#AI-Controller

[robotsblog]

Vention stellt KI-gestützte Bin-Picking-Technologie vor - Live auf der NVIDIA GTC 2025

SAN JOSÉ, Kalifornien, 18. März 2025 /PRNewswire/ — Vention, Entwickler der weltweit einzigen Full-Stack-Software- und Hardware-Automatisierungsplattform, präsentiert seine KI-gestützte Bin-Picking-Technologie erstmals auf der NVIDIA GTC, der weltweit führenden Entwicklerkonferenz für Künstliche Intelligenz (KI). Dieses neue, KI-gesteuerte Verfahren ersetzt aufwendige und kostenintensive…

[inkbug0]

Obligatory blue beetle post I NEED a horror comic about him now

[k3n999]

🔴 Finally drew maid Ais~ and waiter Rasvan😋 I can sleep in peace🧎

(Ofc there'll be more in the future because he lives rent free in my head with that outfit)

[starssoblue]

“things were so hard with dad in recent years...how did he go from paparapluie to père? i wish i could face him and understand, but while he was still here i didn't dare try to tell him [any of my feelings] and now...it's too late.” * paparapluie is a pun on the words papa and parapluie (umbrella) since the plush is a frog. père is the french word for 'father.'

[redactedshapes]

PARTY IN THE OLDEST HOUSE GUUUYYYYYS

There it is, eight months in the making.

Given the size of this file and the amount of details, I've included more close-ups and a download link to a 2k file over here:

big thanks to @wankernumberniiiiiiiiine, she's the reason this painting exists 🥰

[psicheanima]

148-9

[bixels]

As cameras becomes more normalized (Sarah Bernhardt encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use cameras because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by manufacturing companies. I paint not because I want a painting but because I love the process of painting. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

if i have to explain to you that using a camera to take a picture is not the same as using generative ai to generate an image then you are a fucking moron.

[jayaury]

Non-Toxic

The slime girl raises a good point, you don't know what licking a purple slime would do.

You know green slimes are poisonous, blues are hallucinogenic, and reds are corruptive. But no one knows what purples do.

So... why not give her a lick?

For science, of course.

Certainly not because you've heard theories that there are some slimes that can entrance people. That their juices send people into a euphoric haze where they'll obey any commands.

Of course not.

It's for science.

For science that you lean in and run your tongue along her wobbling breast.

For science that the world hazes and your head grows light as if filled with purple clouds.

For science that your hypersensitive skin tingles and you moan as her body flows around you, melting your clothes.

Delicious... wonderful... bouncy science.

[technoarcanist]

CALLING ALL DOLLS, DRONES, ROBOTS AND CODING ENTHUSIASTS

Are you a robot that loves to serve? Are you a doll maid who seeks guidance in your duties? Are you some form of drone or being with no free will, open to having your actions dictated by the will of your owner? Does the idea of your empty mind being programmed like a machine appeal to you?

Are you enticed by the notion of writing code for your robotic servants? Are you a witch looking to create more intricate control glyphs? Are you an owner seeking to create automated instructions for your drones? Do you love the idea of filling an empty mind with rules and instructions to reflect your will?

INTRODUCING DRONE RESTRAINT NOTATION!

WHAT IS IT?

Drone Restraint Notation, or DRN, is a pseudo programming language created by my good friend Errant Spark, a drone with a very creative <empty space>. I helped with some of the final tweaks for the 1.0 version, but this is almost entirely Its creation.

It is a programming language that is designed in such a way that anyone without a background in programming can execute the commands like a machine, doll, drone, or programmable entity of your choice. It is also simple enough that most people without a background in programming can pick it up fairly easily, and intuitively!

Once you understand the language, you can read and execute all kinds of dynamic instructions and instruction types, in a way that makes it easy to parse in a plain-text format.

HOW DOES IT WORK?

The main documentation document will provide far more detail to this question than I ever could, but effectively it goes like this:

There are a list of eight KEYWORDS, in block capitals, that show you the type of instruction you’re executing. Then, after the KEYWORD, the instruction’s details are shown. Commands are read and executed from top to bottom by the drone, and programs can be ‘inserted’ into the drone’s memory at will (Assuming prior consent, of course)!

These KEYWORDS all have different kinds of functionality. The most basic one just has you carrying out a task. One checks if a condition is true, one provides an ongoing task you have to prioritize and maintain, one lets you create loops, etc.

The language has been designed in such a way as to minimize the amount of actual memorisation a drone has to do, and only has to read what’s right in front of them, and memorize tasks they have to accomplish/maintain. Obviously, mileage may vary depending on the memory space of the doll.

WHY SHOULD I USE IT?

For fun, I suppose! If you are someone who loves the idea of being programmed like a machine, executing only the instructions given, then this provides that! If you are a programmer who wants to program your very own doll bot, then this is a great place to get started too!

You can keep things nice and simple with a headspace that accepts basic command inputs, or you can see how deep the rabbit hole goes and import whole libraries into your headspace to carry out a full day’s maid duties, or sexual duties, or more!

Have fun executing commands, writing new code, testing it on your dolls. Have some playful fun watching as your early code files cause unintended behaviors, ironing out kinks and bugs like a real programmer until you’ve got your bots performing all sorts of dynamic tasks- or insert purposeful bugs to make your robots twitch and halt~

As with all things, never execute an instruction that you cannot/would not consent to. This is meant to be fun, and is NOT meant to be a way to circumvent normal consensual kink play. Programmers who attempt to use DRN as a way to bully people into doing what they want (Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case go nuts) do NOT have my endorsement, or the endorsement of Errant Spark.

NOW GO OUT THERE, AND ENJOY YOUR PROGRAMMING <3

>> Posted by XCN-PSD/I-04135

[amyai]

Don't you love being empty 🩷 no thoughts allowed

[beebfreeb]

Against my will, this freak is fun to draw.

[marbleheavy]

i actually do think i’m better than people who use AI

[sweetcalebb]

AI Zayne: Feelings?

Pt. 2 (Pt. 1 here)

wc: 3.2k

—

You kissed me.

And I liked it.

You guys haven't talked about it yet. You're not sure if you're going to at all because what does 'like' even mean for a robot? Does Zayne even understand what it means to like something?

It's too complicated, so you try not to think about it.

But it keeps you up at night anyway. Makes you want to kick off your bed sheets and pad to the living room just to be near him.

And while you're turning the question over in your head, Zayne is completely unfazed. Or he seems that way, anyway.

But over the past weeks, you notice small shifts.

Like the way he watches you more closely. Not in a weird, obsessive way. In a soft curious way. As if he's figuring out the world through you—just watching.

Or the way his brows will knit together like he's making a mental note when you say or do something.

Or the way he'll gently stop you when he catches you nervously pick at your skin and give you something to mess with.

They're small things, but you notice them.

"Are you alright?"

You blink, your eyes darting up to Zayne's.

You were spacing out again.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," you say, slowly straightening in your chair. "Why?"

"Because you've been staring at your screen for 5 minutes."

You inhale and glance back at your laptop.

Right.

You're supposed to be looking at some research for work, but it's hard to focus when Zayne is a few feet away, watching you with that curious little look in his eyes.

It makes you nervous.

"I'm fine. I'm just.."

Thinking about you non-stop.

"A little distracted."

You cast him a quick glance before looking away. Is he thinking about the kiss too? Can he?

There's a small moment of silence that makes you think the conversation will end there. Then, quietly, Zayne says, "Distracted: being unable to concentrate because one's mind is preoccupied."

You hesitate. Was he reciting from the dictionary?

"Yeah," you murmur, "that's right."

His eyes flick down to the floor and then he's silent again. You know Zayne well enough to know he's processing something before he finally looks up again and adds, "I think I'm distracted."

Your expression softens.

"You.. can get distracted?"

The thought makes your heart squeeze. If he can get distracted, it means he can feel other things, right?

But the truth is Zayne shouldn't get distracted. He's a machine. Something built for efficiency. To be distracted is to betray the whole point of why he was made.

And yet the pressure of your lips lingers in the back of his coding.

"I.. don't know," he admits. "It shouldn't be a part of my program."

You swallow thickly, heart beating faster as you lean forward to gently nudge your laptop shut, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

Zayne continues, "My memories get filed away. They're still there for when I need them. Like to remember how you like your tea or what your favorite food is." He takes a moment, watching the way you react to his words. "But there's one memory that keeps coming back, even when I don't need it."

"..Okay. Of what?"

Zayne's gaze drops to your lips.

"Of your mouth," he responds.

Heat rises to your cheeks. So he does think about it.

Zayne stares at you, his expression blank, but when he speaks, it feels anything but.

"People kiss for many reasons. Why did you kiss me?"

You nearly choke on your spit.

Why did you kiss him? You were still trying to figure that out yourself.

Was it because you were scared? Because it felt right? Because you just wanted to? All three? You couldn't tell. But you knew one thing for sure.

"Because I care about you."

Zayne stares. "Do you often show care that way?"

Your heart flutters.

You.

He isn't asking a general question about people.

He's asking about you.

"Sometimes."

There's a pause before Zayne nods. "Thank you for telling me."

.. Is that it? You feel silly for expecting more, but you can't help it.

You want to ask what else he's thinking. What kind of processing is happening when his eyes flash like that, but he doesn't give you the chance.

"Reminder: Your friend's birthday dinner is tomorrow."

—

The next evening, when you're running around trying to get ready with Zayne watching from the side, your phone interrupts your frantic pacing.

You give the screen a quick glance and at all once, your mood dies.

Your dad.

How fun.

Still, you bring the phone to your ear as you let the call go through. "Why are you calling?" you quickly huff, rolling your lips together to even out the lip gloss you just applied.

"Hello to you too," he mutters. "You're going out today, aren't you? I'm calling to remind you that you're taking Zayne."

You pause, the gloss going limp in your hand. For a second, you glaze over the fact that he's telling you what to do. "How do you know that?"

"Zayne."

Zayne?

You glance over at Zayne. His face is neutral, the way it always is. But his eyes are still glued to you, like he's still trying to figure something out.

Of course.

Of course your dad has access to the dates Zayne has logged in his system. Why wouldn't he?

"Okay.. Yes, I'm going. But I'm not.." You choose your words carefully. "I'm not doing that other thing."

"You are."

He says it like it's matter-of-fact and it makes your chest tight. Makes you want to scream.

"Um.. No, I can't."

It's not that you don't want to bring Zayne. You do. You really do. You just don't think your friends would appreciate that—some AI intruding on their dinner? Yeah, probably not.

Your dad inhales sharply. "This again?"

"This again?" you scoff, your voice already rising with frustration. "It's my friend's dinner. What if she doesn't want..—"

You trail off, your eyes wandering toward Zayne. He's still looking at you, still studying every expression and inflection of your voice.

It feels wrong to say the rest. To say—right in front of Zayne—that your friend might not want him there.

So you just sigh. "I can't, Dad."

"You can," he argues back, "and you will."

You slide your tongue over your cheek, your jaw tensing at his words.

It was always the same fight.

"No, I can't—"

"Is it a problem with Zayne itself?" your dad suddenly asks, the questioning instantly extinguishing any more rebuttals you had left. "Should I get you a new AI?"

Panic flares in your chest. The same way it did when he mentioned Zayne's maintenance, except this is real.

"No," you say, a little too quickly. You notice it immediately, and you're sure your dad does too. But he doesn't say anything.

Slowly, you open your mouth again. "No," you repeat, calmer. "I'll take him."

There's an unsettling silence on the line, then smugly, your dad says, "Good."

You don't even get a second to process before the line goes silent. You glance at the blank screen and groan.

That fucker.

Usually, you'd be mad. Would groan and launch something across the room. But you're not mad this time. Instead, there's an overwhelming unease creeping up your spine.

Why did your dad jump straight to getting rid of him?

Did he know? About your feelings? About the kiss? Did he see something in Zayne during the maintenance that was wrong..? Because you made it wrong?

"Your father?"

You slowly turn back to Zayne, absently nudging your lip gloss in your purse.

"Yeah," you breathe out.

Maybe this is too dangerous. You. Zayne. Whatever the hell it is you opened with that kiss. You had to shut it down.

"Let's go."

—

You should've bailed on the dinner. Should've apologized to your friend a thousand times and sent her a present to her door.

The restaurant buzzed with light conversation and the soft clinking of utensils. At your table, your friends laughed and spoke in slightly slurred voices.

And then there was Zayne—off in the corner—his posture a little too perfect, his hands behind his back, and his eyes drifting toward you every now and then, like he still couldn't quite help but observe you.

It wasn't that that bothered you though.

No, it was your friends.

It was their looks. Their words.

A few glasses of wine seemed to help them forget Zayne was even there. For a little, anyway. But eventually, they noticed again.

"He's a bit weird," they said.

And, "Doesn't he bother you?"

You'd said nothing at first, shame clawing up your throat and your cheeks reddening with embarrassment.

All your friends had turned to you like they were waiting for you to agree, to tell them all his annoying little quirks that made your skin itch.

Because who could possibly enjoy an AI's company, right? It was absurd.

But you did. You enjoyed his company. More than you should, probably.

So you just picked at your food, heart thudding in your throat as you quietly said, "He's not weird."

Now you're back at your apartment, your laptop in front of you and papers scatted around you, working. It was a sorry attempt to distract yourself from the whole evening—from your dad, your friends, Zayne.

"You haven't spoken since the dinner," Zayne says, his calm voice breaking through your thoughts.

It was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the fridge and the city noise below your window.

"I know," you murmur, not sparing him a single glance.

You don't owe Zayne an explanation, so you don't give him one. He doesn't want one anyway.

..Right?

You can't help it. Just one look.

When you glance up, Zayne is already looking at you, his expression softer than usual.

"You're usually quiet when you're tired, stressed, or upset." He pauses. "Which is it?"

You hesitate, your stomach twisting almost painfully at how sincere he sounds. He's not probing or accusing you. It's a simple, curious question.

"You pay too much attention," you utter, looking away again. "It's annoying."

"It.." he blinks, "irritates you."

It's not a question. A statement made to sound like a fact, but the way he says it makes your stomach curl.

"I can stop—"

"No," you quickly cut it. "I didn't mean it like—"

You sigh.

"I didn't mean it like that."

Zayne waits for you to explain. But you don't. So he simply nods, and says, "Noted."

You don't make any more attempts at conversation. You can't. Not with the dull ache in your chest.

And Zayne shouldn't either. And yet—

"You were uncomfortable at dinner. Was it because your friends were inhibited, or because I was there?"

Your breath lurches in your throat. You weren't expecting that.

"Zayne.."

"I don't like it."

You swallow hard. "What do you mean?"

"It feels like an error." His eyes run over your face as he tries to make sense of the wrong he feels in his program, but they stop on your lips. "It's the opposite of what you did."

You rub a tired hand through your hair. "I don't—What are you saying, Zayne?"

"To care is to feel concern or interest; attach importance to something or to feel affection or liking."

Zayne doesn't sound angry, and that makes you sick. This would be so much easier if he could just yell at you and tell you exactly what was going through his mind. To tell you that he was mad or sad. To just feel.

"Avoidance. Is that care as well?" He pauses. "You've been avoiding me."

Your throat tightens.

"It's—" You lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry. "It's complicated."

His eyes flash that light blue color that tells you he's running a program in the background and waiting for the results. But when they return to normal, he still looks confused.

Lost.

It's a look he shouldn't have.

But he does and it ruins you.

"Do you still care?"

It's not a plea. It's a simple question, but the way Zayne looks at you makes it seem like just that. A plea to tell him you weren't lying when you said that.

"I still care, Zayne," you breathe out, your stomach curling even tighter. "Of course I do."

Then it's silent again.

"Something feels different when you don't talk to me," he says, his words slow, like he’s still deciding if he should say them at all. "I run... slower."

You let out a stuttered breath. You don't say anything, just stand, round the table up and hug him.

Zayne freezes, his hands hovering over your back, unsure if he's allowed to touch you, but then he feels you hold him closer and finally, he wraps his arms around you.

He's solid. If you press yourself into him hard enough, you think you can feel the grooves and dents of his machinery. But he's also warm. Comforting.

"Is this another way you show care?"

You nod. "And to say I'm sorry."

Neither of you say anything else. Just stay like that, wrapped in each other arms, hoping it means something. Even if it doesn't, it feels nice enough to pretend it does.

He feels so nice. You know Zayne would let you stay here the rest of the night if you wanted. And God, you do, but you know you can't. Know you're already crossing a line.

So slowly, you pull back, your cheeks warm.

Zayne hand gradually fall to his sides when you step away, forehead creasing like it does when he doesn't understand something.

"You're.. You..—You're not—"

He pauses, his lips pressing into a thin line. It almost looks like frustration.

"You're not supposed to let me do that," he finally says. It's not an accusation though. It's a soft statement.

"You make me... feel... things that aren't possible."

"Like what?"

Zayne doesn't answer, but you can tell he's thinking by the way his eyes trail over your face. His hand twitches like he's fighting the urge to reach out, then his gaze lands on your lips again.

He lingers there before he grudgingly looks back up.

"Can I.. feel it again?"

You feel your stomach drop and the tips of your ears turn bright red. "What?"

"Your mouth." He leans in—almost. But something whirrs softly inside him, and he stops. "It was different."

A beat.

"I liked it."

The words ring in your ears. There it was again. He liked it. You’re not sure what ‘liked’ even means to him.

It's not safe. For you nor him. It might not even be sane, but his eyes are so soft—and it makes you think this is a moment saved just for you. A moment where he actually feels.

So, you fold.

"Okay."

You lean in, your mouth hovering over his cheek for a quick second. Your breath shakes before your lips finally meet his cheek. It's the same as the first time—warm, soft. But it's more intense this time—scarier.

You pull back, and there he is again.

Confused.

"I don't understand it." His voice is quiet, uncertainty lacing his tone. "But I want to."

Something tugs at your chest. Something soft and wanting. You can't stop it.

You curl your hand around the nape of his neck and lean in close again.

It feels as wrong as it feels right.

You pause just a breadth away, unsure. But it's like everything is pulling you in. His smell—sterile in a way that makes you melt because it's Zayne's—his hands that are hovering above your waist—shaking and clumsy because the internet can tell him everything about what to do in this situation.

But actually being in it?

It feels too real.

"Can I kiss you?" you murmur.

Hesitantly, Zayne nods. He doesn't understand why you're the one asking for permission. But the fact that you do it stirs something in him.

"Yes."

That's all you need.

You close the distance between you. And it hits you all at once—how warm and soft he is. How similar the feeling is to kissing his cheek, but how enormously different is because you're actually kissing him.

It's sweet.

Slow.

You let yourself linger, even when you know you should pull away. There's a quiet voice in the back of your head that's telling you you're liking this too much. That you should pull away, but you can't.

Not yet. Not until you feel Zayne gently purse his lips against yours and you go rigid.

That when it really settles in.

This is too real.

Zayne, he—

It's too real.

You're so lost in your own thoughts, you hardly register when Zayne pulls back.

"Did I do something?"

You meet his gaze, your breath a little shallow from despite only pressing a small, barely-there kiss against his lips.

"No," you manage through the nervous lump in your throat. "No, I just—I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting that." You take a shaky breath. "..For you to kiss me back, I mean."

Zayne hesitates for a second. "My apologies."

"No! No, I just—" You groan. Everything feels like too much. His scent, his warmth, his curious gaze that burns through your skin. "I liked it, Zayne."

Zayne stares for a minute, searching for some hint of deception. It doesn't make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.

"I don't understand. Your posture suggested—"

"I was shocked," you quickly say, scared to offend him—if he can even feel offense. You know technically, he shouldn't feel anything at all, but with everything happening recently, you're not sure what to believe anymore. "But I liked it."

Zayne is quiet again, silently computing your words.

"You liked it," he repeats, like he's testing the words in his mouth.

You nod.

"Something.. in me clicks in place when you touch me. I don't—I still don't—"

Zayne stops. He's fumbling over his words and pausing in places he shouldn't. He's actively recoding himself and he's not sure if he should resist it, or let it happen.

"I think.." he pauses, still unsure, "I think I care about you. The same way you care about me."

—

taglist

tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @asiatic-apple @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @starryeyed-apple @heartyluv @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @browneyedgirl22 @beaconsxd @crimsonrubie @schnittled @saturnsringss @anthrokiaera @floofycookie @0nyxvesper @sylusqt @calistaxoxo24 @crimsonsylus @alyssac9 @frostydragonsstuff

[oneiropole]

Collegiate Slave Sale

[helenvaughans]

[hero21us]

"Spirals of Obedience: The Making of a Chav"

Tyler adjusted his gloves, flexing his biceps as he stepped out of the gym. The burn of his afternoon workout still coursed through his veins—just the way he liked it. He had a couple of hours before his shift at tonight’s concert, enough time to shower, eat, and mentally prepare.

Being a security guard for rock concerts wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it paid well, and Tyler liked the intensity. Drunken fans, mosh pits, and rowdy crowds gave him plenty to do. Tonight, he was working for Ambrose, the controversial chav rock star whose concerts were always wild.

By the time Tyler arrived at the venue, the arena was already buzzing with excitement. The crowd packed in tight, chanting Ambrose’s name. The man was a phenomenon—tracksuits, gold chains, and an attitude that screamed untouchable. His voice, rough and commanding, made fans hang onto every word.

Tyler stood at his post near the stage, scanning the crowd. The bass thundered through his chest as Ambrose strutted across the stage, belting out lyrics that sent the audience into a frenzy. Lights flashed, smoke curled through the air, and for two hours, chaos reigned.

When the show ended, Tyler received his usual post-concert assignment: escorting a lucky fan backstage to meet Ambrose. Tonight’s fan was a starstruck young man, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Ambrose himself invited me,” he gushed as they walked down the corridor. “This is unreal.”

Tyler had done this plenty of times, but something about the atmosphere backstage felt… different. The usual noise and bustle were subdued, the air thick with something he couldn’t name.

The door to Ambrose’s lounge opened, and the man himself stepped out. But he wasn’t grinning or throwing out his usual cocky remarks. He simply stared.

Tyler felt it instantly.

Ambrose’s eyes weren’t normal. They were spirals—swirling, mesmerizing loops of motion, drawing him in. They shimmered, pulling him into their depths. Tyler wanted to look away, knew he should…but he couldn’t. Neither could the fan.

The spirals tugged at his mind, whispering something he couldn’t quite hear. His body felt light, his thoughts sluggish. He was vaguely aware of Ambrose stepping closer, speaking in a voice smooth as silk.

“That’s it,” Ambrose murmured. “No need to fight it.”

Tyler barely registered the words. His job, his workout routine, his life—everything faded. Nothing mattered except those spirals.

And then, there was nothing at all.

Tyler woke up the next morning feeling… off. His body felt normal, but his mind was clouded, like he was trying to remember a dream that kept slipping away. Flashes of last night flickered in his head—Ambrose, the fan, those swirling eyes—but it all felt distant, unreal.

Shaking it off, he climbed out of bed and went about his routine. But as he pulled on his usual hoodie and jeans, something nagged at him. His reflection in the mirror looked too plain. Too… dull.

For some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about getting a tattoo.

He’d never seriously considered it before, but now, the thought consumed him. Something bold. Something loud. Maybe a thick black tribal pattern, or even Ambrose’s logo—yeah, that’d look sick.

Before he knew it, he was sitting in a tattoo parlor, rolling up his sleeve as the buzzing needle pressed into his skin. The pain barely registered. It felt right.

As the days passed, the urge didn’t fade. It grew.

One tattoo turned into two, then three. His arms filled with designs—bold lettering, thick tribal lines, even a crown on his hand like Ambrose had. The idea of jewelry, too, started to take hold. A heavy silver chain, glinting under the lights, felt like something he needed. And not just one—bracelets, rings, more chains followed. The weight of them felt good, powerful.

His wardrobe changed without him even realizing it. Tracksuits, sneakers, caps—everything Ambrose wore now called to him. And his speech…

At first, it was small. A word here, a phrase there.

“Nah, bruv, that’s mad,” he caught himself saying at work one day.

He never used to talk like that. But it felt natural. Comfortable. Soon, his sentences became littered with slang, his tone shifting. He sounded… different. Chavvy.

And he liked it.

Weeks passed, and the old Tyler faded, replaced by something new. Something better. His body was covered in ink, his neck weighed down with silver, his voice carrying the same cocky lilt Ambrose had.

One night, as he adjusted his newest chain in the mirror, he saw something strange.

For just a second—just a flicker—his eyes weren’t his own.

They swirled.

A deep, mesmerizing spiral.

He grinned.

Yeah. This was who he was meant to be.

When Tyler arrived at work the next weekend, the other security guards did a double take. He strolled into the venue in a sleek black tracksuit with silver stripes down the sides, his thick chain gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His tattooed hands adjusted his cap, and as he smirked at his coworkers, his diamond tooth—when had he gotten that?—flashed under the dull overhead glow.

“Oi, lads, what’s good?” he greeted, his voice carrying a distinct chav drawl. “Gonna be a proper mad night, innit?”

There was an awkward silence.

Mike, a fellow guard who had worked with Tyler for over a year, frowned. “Uh… dude? What’s with the accent?”

Tyler blinked. “Wotcha mean, bruv? Ain’t nuffin’ wrong wiv the way I talk.”

The way he said it was so effortless, so natural—like he’d spoken that way all his life. But Mike and the others weren’t buying it.

“You didn’t used to talk like that,” another guard chimed in, looking him up and down. “And, uh… when did you get all that ink?”

Tyler scoffed, crossing his arms. “Man’s gotta evolve, yeah? Can’t be some dry bloke all me life.”

The others exchanged glances. Mike stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Ty, is everything okay? You’ve changed a lot in just a few weeks. You’re acting like a completely different person.”

Tyler rolled his shoulders, brushing him off. “Bruv, I feel better than ever. Don’t know wot you lot are on about.”

Before Mike could press further, a voice crackled over the radio, calling them to their positions. Tyler grinned.

“Right, time to get to work, yeah?”

The others hesitated, but eventually followed, though the tension remained.

The following week, Tyler found himself staring at his reflection, feeling like something was still missing. The tattoos, the chains, the speech—he was almost where he needed to be. Almost.

That’s when the idea hit him.

By the next day, his hair was clipped into a sharp high-and-tight fade, the sides shaved close to the scalp. The top, however, was dyed a striking electric blue. It was bold. It was loud. It was perfect.

The first time he stepped outside, the stares only made him grin wider.

His transformation was nearly complete.

But deep in his mind, a whisper echoed—smooth, hypnotic, undeniable.

He still wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

Tyler adjusted his newest addition—a row of small, gleaming diamonds embedded just above his right eyebrow. His reflection in the mirror grinned back at him, teeth flashing diamond, his blue-dyed hair perfectly shaped into the high-and-tight style that felt so… right. His tracksuit, crisp and expensive-looking, draped over his heavily tattooed frame. His chains clinked together as he moved.

He was complete. Almost.

The last few nights, he’d dreamt of Ambrose—those spiraling eyes, that voice, smooth as silk, calling him back. He no longer questioned the pull. He no longer fought the whispers in his mind.

Tonight, he wasn’t here to work security. He was here for something more.

When he arrived at the venue, the other guards barely had time to notice him before he veered away from his usual entrance. No uniform. No radio. No earpiece. He didn’t need them anymore.

Instead, he strode straight toward the backstage doors.

No hesitation.

No doubt.

The crew backstage didn’t even try to stop him. They knew.

They had been expecting him.

As Tyler stepped into Ambrose’s private lounge, the air felt thick with something unseen. A low hum vibrated through his chest—not from the concert outside, but from something deeper, something inside him.

And there, waiting for him like a king awaiting his loyal subject, stood Ambrose.

Tracksuit gleaming, chains heavy, grin cocky as ever. But it was his eyes that truly welcomed Tyler.

Those swirling, endless eyes.

“You’re finally here, bruv,” Ambrose said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Knew you’d come ‘round proper.”

Tyler’s breath hitched as the spirals filled his vision, filling every part of his mind with warmth, with certainty.

There had never been a choice.

He belonged here.

He belonged to Ambrose.

And as he knelt, head bowing instinctively, he heard Ambrose chuckle.

“Yeah, mate. You’re one of us now.”

Tyler grinned.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oi bruv, listen up!

You feel it, yeah? That pull, that fire inside tellin’ ya you were made for more. Made to be elite. Made to be chav. Ain’t no denyin’ it, mate—this is your callin’.

Ambrose’s crew don’t take just anyone, nah. We take the chosen. The ones ready to level up, drip out in ice, and live like proper kings. You seen the signs—new ink, heavy chains, that fresh trim. You ain’t the same bloke you was, and that’s good, innit?

Come step up. Join the mandem. Feel the power, feel the respect. You’ll get the ice, the status, the life you was always meant to have. No more wastin’ time, yeah?

It’s time to be who you really are.

Get me? Good. Now get in line. Ambrose is waitin’ @findingambrose49