life except for me. I felt trapped in a vacuum of his indifference, and so I ended our six-year marriage. Six whole years of my youth, completely wasted on his coldness. In that final year, we were living completely separate lives… I felt so free! I traveled all around the world on his dime and took beautiful pictures for social media. I bought myself everything I wanted... but soon, the noise faded, and I began to feel entirely empty.

Juno abruptly stands up, walking with rigid precision over to the kitchen counter where a freshly baked, intricately frosted vanilla cake sits. Without bothering to grab a plate or a knife, she grabs a fork and begins shoving massive, heavy bites into her mouth. She eats rapidly, aggressively, barely tasting the sugar, consuming the entire cake in a frantic, self-destructive blur until the pan is completely empty.

For a single moment, she breathes heavily, staring at her reflection in the dark kitchen window. Then, a wave of familiar panic hits her eyes. She drops the fork onto the counter, turns on her heel, and runs toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

From behind the door comes the violent, agonizing sound of her purging everything she just ate into the toilet.

A few minutes later, the toilet flushes. Juno emerges, wiping her mouth with a damp towel, her eyes bloodshot, her face pale. She steps in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing down her shirt, her mind instantly shifting back into its hyper-vigilant defense framework. She has to keep up her figure. She has to stay thin. She cannot let herself lose control.

A year after the divorce was finalized, I saw that he had found someone. Valentina.

And it made my skin crawl. When I found out he was with her; it made me physically sick. My stomach literally turned out of pure shock and disgust. I couldn't even keep my food down; I spent the whole week throwing up my meals because my body was entirely rejected by the sheer humiliation of what he did to me.

I know what people think. They think she’s perfect. They look at Valentina with her top-tier university degrees, her effortless education, and the flawless, sophisticated poise she projects just by speaking a single sentence… They say everyone just 'falls in love' with her the moment she walks into a room. I felt like if I were to be standing next to her, I would have to use a holographic identity just to survive the comparison; cloning a version of myself where I appeared taller, thinner, and younger looking than her.

I kept looking at myself in the mirror, obsessively comparing myself to her: the way she carries herself; that lithe, athletic body, running her smug little 5Ks like she’s completely untouched by gravity. It’s disgusting. I think about my body, how I carried my son and the twins, and I am hyper-aware of my own reality. I’m short. I have stretch marks. I keep gaining weight even when I work so hard not to eat. I have a completely flat chest. I have spent my entire life jumping from one punishing, miserable diet to the next, throwing up my meals just to stay thin, starving myself just to occupy a fraction less space in a world that ignores me. I tear my own body apart pieces at a time, and she just exists; natural, effortless, and adored.

It made me want to rip my hair out! It is so unbelievably unfair. Why does a man like him get to live out some comfortable, perfect timeline with her while I am left here completely alone?

I was so scared that I’ll be left behind, so I decided to use the children against him. I told him I wanted to be a family again. I tried to guilt-trip him — I know that he never wanted to be a fractured family because of the tragic way he grew up. And I humbled myself. I went to him, I cried, I practically begged him to take me back and fix what he broke. I told him I could change. We tried for a few weeks, but then the bastard rejected me anyway. He looked me dead in the eye and told me in his robotic voice that he only wanted a ‘co-parenting’ relationship with me, and that we were over for good.

During this time, something had happened and Valentina went missing for a period. I hoped she would never come back. But there was a sick part of me too that admired her. I admired her courage, her genuine beauty, her art. She hadn’t been spoiled like me by her parents, but she was grounded and strong. There was a part of me that wished I could be more like her, but I tried hard to glaze over that and suppress it.

But with her out of the picture, her shadow just loomed larger. It drove me insane because... I couldn't stop looking at her life. She has this effortless, grounded strength that I hated because I couldn't replicate it. My parents gave me everything, they shielded me, but it left me feeling so unprotected compared to her. She didn't have that cushion, yet she was somehow unshakeable. I hated how much I fixated on her art, her courage, her face... I caught myself staring at her updates, practically suffocated by how much attention she gets just for existing.

I started to sketch again and I compared our faces. Was hers more symmetrical? Were her eyes prettier? The more I thought about her, the more I became completely obsessed with her. I spent most of my time tending to my horse, letting the nanny take care of the children, and posting nonstop on social media about how Victor had been the worst husband in the world. The bastard deserved it after rejecting me!

Even my psychiatrist tries to twist it against me. She sits there telling me I suffer from a 'vulnerable type of narcissistic personality,' mapping out 'borderline traits' and a 'covert narcissistic structure.' She claims I always make myself the victim of everything and everyone, that I refuse to take responsibility for my actions. But she doesn't get it. She doesn't see that I am the victim here! It’s why I should be happy but I’m not.

I hate him so much, but then I think, what if he does fall in love with her? What if he actually becomes happy with her? I really don’t want that to happen. I know I should focus on my own happiness and well-being, but why does no man ever fall in love with me? Why can't I be the princess in a beautiful fairy tale? Why am I not enough? I wish I was smart and educated or at least knew how to draw well, but all I do all day is scroll through social media and look at other people’s lives, realizing how their timelines are so much better than mine.

That day when Victor came to pick up his belongings at our house, I threw all his things into trash bags. It made me feel so powerful to see his life reduced to heavy black plastic sitting on the driveway. He was visibly angered when he saw them, but he didn’t say a word. He just stood there.

I realized right then that no matter what I did, Victor wasn’t going to rekindle our relationship, even if I begged and cried and pleaded. He told me he didn’t want to take our young children away from their mother because he’s very close to his own mother, but that co-parenting was the absolute boundary.

Well, if he can’t take the children away from me, it means I hold all the leverage. I could do whatever I wanted. So, I began my revenge. I started the rumors. I sat down at my computer and began telling everyone he was gay.

Yes, everyone! VICTOR IS GAY! I shouted it loud and clear to anyone who would talk to me about him. I took digital samples of his voice files and used AI cloning tools to slander him everywhere on social media, generating audio tracks making him say: ‘I’M GAY PEOPLE! THAT’S RIGHT! I’M GAY!’

Honestly, it doesn’t even matter if the small-minded people on the internet fully get it yet; it is the absolute, undeniable truth. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If our social circles finally open their eyes and see that Victor is just a closeted gay man living in complete denial, then everyone will finally realize the reality of our marriage.

It proves his rejection of me had absolutely nothing to do with me. It means he didn't 'upgrade' to her — because you can't upgrade from me. It just means he is not into women, period. His entire relationship with her is just a fake, desperate cover story!

Now, my days finally have a purpose. I tend to my horse, feed my twenty exotic pets, and then I spend hours sitting in the dark, using low-tier AI tools and video editing software to cut together spiteful, highly manipulated videos designed to ruin his image. I construct fake timelines, weave intricate webs of emotional abuse, and post them across social media.

Victor knows exactly what I’m doing, which is why he should be terrified of me. He completely avoids my phone calls and numerous messages now, refusing to engage, communicating strictly through ice-cold text messages only when it concerns the children. He thinks his silence is a shield, but to me, it’s just room to yell louder.

They can call it a smear campaign all they want. I know exactly what I am doing. I am rewriting history, I am extorting his bank account, and I am burning his name to the ground. If I can't have the life, the worship, and the adoration I want, then I will make sure his reality is a living hell.

It gives me so much satisfaction to hurt him… much more so than when I slept with his best friend in our very bed. But I have to think, what more could I do to him to make him suffer? I’m so anxious, hurt, and furious, and I have no one I can possibly tell this to except my psychiatrist, who only keeps prescribing me more pills.

What do I do now? How do I burn his name completely to the ground?”

I’m a bit of a novice to the game, but I’ve found I really love it. However, I have a bit of a hard time understanding the overall strategies of grandmasters, who often seem erratic, have unpredictable openings, let their queens be taken early etc.

If you’re a fan of chess, what is your favourite chess strategy and who is your favourite player?

Note: This is an excerpt from American Dream

The world beyond our bedroom window was a blur of high-velocity traffic and cold digital noise, but within the perimeter of our sheets, time had slowed to a heavy, analogue crawl. A low, ambient frequency floated from the speakers; a playlist he had meticulously curated for me, a slow-spinning archive of sound meant to anchor us both in the present.

As the music drifted through the half-light, it seemed to work like a temporal loop, folding the long years backward until the space between who we were and who we had become completely dissolved.

There was something about the Champion’s voice I really loved, the texture and the depth, the quiet contemplation behind everything he said, and sometimes the silliness he would reveal in his most unguarded moments.

It was on that rainy day, beneath the low, rumbling weight of the storm, that we finally began to speak of our origin, tracing the tangled threads of an unresolved history that had begun seven years ago.

Earlier that morning, I had uncovered a piece of the past hidden away from the light: a letter he had written to me years ago but had never sent. The typed words carried the raw, jagged lamentation of our first ruin. In it, he had mourned the abrupt end of us, writing of his sheer disbelief that I could cut him off so easily, leaving him marooned in a sudden, icy silence. He hadn't understood then that it was a unilateral decision born out of absolute panic, a violent survival mechanism that fractured my own psyche.

I had been pregnant. And I had terminated the pregnancy.

It was something I didn’t like to think about which I had successfully blocked out of my mind; a memory I had locked away in the deepest vaults of my mind, buried under layers of quiet grief I never allowed myself to admit nor carefully examine.

I hadn’t made the decision unilaterally because I didn't love him; I had done so because I didn’t think he loved me. I had been paralysed by the fear that if I stayed, I would be forced to bring a new life into the world entirely on my own, left to raise a child without a hand to hold, stranded in a world that felt cold, vast, and completely indifferent.

Seven years ago, I didn't know how to stay through a storm. My only defense against the crushing weight of pain was flight; I was so used to slipping away from things that were broken that I mistook running for survival. I packed up my grief and fled, so I ran away from him.

I always regretted how we handled that silence, he murmured, his breath a warm, heavy weight against my neck as he shifted, moving to lie on top of me in the bed. The solid, familiar gravity of his body pressed me deep into the mattress, a grounding anchor against the mainland. After you left, I lost my center.

I remained silent; I didn't answer with words, I couldn’t. Tears welled up catching in my lashes as the sheer weight of the past pressed down on us, but it was still something I felt I couldn’t talk about. It was still too tender, too raw to map with language. Instead, I simply reached up, my fingers tracing the long, elegant line of his back, finding comfort in the solid reality of his spine.

My fingers moved with clinical precision, navigating the coordinates of his skeleton from the cervical vertebrae at C6 and C7, down the thoracic curve to L1, and settling at the base of S5. It was a map of past violence, the exact structural points where he had suffered severe spinal injuries during his years of relentless impact.

A sudden, quiet clarity settled over me all at once and I remembered the words of Kahlil Gibran: Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls, the most massive characters are seared with scars. (42)

As my hand wandered over the raised tissue of his skin, I was mapping a beautiful landscape of a life lived without regrets; a physical archive of a man who had constantly tested the boundaries of gravity. I traced the deep, silver tracks on his arm where the bone and muscle had been entirely rebuilt after a catastrophic motorcycling accident.

My fingers moved higher, finding the hidden ridge of scar tissue at the base of his skull, the permanent mark left behind when a car had rammed into him, nearly crushing his system entirely.

Beneath the smooth heat of his skin, I could feel the subterranean tremors of a man walking a dangerous edge. I had uncovered the cost of his public glory: like so many high-profile figures who refuse to show weakness, his invincibility was a performance; a highly engineered illusion. The truth was far more fragile; he was bound to a grueling, tenuous regimen of high-potency stimulants to maintain his daily performance and powerful narcotics to quiet the agony of his old injuries. The flawless, indestructible hero the public saw on their screens was a world away from the fragile, chemical reality of the vulnerable man laying on top of me now.

I feel like my body is falling apart, he confessed softly, the raw sincerity in his dark eyes leaving him utterly exposed. He shifted slightly, a subtle wince crossing his features as if his own skeleton were betraying him. My foot is hurting today. Every old injury is starting to signal at once. I’m not in my twenties anymore…I’m not at the peak of my health.

For the first time, the Champion was grappling with the terrifying weight of his own mortality. This was the same man who had lived his youth at a breakneck speed, leaping into abysses, testing the limits of fear, and tearing through mountain passages on his motorcycle with a fierce disregard for safety. He recalled those wild years with a heavy, aching nostalgia, remembering a time when he felt entirely untouchable, like a god who lived far beyond the reach of time and decay. Now, in the quiet of this room, he was finally waking up to the fragile truth that he was only human.

I wish I was twenty-five again, he whispered into the hollow of my shoulder. I wish my body wasn't failing me.

He avoided my gaze and I held his face between my hands, drawing his dark, glistening eyes to mine, letting every defense I had ever built completely melt away between us.

Hey, look at me… Darling, darling… please look at me. I love who you are right now, I told him, my voice steady, bypassing my intellect to speak directly from the heart. I love the man who emerged from all that wreckage. The trials you endured didn't destroy you; they made you who you are. You are strong enough for everything I need and desire, even with the pain you carry, and even when the world outside tries to tear us apart.

As my hand returned to his spine, reinforcing the alignment of his body against mine, I leaned up to close the distance between us.

Darling, I said softly, We can get through this together, the words settling between us like a sacred, unspoken vow. I looked into his beautiful eyes full of depth. We might not be the immortal twenty-year-olds we used to be, but I don’t want those ghosts; I want you exactly as you are now. The brilliant man who has lived fiercely, carrying every scar and secret in your skin; the man you are still becoming; and the man you are only when we are together. We’re a team now…

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, his grip on my hand tightening until it was almost bruised.

Promise me you won't leave this time, he whispered, a desperate plea vibrating in his throat. Promise me you won't run.

In that quiet space, I couldn’t find the words to explain what was shifting inside me, only that it seemed as if the entire universe had conspired to bring us back together.

Only if you promise the same, I answered, my heart fracturing and healing all at once, leaping in my chest as if answering a long-lost call, until the boundaries between us completely faded. We stay. Until the very end…

We’re stuck with each other then, he said, a smile breaking his somber features.

He closed the distance entirely, his mouth finding mine in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of rain and absolute surrender. His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending a sharp, electric shiver down my spine, and he looked deeply into my eyes before kissing me gently on the cheek. He took my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles as we let the heavy silence dissolve, sinking back into the soft linen of the bed where the rest of the world couldn’t reach us.

It was still raining outside as we made love slowly, a heavy downpour punctuated by the deep, distant rumble of thunder.

 

Footnote 42: Kahlil Gibran from The Broken Wings. His quote, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls, the most massive characters are seared with scars,” illustrates the idea that deep hardships and trauma, whilst painful, are what ultimately forge enduring resilience and greatness. It also reminds us that what we often view as damage, our emotional or physical scars, are actually badges of survival that build character and depth; it is exactly those people who have weathered the most tumultuous storms, who are often the ones with the most profound empathy, wisdom, and inner strength.

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

The scene is a dimly lit room, illuminated only by the blue glow of a monitor. Prince Marcus Sol sits hunched, vibrating with a frantic, suppressed energy. The room is pitch black, save for the violent glare of the terminal screen bouncing off his sweat-sheened face. He is sitting perfectly rigid, his posture artificially straight; regal, almost, before he begins to tremble.

He reads aloud, voice dripping with venom.

"Didn’t notice at first…” He slams his hand on the desk. “Thunder clap! A fucking thunder clap for what?! An absence of light? A doodle in the margins of a diary nobody asked to read? It’s nothing. It’s a void. It is the absolute, unadulterated sound of one hand clapping in a padded room.

He leans closer to the screen, squinting. 

And Valentina... "Bitter invective." You file me away, don’t you, sweetheart? Into the 'naughty boy' drawer. "He’s having a tantrum." I'm not having a tantrum! I am conducting a surgical dissection of the void. I am the only one with a scalpel sharp enough to lance the abscess of this... this pretentiousness!

He jumps up, pacing the small room, gesticulating wildly.

They're all nodding. All of them. Swaying like cultists at the altar of the unknown. "The seen and the seer." Please. It’s the seen and the sycophant. It’s the emperor’s new silhouette. I'm the child in the crowd, screaming that the Emperor is naked, and they’re busy writing three stanzas about his... his "unmapped geography."

He stops pacing, staring at a corner of the room. His composure snaps, leaving only a sharp, suffocating sob of pure, paralysed resentment.

That’s what he does. That’s the trick. He drapes himself in shadows so thick you can’t see the pathetic man beneath the capes. A thousand names. A new one for every horizon. It’s not poetry, it’s an eviction notice. He’s running from himself, and we’re supposed to applaud the dust trail.

He walks back to the computer, his voice dropping to a desperate, pleading whisper.

Why? Why is that art? Why is a man erasing his own face worshipped, while I... I am bleeding my entire soul onto this screen every hour of every day, and nobody... nobody stops to file me under "thunder clap."

He spits the name like a curse, his fingers twitching over the keys.

Victor. Always Victor. The absolute heir, right? Crowned in the static of a shifting sky while the rest of us pull the gears in the mud. Look at them lining up to hand him the horizon. They lock the coordinates for him. They read the dark for him. They treat his arrival like a cosmic alignment, a birthright, a solar accession, while I am left standing here in the hallway, holding a bag of stale cookies and a handful of disposable aliases. He didn't earn the shadow. He didn't fight the warfare. He just stepped into the frame and let the world bleed for him.

His voice splinters, the sound collapsing into a ragged, helpless choke of fury.

I am... I am a ghost in the machinery. I am the shadow of a shadow, screaming in a language nobody speaks. I am the "heir apparent" to nothing but my own bile. And I hate it. I hate it so much I want to burn it all down and sow salt in the ashes.

He stares at the black screen, his breathing ragged. 

Block me. Go on. Block me. At least then I’d exist. At least then I’d be part of your little narrative. You talk about war. You have no idea what war is. The war is here. Right here. In the gap between the match and the flame. And I am losing.

He collapses into the chair, defeated, whispering.

Quite the thunder clap. My god. It’s just static. Just static, and I’m the only one listening. 

A sharp, manic whisper.

NEIN. NEIN. Dismissed.” 

A heavy, suffocating silence fills the room. Marcus Sol sits frozen, staring into the blank screen, his breathing shallow. Suddenly, a clean, high-pitched electronic chime cuts through the dark. A small notification box blinks in the corner of his monitor.

He flinches. Slowly, his hand trembles as he moves the mouse. He clicks it. He reads the text aloud, his voice flat, stripped entirely of its theatrical venom, completely unmoored.

It is from Valentina: "Hi Marcus Sol. Yes, I've received your letters of apology. Yes, I'd like to make amends. I hope you've been well! Let’s find a time to talk soon. — Valentina."

He stares at the words. The grand, cosmic warfare evaporates. The sovereign facade shatters, leaving no trace of the commander or his imaginary battlefield. In the cool light of the terminal, his face catches a sudden, luminous grace. An attempt to find words to answer the silence of the room goes nowhere; instead, the sheer relief of being pulled out of the dark catches in the throat. A long, shaky breath held, it feels, for months, slowly releases. Fingers rest loosely on the desk as the quiet truth of her words settles into the room. 

He opens his mouth to say something, to the room, to anyone, but no sound comes out; he slowly closes his laptop, plunging the room into absolute, pitch-black silence.

“I have so many names, a new one for every horizon.” — Anonymous

 

“He was a man of shadows, but she was the one who knew how to read the dark.” — Anonymous

 

Beneath a shifting sky

he lies awake in the complexities of his memories

a scintillating star in the crosshairs of his

metamorphosis

 

All the timelines were merging

into a kind of impermanence

of the overhead electricity of the horizon;

His eyes’ eternal turbulence

Scars and birthmarks,

annexed

into a solar accession

 

A great, dark text erasing itself

to be himself — was the unanswered question

The sky, speaking in jagged ellipses

of every apocalypse he’d ever faced

A ceiling of swollen iron

and all those stolen moments in the night;

The upper air,

choking on its own light

 

The baseline of the script was sworn

in the hour when their coordinates locked

A timeworn tale between the seen

and the seer

When the clock struck zero on the skin

A dual orbit of him and her;

interlocking silhouettes,

break in

 

The day the first name took root

from centuries of brutal warfare;

The heir, absolute

fated to stop all conflict

weighted by the gravity of a shooting script

was born

 

Even if there were no stars in the sky

if every face you wear

bearing your soul

were no longer recognisable in the mirror

 

Even if the sun didn’t shine

across the coastline

and we were wrapped in darkness

abstracted by invisible signs

and we could no longer see

into each other's scintillating eyes

 

Even if fear and grief

rained down on us without relief

and flooded us in the anxiety of being seen

in our secret society

fully naked in our experience

of every imagined scene

of the beautiful and the mundane

everything sacred and profane

 

I still know that the world will tilt its axis

every single time in the warmth of your voice

every fourth time you mumble

in the humbled demeanor of your mind’s glory

and the touch of your heart’s enduring stories

as we struggle and find release

with your hand in mine

of all that’s unholy and divine