Series
Striking Snake Maiden
"So that's it, you want me to beat up on a bunch of thugs is that it?" Jingfei asked her martial sister Mei Xiang. "You have been wandering far too long sister" Mei Xiang replied. "The Rock Hound Gang aren't just any bunch of local thugs as you say. They are professional killers, thieves and in a large group are not exactly easy to take on."
By Johann Hollarabout 19 hours ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
The man didn't lower the rifle, but he didn't aim it either. He stepped forward, his boots making a heavy, honest sound on the earth, unlike the gliding efficiency of the charcoal suits. "Names don't matter much out here. What matters is that you’re a 'glitch' in a very expensive suit, and you're currently trespassing on a patch of land that the facility thinks they own. I’m the one who makes sure the things they lose stay lost."
By Forest Greena day ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"This is the part where you tell me if you're a runaway or a spy," the man in the canvas jacket said, his voice cutting through Curtis's disorientation. He hadn't moved from the doorframe, and the cigarette was now nothing more than a glowing ember held between calloused fingers. "Because you've got that look. The 'I've seen things that aren't in the brochure' look."
By Forest Greena day ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis didn't wait to find out what the "calibration" entailed. He pivoted, using the momentum of the manager’s grip to launch himself backward. He didn't aim for the door—the woman was already there, her presence a physical wall. Instead, he drove his elbow into the manager’s ribs, feeling the sickening crunch of carbon-fiber plating beneath the canvas. The synthetic didn't gasp or flinch; he simply tightened his hold, his fingers locking around Curtis’s wrist like a vice.
By Forest Greena day ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
A line of recovery drones hovered in a tight, geometric formation, their red sensors sweeping the river's edge with clinical precision. They weren't searching randomly; they were patrolling a perimeter, waiting for the group to emerge from the drainage veins. The facility hadn't just tracked them; they had predicted their exit point. The drones moved in a slow, synchronized dance, their spotlights carving long, white fingers through the mist.
By Forest Greena day ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
He looked back toward Sunset Vista. The motel didn't look like a building anymore; it looked like a lure, a brightly colored piece of bait set in the middle of a wasteland. The realization hit him with a cold, logical clarity: he hadn't been found by accident. He had been steered here. The amnesia, the "manager," the clinical woman—they were all part of a controlled environment, a psychological centrifuge designed to spin the "Curtis" persona away until only "Elias" remained.
By Forest Greena day ago in Fiction
